The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [22]
David was about to comply when he noticed a culture report at the bottom of the lengthy computer printout that listed all results obtained on the patient to date. It read
“9/24, STOOL SPEC:
MODERATE GROWTH, S. AUREUS,
SENSITIVITIES TO FOLLOW.”
Staph aureus, the most virulent form of the bacteria. David closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that when he looked at the sheet again the words would be gone. He took several seconds in making the decision to say nothing about his discovery and to correct the problem later. The hesitation was too long.
“What is it, David?” Huttner asked. “Have you found something?”
“Dammit,” David cursed to himself. A dozen possible responses poured through his mind, were evaluated and rejected. There was going to be no comfortable way around it. No place to hide. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the two nurses standing motionless at the end of the bed. Did they know that in the next few moments the success of the evening and possibly of David’s career might vanish?
The whole scene became strangely dreamlike for him. The hand slowly passing Merchado’s chart to Huttner, the finger pointing at the offensively impersonal line of type—they were someone else’s, not his.
The look David had last seen directed at the O.R. scrub nurse sparked in Huttner’s eyes. They locked with his for a fraction of a second, then turned on the nurses. He thrust the chart at the charge nurse.
“Mrs. Baird,” he growled, “I want you to find out who is responsible for failing to call my attention to this report. Whoever it is, nurse or secretary, I want to see her in my office first thing Monday morning. Is that clear?”
The nurse, a stout veteran who had engaged in her share of hospital wars, looked at the page, then shrugged and nodded her head. David wondered if Huttner would actually follow through with what seemed so obvious an attempt to produce a scapegoat.
“Come along, Dr. Shelton,” Huttner said curtly. “It’s getting late and we still have several more patients to see.”
It was nearly ten o’clock when they arrived on Four South to see the last of Huttner’s patients, Charlotte Thomas. For the first time all evening Huttner deviated from the routine he had established. Taking the chart from the charge nurse, he said, “Come and sit down in the nurses’ lounge for a bit, David. This next patient is by far my most complicated. I want to take a few minutes to go over her with you in some detail before we see her. Perhaps someone could bring us each a cup of coffee.” The last remark was transparently addressed to the nurse, who managed a faint smile of acquiescence. “Light, no sugar for me, and for Dr. Shelton …?”
“Black,” David answered. For a split second he had almost said “bleak.”
“Here you go, Doctor,” Huttner said, sliding the chart across to David. “Leaf through it while we’re waiting for coffee.”
Before reading a word, David could tell that Charlotte Thomas was in trouble. Her hospital record was voluminous. He thought back to his residency and a tall, gangly New Yorker named Gerald Fox, who was one year ahead of him. Fox had achieved immortality, at least in White Memorial Hospital by Xeroxing a three-page list of cynical maxims and definitions entitled, “Fox’s Golden Laws of Medicine.” Among his axioms were the definition of Complicated Case (“When the combined diameters of all the tubes going into a patient’s body exceeds his hat size”), Gynecologist (“A spreader of old wives’ tails”), and Fatal Illness (“A hospital chart more than an inch thick”).
Coffee arrived just as David had begun to scan the admission history and physical examination. He heard Huttner say, “Ah, Miss Beall, thank you. You’re an angel of mercy.”
He looked up from the chart. It was not the nurse with whom Huttner had placed their order, but a far younger