Mr Peanut - Adam Ross [109]
“His white count’s markedly elevated,” she said.
“How much?”
“Twenty-two thousand.”
“What’s his hematocrit?”
“Thirty-five,” she said.
The figures were right there on the page, but he wanted to ask. “What about the peripheral smear?”
“I noted vacuoles in some of the white cells.”
Sheppard took in her scent.
“He’s clearly septic,” she said.
“Do you have results on the sputum?”
“He’s gram positive.”
“Single population?”
“Yes.”
“What do they look like?”
“Lancet-shaped.”
“Go on.”
“I’d say diplococci. But you can review the slide if you’d like.”
He let go of the clipboard. She put her hand on her hip and pressed the page to her breast, looking at him as if he were about to correct her.
“Very good,” he said.
She smiled.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“I noticed inclusion in the red cells.”
Sheppard smiled too. It was the longest conversation they’d ever had. He took a step closer and they stood together at the foot of the patient’s bed. He laid there, a young man in a suit, a John Doe, blood pressure falling to fatal levels. His breathing was labored, whistling slightly.
“What would your diagnosis be?” Sheppard asked.
“I’m not a doctor.”
“But if you were.”
Her faced flushed. He wanted to take it in his hands and kiss her.
“I’d say pneumococcal pneumonia. That would account for the low oxygen levels in his blood. And the disorientation.”
“Anything else?”
“Peritonitis. Also septicemia.”
“How would you treat it?”
“IV penicillin, immediately. And fluids, of course.”
Sheppard took the clipboard off the man’s bed and made a note. “Then that, Miss Hayes, is what we’ll do.”
She waited for a moment, looking at the man and then back at Sheppard.
“That’ll be all,” he said, and watched her leave.
His brother Stephen arrived early, around a quarter till six. By then Sheppard’s patient had stabilized. He brought Stephen up to speed and went back to his office; exhausted, he took off his doctor’s coat and put on his suit jacket, then decided to peek his head in pathology before leaving.
But Susan was gone. Tricia was already mulling over some slides in her place.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Doctor.”
He tapped the door once, looking around the lab, and left.
She was waiting for him in his car.
It was surprisingly humid outside, overcast, and it made the whole world bluer, all sound seemingly muffled by the promise of rain, with occasional birdcalls and the peculiar, particular brand of quiet you noticed only at odd hours or during dreams. Sheppard got in and started the car. “Are you hungry?” he asked, though he couldn’t look at her. “Yes,” she said, sounding as anxious as he felt. It was as if they were running from something. The need for food gave him license, and he pulled out; instead of heading toward Rocky River he went west through Bay Village toward Avon, though in truth he had no idea where he was going. It made him nearly desperate, this wandering. They had to get somewhere. It was as if he were in an unknown city, in a dreadful neighborhood, low on gas and lost. Before the township, he saw a brown sign with THORNTON PARK in gold letters above icons for a picnic table, a camper, a boat. He made such a hard right the MG fishtailed slightly, spraying the bushes with gravel. As he weaved down the narrow, winding two-lane road, Susan pressed her hand lightly on the dash. They came around one more curve and there it was: Erie in all its vastness, gray water against gray sky. A landing. A slack tide. Not a boat to be seen. The water looked forbidding, poisoned in its stillness. The wooded parking area with picnic tables was empty. Sheppard pulled in, cut the ignition. There was no sound except the quietest lapping, just beyond the bushes blocking a view of the beach, of the small waves. He faced forward for a long time and saw nothing.
She touched his leg.
He was upon her. If he could, he would feast on her mouth; he couldn’t press his to hers any harder. He tore his arm from his coat and took the back of her head in his available hand