The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [69]
“I guess if I were in your position I’d probably be feeling the same way,” Dalrymple said. She paused, as if searching for words to prolong their conversation. Finally she shrugged, nodded a “Good day,” and headed off.
She was several steps down the hall when David started after her. “Miss Dalrymple, please,” he called out. “If you can spare another minute, there is something you might be able to help with.” The nursing director slowed, then came about like a schooner, smiling expectantly. “You had Charlotte Thomas’s chart last evening,” David said. “If it would be possible, I’d like to borrow it for a day. I have no idea what to look for, but maybe there’s something in there that won’t read just right to me.”
Dalrymple’s expression darkened. “I’m sorry, Dr. Shelton,” she said. “The chart I had last night was only a copy. The lieutenant has the original.” She hesitated. “Now, I don’t even have the copy.” David looked at her quizzically. He felt uneasy with the way she was weighing each word. “I … ah … gave it away, Doctor … this morning … Wallace Huttner and the woman’s husband … and a lawyer. They came to me with a court order for my copy of the chart. Apparently it was the only one the lieutenant would allow to be made.”
David’s hands went cold. A damp chill spread from them throughout his body. He had little doubt as to what they were doing: malpractice. No other explanation made sense. He carried a million dollars in liability. Peter Thomas wanted to be prepared to move as soon as any action was taken against him. David shuddered. On top of everything else, Thomas was going to sue him for malpractice. And his own chief of surgery was helping him do it.
Dalrymple reached out to touch his shoulder and then seemed to change her mind. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” she said coolly. “I wish I could make it better for you, but I can’t.”
David tightened his lips against any outburst. Thanks,” he mumbled, then hurried toward the exit.
By the time he arrived home his emotions were blanketed by a pall of total frustration. He paced the apartment several times. Then, overwhelmed by feelings of impotence, he threw himself across his bed and grabbed the telephone. He would call Dr. Armstrong, or Dockerty, or even Peter Thomas. Anyone, as long as it felt as though he was doing something. Indecision kept him from dialing. His address book lay on the bedside table. He opened it and flipped through the pages, hoping halfheartedly that someone’s name would leap out at him. Anyone’s who might help.
Most of the pages were blank.
His brothers were listed—one in California and one in Chicago. But even if they were next door, he wouldn’t have called them. After the accident, after the alcohol and the pills and, finally, the hospital, they had quietly separated him from their lives. Christmas cards and a call every six months or so were all that remained.
A few associates from his days at White Memorial were listed. From time to time over the past eight years some of them eyen invited him to parties. He was fun to be around … as long as he was fun to be around. The more he had chanced talking about the course his life had taken, the fewer the invitations had become. There would be no real help from any of them.
In a doctors life, fragmented by college and medical school and internship and residency and marriage and children and setting up a practice, firm friendships were rare enough. For David, having to retrace so many steps had made close ties impossible.
The shroud of isolation grew heavier. There was no one. No one except Lauren, and she was five hundred miles away, probably having lunch with some congressman and … Wait! There was somebody. There was Rosetti. For ten years, whenever he was down or needed advice, there had always been Joey Rosetti. Joey, and Terry, too. Over the months with Lauren he hadn’t seen them very much, but Joey was the kind of friend to whom that really didn’t matter.
Excited, David looked up the number of Joey’s Northside Tavern and dialed. Even if Rosetti didn’t have any advice