The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [149]
After fifteen minutes or so, Martin was led to an examination room for a preliminary consultation with a doctor, who shook Beatrice out of the cage and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck. “She’s very yellow,” he said as he folded back the inside of her ear. “When’s the last time she ate?”
“I—I don’t know,” Martin admitted. “A few days ago?”
“It looks like hepatic lipidosis,” the vet explained. “If cats stop eating for any reason, the fatty cells of their tissues can basically overrun the liver and shut it down.”
Martin dug his fingernails into his palms. “Why would she stop eating?”
“It could be anything—a cold, a change in food, depression.”
“A cold? Depression?” Martin took a second to digest this, restraining the urge to reason away such a ridiculous premise. “Can you help her?”
“We can try,” the vet said in an efficient but superficial tone Martin found somewhat more comforting, before he left to complete the paperwork. This gave Martin a few minutes alone with Beatrice, who now cowered under a small sink, which along with the concrete floor and beige tiles reminded him of the nurse’s room at his old elementary school in Cedar Village, not that such memories—as he bitterly noted—were going to be of any use.
“Little Beatrice, they’re going to fix you up,” he nevertheless promised as he kneeled down beside her; as he spoke, he tentatively reached out his hand but withdrew it when she shrank away.
HE RETURNED FOR visiting hours the following day and met with her “team,” all of whom agreed that, while the case was severe, the official stance was one of guarded optimism. The plan was to reverse the lipidosis by tube feeding until her liver kicked in and began to function normally, which the doctors assured him was by no means an unprecedented prognosis, particularly given her age. They had already placed her in intensive care, where he found her in an oxygenated chamber with a feeding tube running through her nose, various IVs attached through each of her hind legs, and her head in one of those plastic cones that looked like an Elizabethan collar. “Beatrice? Are you okay?” he whispered through the cage, and in response, she moaned softly and moved her eyes, which despite her obvious weakness the doctor said was a good sign.
The next morning—Tuesday—Martin received a call from one of the doctors, who told him that, for no reason anybody could figure out, Beatrice’s sodium levels—her “electrolytes,” a word Martin was surprised to learn existed outside television commercials—had dropped overnight to precarious levels. He immediately went in to find her completely unresponsive, even when he called her name. “What happened?” he asked one of the team members.
“Well, she was weaker than we thought,” the doctor explained. “But we had a specialist in this morning, and she made some adjustments. Our most recent readings actually show her electrolytes stabilizing, which is good.”
On Wednesday, Martin brought her a few clippings from his planter troughs. It pained him to think that, except for her time in a Dumpster in Brooklyn, she had never been outside but had often watched him intently through the window as he worked with his plants. He had considered letting both her and Dante onto the deck but was afraid—especially in her case—that he wouldn’t be able to get them back in. He allowed himself to believe that the clippings helped; or at least something was helping, because she seemed a little stronger, and even stood up like a newborn foal when Martin called to her. “Dante can’t wait until you’re home,” he added, fending off any doubt with this show of conviction. “He would have come himself, but you know how carsick he gets.”
On Thursday, another doctor called to give the morning report. “She’s not out of the woods yet,” she said, “but her sodium has stabilized and her most recent blood work looks good, so I think we can remain optimistic.”
Martin went to visit filled with hope: the last four days