The Secret History - Donna Tartt [233]
The doctor on duty was a woman. She’d been with Charles for only about five or ten minutes when she came from the back with his chart; leaning over the counter, she consulted briefly with the receptionist, who indicated me.
The doctor came over and sat beside me. She was like one of those cheery young physicians in Hawaiian shirts and tennis shoes that you see on TV shows. “Hello,” she said. “I’ve just been looking at your friend. I think we’re going to have to keep him with us for a couple of days.”
I put down my magazine. This I hadn’t expected. “What’s wrong?” I said.
“It looks like bronchitis, but he’s very dehydrated. I want to put him on an IV. Also we need to get that fever down. He’ll be okay, but he needs rest and a good strong series of antibiotics, and to get those working as soon as we can we should give him those intravenously, too, for the first forty-eight hours at least. You both in school up at the college?”
“Yes.”
“Is he under a lot of stress? Working on his thesis or something?”
“He works pretty hard,” I said cautiously. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing. It just looks like he hasn’t been eating properly. Bruises on his arms and legs, which look like a C deficiency, and he may be running low on some of the B vitamins as well. Tell me. Does he smoke?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. At any rate, she wouldn’t let me see him; she said she wanted to get some blood work done before the lab technicians left for the day, so I drove to the twins’ apartment to gather some of his things. The place was ominously neat. I packed pajamas, toothbrush, shaving kit, and a couple of paperback books (P.G. Wodehouse, who I thought might cheer him up) and left the suitcase with the receptionist.
Early the next morning, before I left for Greek, Judy knocked at my door and told me I had a call downstairs. I thought it was Francis or Henry—both of whom I’d tried to reach repeatedly the night before—or maybe even Camilla, but it was Charles.
“Hello,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, very well.” His voice had a strange, forced note of cheeriness. “It’s quite comfortable here. Thanks for bringing the suitcase by.”
“No problem. Do you have one of those beds you can crank up and down?”
“As a matter of fact I do. Listen. I want to ask you something. Will you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like you to get a couple of things for me.” He mentioned a book, and letter paper, and a bathrobe which I would find hanging on the inside of his closet door—“Also,” he said hurriedly, “there’s a bottle of Scotch. You’ll find it in the drawer of my night table. Do you think you can get it out this morning?”
“I have to go to Greek.”
“Well, after Greek then. What time do you think you’ll be here?”
I told him I would have to see about borrowing a car.
“Don’t worry about that. Take a taxi. I’ll give you the money. I really appreciate this, you know. What time should I expect you? Ten-thirty? Eleven?”
“Probably more like eleven-thirty.”
“That’s fine. Listen. I can’t talk, I’m in the patients’ lounge. I have to get back to bed before they miss me. You will come, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bathrobe and letter paper.”
“Yes.”
“And the Scotch.”
“Of course.”
Camilla was not at class that morning, but Francis and Henry were. Julian was there when I arrived, and I explained that Charles was in the hospital.
Though Julian could be marvelously kind in difficult circumstances of all sorts, I sometimes got the feeling that he was less pleased by kindness itself than by the elegance of the gesture. But at this news he appeared genuinely concerned. “Poor Charles,” he said. “It’s not serious, is it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is he allowed any visitors? I shall telephone him this afternoon. Can you think of anything he might like? Food is so dreadful in the hospital. I remember years ago, in New