Saving Grace

By Lem Moyé

Saving Grace describes the physical, emotional, and moral sacrifices of scientists and parents as they work under extraordinary pressure to cure a deadly affliction, laying bare the complications of the modern drug industry.

Lindsey Silva, Ph.D., a young and aggressive scientist is recrui

• Language: English
• Publisher: TOPLINK PUBLISHING, LLC
• Release date: Jul 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999194898

Lem Moyé

Dr. Lem Moyé, M.D., Ph.D. is a physician, epidemiologist, and biostatistician. After receiving his M.D. at the Indiana University Medical School, he completed post-doctoral training at Purdue University and the University of Texas. Dr. Moyé has conducted federally sponsored research for over 30 years, including 12 years investigating cell therapy for heart disease. He has published over 220 manuscripts, 16 books including five novels, and has worked with both the US FDA, and pharmaceutical companies. Dr. Moyé has taught graduate classes in epidemiology and biostatistics for three decades and has served as an expert witness in both state and federal court. He has studied political science, especially the vice president to president transitions in US history. He served as a volunteer physician during the Hurricane Katrina calamity, and his memories of that experience led his prize winning book, Caring for Katrina’s Survivors. A cancer survivor, he is retired and living in Arizona with his wife Dixie.

Book preview

Blessing Time

The 4:00 A.M. work session delighted Lindsey Cameron. Long legs wrapped tight around each other under the gray metal desk, the tall scientist tap-tapped the rhythm of her organized life onto the spotless white keyboard in the virology lab. This day, like the days that had come before, started with the perfection of well-considered plans. Yet, she knew that the poison river of emergency emails, caustic phone calls, and tangled task lists was flowing toward her, as sure as the sunrise. This dirty flotsam had to be adjusted, and to the tall, slim scientist with the reddest of hair, only the expanse of the predawn hours, the blessing-time, balanced the daily equation.

The lights blinked once, then when out.

Only the computer screen remained lit, drawing on an unknown reserve of battery power as it bathed her small workspace in ghoulish light. Heart pounding, she scooted off the stool, squinting into the black featureless lab.

Her legs, numbed into sleep during their prolonged, cramped position under the hard lab stool collapsed, and every inch of her six foot frame spilled over the open bottom draw of the workstation. The noise from the fall reverberated through the lab as pain from the new, bleeding gash on her ankle shot through her.

Lindsey forced herself to her feet, brow wet with a new and cold sweat. Stepping over the broken drawer, she limped around her work station and into the central aisle of the silent lab.

The emergency lights winked on, bathing all in a blood red hue. Leaning forward, she peered down the dark aisle. She saw nothing in the gray-black fog, but sensed a slick movement accompanied by a patting sound. It was like it was raining, but from inside the high security lab. She leaned her head toward the soft sound to hear —

The high pitched shriek shot out of the fog, a screaming bullet whose force rocked her back on her heals. Lindsey’s neck muscles clamped into hard knots as the screech corkscrewed down her spine, sending shivers from her thin shoulders down her long slender arms into her trembling hands. She bit through her tongue, oblivious to the new pain and blood taste.

A second cry grew into a long, mournful wail, and in an instant the lab filled with the tight stink of smoldering plastic and burning hair. She leaned against the cold wall, forcing air in and out of her lungs, fighting the waves of nausea.

She knew now.

Sophie and Leonard were crying out.

For her.

She pushed herself away from the wall, and took a tiny step forward. Exhaling, she took another, followed by a determined third. Prying the tight grip of fear loose, she stumbled down the narrow dark hall to get to them.

Halfway down the blood red aisle, the deafening klaxon of the fire alarm sounded. As her hands flew to her ears, her feet suddenly slid out from under her on the wet floor. Her right arm shot out to restore her balance but slammed down on the hard lab bench, and she trembled as the wild electricity rode the funny bone up her right arm.

She looked up, and in a flash her eyes filled with fire retardant spray. Moments away from the pain of the caustic chemical, she pulled her sweater up, tearing the thin material as she jammed the soft fabric into her eyes, now burning from the agony of wasp-like sting of caustic retardant.

Sophie, Leonard, she yelled, blinking away the searing pain as thick, black smoke poured down from the vent fire that raged overhead. The cages were at the end of the corridor, just feet away. Lindsey heard the clatter of the hard drive still receiving data from their implants and she staggered to their cages that had crashed from the high table to the floor.

She snapped her head in the direction of Leonard’s shriek, staring in horror at this youngest and smartest of the two chimpanzees while he banged his head against the cage bars, screaming as the hot flames licked his right arm away. She threw up, shivering at the living, dying horror.

Leonard, she cried, reaching out to the cage. Lindsey’s here now.

While her left hand reached between the bars to touch his face, her right hand jabbed into the lab coat’s for the cold key that would free him.

No key. Just the sticky wet fabric of an empty pocket. Instantly her mind’s eye filled with the key hanging on the wall back by her desk up the long, dirty corridor. Lindsey clenched her teeth and squeezed her empty fist in anger. She’d never get back to her desk in time.

Another yelp, this one from Sophie’s cage. Oh Sophie, Lindsey cried as the chimp, yelling her life out, pressed tight against the cage, its unyielding bars twisting the chimp’s face into a tormented, red and white mask.

Helplessness and rage slammed into Lindsey like a truck. She swung around, positioning herself between the two upright cages. Her chest heaved with rage. Hatred of her weakness. Hatred of the fire. Hatred of her initial fear to save them.

She bent her knees, wet hands groping along the top of the slick, dirty cages for handles. Eyes shut, she felt them, lost them, found them, squeezed them, strained to lift. As Leonard’s wild spasms tipped her first one way and then the other, she prayed to stand, cried to stand, cursed to stand. Finally upright, she filled her lungs with poisoned air, and took a first step back up the long corridor to safety.

The explosion blew Lindsey off her feet and hurtled her up the corridor.

She crashed into the heavy metal cabinets that lined the corridor, a heavy sledge hammer of pain slamming through her lower gum, clearing her vision enough to see a jagged edged, red and white plastic-like piece six inches away. A tooth.

Hers.

She had to move. Rolled onto her stomach, raising up on hands, twisting around to see her lab coat and loose skirt piled high on top of her buttocks, The hot floor, heated by the fire raging in the white hot vent above, forced her to turn over.

Leonard, she screamed, trying to stand and slipped. No.

He lay unmoving at the bottom of his cage, his neck cocked at an impossible angle, as the fire consumed his entire right side. She jerked around to the right to see Sophie lying still in her cage. She scooted across the slimy floor on her knees, peering into her cage, seeing the small irregular movements of Sophie’s chest.

Lindsey cried out, then pushed the cage forward. Took a breath and pushed again, then crawled after. Push then crawl. Again. Again. Smoke was everywhere. Her head was suddenly light.

Look’s like a body, a voice called.

In a flash, the cage accelerated away. Rough hands grabbed each of her slender arms, and she passed out, dragged along the smeared, filthy floor, body banging against the hard unyielding cabinets.

The Hottest Parts

I didn’t drop into hell, Andy Landing thought as he fought against the heavy unyielding door of the Wachovia Drive church.

At once, the rusted hinges gave way with a pop, and the big door swung loose, cracking into his left foot. Cursing, Andy let his right hand fly, slamming the flat of it into the dumb thing. Having evened the score, he took a deep breath, coughed twice, then stumbled through the bright entry way into the old sanctuary.

No. I didn’t just drop into hell, he thought. I was born there.

Alone in the tiny church, he shuffled his 6’1" beanpole frame down the long center aisle, an occasional DT shiver shaking its alcoholic way through him. Coming to the first row, he plopped down onto the hard pew, The flowers sitting on the coffin gave off the sweet smell of life, setting something deep inside him stirring.

A drink, he thought, letting some drool slip down onto the wrinkled lapel of his only suit coat. Just one drink. Just a sip. He sat, slobbering and alone. Brown hair, side-cut so it was long on the top fell into eyes dulled by the monkey that comes for no extra charge out of a bottle.

No, I didn’t just drop into hell, he thought. Was born there.

Other mourners arrived, all from his wife’s family, choosing to sit elsewhere, leaving him alone in the front pew, his hands resting on each of his thin knees. His head fell on his chest as the pastor started his droning. Andy felt like a puppet on a string, except his strings were his absent family. Mother, Father. Brother. All dead, the strings all cut. What good was a puppet without the strings that give life, he thought.

Ain’t no use, he thought, I’m thirty years old going on death.

I didn’t just drop into hell. I was born there. It’s my family that kept me from the hottest parts.

Looking up, he saw the minister gazing at him, as if waiting for a sign. Andy dropped his head back to his chest. The minister sighed, looked up, and began the service. As the minister talked and the choir sang, Andy couldn’t stop his mind from going down the road that had brought him to church for the first time since he was a child.

I didn’t descent into hell, he thought. I was born there. My family kept me from the hottest parts.

And now they’re gone.

As a teenager, he knew that he was nothing but wild trouble on a long leash. Boxed in by Forsythe County High School’s numbing schedule, he’d dropped out halfway through the tenth grade. Like many young men, intent on getting revenge for being born, he wallowed in petty crime. His dad, between the coughing fits of an angry lung cancer, finally got Andy work at RJ Reynolds tobacco. For the first time, under Daddy’s wrathful gaze he kept his job, actually putting some money aside.

But he knew even then that good in his life was bound to be undone. Two years later his dad died, and his desire to work followed. Andy wasted his money, then upped his smoking, fully expecting to blow his lungs out like his father.

Wanda Robinson changed that.

No one, not even Andy, could understand why Wanda took an interest in the waste of life that he was. He felt like he was her life project, and began to warm under her summer sun of love. They married three months after their first date, in a hot afternoon ceremony before a Justice of the Peace who was himself a recovering alcoholic.

He had actually settled down some, Andy remembered as he shifted on the hard pew. He’d found a job working on cars that should have been driven to the junk yard, not a repair lot. He wasn’t clean – just clean enough. He’d still get drunk, but he never stayed out all night. And for the first time, he’d stopped hating himself. A new understanding slowly took root, and for the first time since a young child, Andy inhaled the sweetness of life.

This only lasted for a short time. He’d always known that his demons wouldn’t ever be destroyed; only chased off for awhile. After a year of marriage, they roared back with a vengeance.

He grew bored with married life and tired of Wanda. When he got drunk, he would hit her just as his dad would strike his mother. The morning after, remembering what he’d done, he was hit by the full power of a new self-hatred that could only be dulled by a drink. The cycle continued. Finally, one wall-slam short of breaking her ribs, one punch short of crushing her face, she cried the one thing that saved her, and ultimately him.

Andy! Andy! Please don’t! I’m pregnant!

He stopped in mid-punch, as new light illuminated part of his mind long lost in darkness. Andy never hit Wanda again. That was five years ago.

The minister finished. Wanda’s gone, Andy thought, killed three days ago along with her girlfriend as they were driving home from school cafeteria jobs.

The minister paused and Andy looked around.

Still alone. Always alone now.

Realizing his family was gone, he felt himself come unhinged there on the pew, a puppet whose controlling strings had been cut one at a time. Wanda’s string was the last, and now he sat crumpled and useless on a hard bench. Staring straight ahead, he didn’t see the body of his deceased wife, only his own dead life.

I didn’t descend into hell. I was born there. My family just kept me from the hottest parts. And now, they’re gone. Even my Wanda.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the minister had said. The minister whose church he had never entered before, whose offers to help he had never accepted, whose invitations to dinner he had always scorned, was no longer describing his wife, but him. Sitting, head aching, hands quaking, stomach clenching, Andy was utterly empty. He saw nothing, held nothing, felt nothing, had nothing.

I didn’t descend into hell, he thought. I was born there. My family just kept me from the hottest parts. And now, they’re gone.

Except for four year old Gracie. And I don’t really know her.

The service ended, and Andy walked out of the church into the unforgiving Winston-Salem sun.

Andy.

Huh? He turned, right into his sister-in-law. Short and plump, she looked up into his grizzled face.

What are you going to do now, she asked. He stared at her staring back at him, her eyes shielded some by her left had blocking out the hot North Carolina sun.

Where’d this old cat come from? he said, ignoring the pleading eyes of his sister-in-law as be bent over to pick up the black and white church cat that had been figure-eighting between his feet in the grass.

You drunk? she said, tapping his arm. Do you know how Wanda’d feel if she knew you came to her funer–.

Nope. Not today, Andy said, stroking the cat’s ears. But I could sure tie one on.

He glanced at her, surprised to see not anger, but something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Sympathy.

Listen, Andy, I -

Used to beat her, Bren, he cut in as he tapped his chin with the side of his own closed fist. I used to beat my Wanda bad.

Brenda placed her hand on his arm. But not for a long time now, right? Andy. She told me—

What’d she say? Andy looked down into Brenda’s face.

—that it was better after she had Gracie. That’s who you should think about now. Andy.

He frowned at the mention of his daughter. I ain’t no good daddy–

Don’t say what you don’t know, Brenda cut him off, waving the pale four year old who was just a few feet away to come over.

Just saying the truth, Bren. Shoo now, cat. Stooping, Andy put the cat gently on the grass at his feet, stroking the animal’s neck for a second before he stood again.

He’s looked everywhere but at his thin daughter who now stood between him and Brenda, leaning back into the woman’s legs. His eyes with a mind of their own flicked over her dark brown hair and face covered with the thinnest of skin.

We’ve got to work something out Andy, Brenda said. Look. Gracie’s been with me for a couple of days already. Why don’t you let her stay at my house for a few days until you sort things out.

OK with me, Bren. See ya soon, Gracie, he said, touching the back of his roughened hand to her check.

Daddy, the short child called, brown eyes suddenly alive in a colorless face. You going to bring Momma back?

Andy walked away.

Identity Theft

I’m tired of talk that comes to nothing, Marie Blackfox, declared to her empty room as she slammed the histology text to the dorm room floor, splitting its spine.

Enough study, she thought.

Act.

Yesterday requires a decision. Make one.

Snatching the phone, her short fingers jabbed the numbers that would end the lie.

Hello? a stranger answered. This is the University of Baltimore Medical School. How can we help you?

I need the Dean. Good words don’t last long, unless they amount to something. Now, please.

Uh, it’s still a little early, but someone may be there.

Thank-you, she said. Good words don’t give mothers back their children.

I’ll put you through. Will you hold?

Yes, Marie said. I‘ve heard talk, and more talk, but nothing’s done.

The connection clicked. Hello, this is the Dean’s Office.

Finally. Yes, this is—

I’m sorry. Would you please hold for a second?

Marie seethed in the predawn darkness of the small room. She turned to her trembling right hand, fixing the offending limb in a stare of steel until the shaking died.

I didn’t come here for this, she thought. I was the first to leave Terrel Gap, first to finish college, now a first year medical student. But not for —.

I’m sorry, a new stranger’s sharp voice filled her head. Who do you need?

The Dean, Marie said. Her foot tap-tapped on the floor. Please.

Can you call back in thirty minutes?

Marie kept her teeth together, letting the silence slowly expand to ten seconds. When sure that her anger was not in charge, she said, OK. Hung up, then sat perfectly straight and still on the bed.

What else is there to do but what must be done. Same as college. Four study hours, each and every night, isolated in a tiny room deep in the library’s bowels. Sneering students called it her Reservation. But the scorn of her classmates didn’t matter. None of it did.

Until yesterday.

She padded to her bathroom, preparing for this second of two terrible days. The strong face, framed with flowing black hair staring back from the shadowed mirror, transmitted only iron will. Only Marie knew that behind it hid a lonely twenty-three year old, another lost member of the Cherokee Nation.

Taking only a short time to groom and dress, she returned to her small desk, counting down the minutes until 8:00 AM.

Yesterday was back, filling her mind.

Ugh, she said the day before, instinctively recoiling from the gray-pink tangled mass

This is what cancer looks like, I guess, Cynthia, her anatomy partner said.

The slick twisted gunk, having pushed aside thirty feet of intestines, stared back at the two students like a monster from a cave.

That’s just nasty, Marie said, a new, dangerous metallic taste in her mouth.

Better get used to it Marie, Cynthia said, putting her instrument down, as she wiped her gloved hands on her greasy apron. We’ll be seeing a lot worse.

Not today we won’t, Marie said, pulling the thick, translucent plastic over the half-disserted cadaver. Time’s up, and I’m ready to get out of here.

The two first year students washed and rushed from the cadaver lab into the bright blue hallway, fighting through the living mass of classmates, employees, patients, and visitors to the elevators.

Why do you hate anatomy so much? she heard Cynthia ask.

Two reasons, Marie said, sniffing her own fingers for formaldehyde. First, th—

Just be thankful that we don’t have a fat cadaver, Cyntha cut in, pulling her blouse collar close to her neck. Everything’s greasy, including the floor. It’s hard to dissect out the celiac plexus when you’re sliding all over the place.

The elevator arrived. Marie felt the tense crowd push forward, pressing her and Cynthia against the swiftly opening doors. To Marie, the moving metal booth with its sliding doors resembled gaping jaws that snatched people like a ravenous mouth fills itself with different foods. Marie was shoved to the back of the car, then managed to face forward. As more people streamed in, she held her breath.

The doors suddenly closed, nipping the last people who clambered in, and Marie tensed as the car hurled itself to the ground floor, thinking about Cynthia’s question.

The worst thing about anatomy, she thought, was its dishonor of the dead.

The second worst was the smell. The combined odor of preserved flesh and formaldehyde clung to her for hours after the sloppy, two hour dissection sessions. Even now, some of her fellow passengers wrinkled their noses at the new, sour smell that spread among them.

The car bent everyone’s knees as it stopped at the first floor. The elevator seemed to think for a moment before opening, spilling its living contents across the lobby floor.

She hurried out of the hospital’s main doors to the curb. Hands to her ears, she scooted by the angry bulldozers that pounded, clawed and chewed the broken street.

Lance, she called to the student ten feet ahead of her.

I was looking for you, he said, turning. How’s your dissection going.

Never good, she replied.

I don’t know how you do it with all that hair, he said It doesn’t get in the way?

Her straight black hair flowed over the collar of her short white lab coat to end midway down her back. Shaking her head, she said, Are you ready for the afternoon?

All set, although I’d feel better if I knew how to use these, he said, pointing to his pockets, bulging with stethoscope, otoscope, reflex hammer, and ophthalmoscope.

Don’t worry Lance, she said, waving a hand at him, You have life under control.

There’s enough success out there for everyone. His relaxed smile, beaming out from under neat brown hair and hazel eyes, to her seemed to illuminate the world with optimism. Let’s go, he said, showing the way up the block with his right hand, taking a small bow. Seeing patients is the best part of the week, and its only a few minutes away.

Every part’s the best part for you, Marie said, shaking her head. Then she nodded in the direction of the bulldozers. When are they ever done?

Never. That’s called ‘progress’ my dear Doctor, Lance called out over the noise.

They’re always working, but they’re never finished, Marie said, walking on the inside, letting Lance walk along the curb. This place is like a wound that just won’t heal right.

How’d they ever put me together with you? Lance said catching up to her.

It’s your parents’ fault, she said, smiling for the first time that day.

Black and Blackfox, Lance said, turning to face her as they kept up their pace up the long block. Nothing like alphabetical pairing. She remembered that students commonly did activities like electives in pairs, assigned in alphabetical proximity.

Well, I wonder who we’ll see today? Marie asked, sweeping a strand of hair from her face.

Not who we’ll see, What we’ll see. Remember? Lance said, reaching over to jiggle her stethoscope that peeped out of her short lab coat’s pocket. We’re here to observe disease, not to make friends,

You can’t believe it’s that simple. she said as they paused at a corner.

Emotional connections ruin our objectivity, Lance said, wagging a finger at her. Remember our first lecture?

I’m trying to forget it, she said shaking her head. And so should you. The first time our entire class was together, and what do they teach us? ‘Detached concern’. I’m not here to be detached, Lance. Computers can be detached. Not people.

You’re wrong, Lance replied, gently squeezing her arm. The idea makes good sense if you’d think about it. Doctors have to keep a distance from their patients to maintain their perspective. How else will we make the best recommendations?

I’ve tried to look at things that way, Lance, she said, putting her hands, palms up out in front of her. I agree that we shouldn’t be overly concerned. But to say our concern should be ‘detached’ just doesn’t send the right message.

It separates us from the patient’s emot—whoops, he said, as the stethoscope tumbled out of his pocket to the concrete.

Yes, too well, she said, bending down to retrieve it for him.

Thanks.

I’m closer to the ground than you are, she said, smiling. Listen. Detached concern disconnects things that should be connected. You ever hear of ‘detached respect’, or detached friendship’, or ‘detached love’?"

If you’re not careful, Lance said, looking down at her, they’re going to detach you, Marie.

Marie put her hands in her pockets of her short white coat. Physicians don’t spend enough time with patients as it is. The last—

That’s an old problem, Lance interrupted. My family’s sued doctors for generations for that very reason.

What? Marie said, stopping in mid-stride. I thought you had doctors in your family?

No ma’am. Only lawyers. Malpractice, he said, tipping an imaginary hat to her. The lawyers that doctors love to hate.

Here we are, Marie said, as they entered the office of Dr. Belsher, an oncologist.

Histiocytosis-X, and your late, Belsher said at once, putting on his long white coat as they were ushered into his inner office. You two ever hear of it?

Marie hadn’t, and she turned to Lance who shook his head. To Marie, this fat and balding physician wanted to get their visit over with.

Cancer can develop in blood cells just as it can in solid organs, Belsher said. "One blood cell type is the histiocyte. You cover that cell in histology yet?

Just last week, Lance said. He adjusted his tie.

Good, Belsher said, nodding. When these histiocytes become cancerous and they rapidly divide, spreading like wildfire. The syndrome is called ‘histiocytosis-X’.

Marie saw that Lance had produced a note pad. How long has this patient been sick? she asked.

It’s end stage. Please remember, Belsher said, as he snatched the phone from its cradle. We’re all physicians here, so we address each other as ‘Doctor’. Wait until I’ve finished my conversation before you ask anything. He punched two buttons on the phone’s keypad, waited for a second and said Yes, send them in. Turning back to the students, he said The patient is four years old. This variant of the disease is called Let—

The door opened, and in walked a women holding an infant.

Ms. Thompkins, Dr. Belsher said. I’d like to introduce Drs. Black and Blackfox.

As the mother turned to face her and Lance, Marie choked back a gasp.

He may have been four years of age, but to Marie, Bruce had the stature and weight of a one year old. His taut, waxy skin made his round eyes too large for the face they stared out from, and the thin, bruise-covered arms and legs twitching in his mother’s arms.

Taking the child from his mother, Dr. Belcher carefully and quickly examined the child. To Marie the child looked more like a victim of war than dis—.

Instantly, Marie’s throat closed as the room began to spin. Faster and faster. Small black dots filled her vision. Close your eyes, she thought. There was no way she could let this mother see how sickened she was by the feeble child. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Marie, tightened her neck, screwing her muscles into tight knots of tormented tissue until they screamed at her. Balling her small hands into tight fists by her sides, she stared straight ahead, forcing regular breaths until the black spots disappeared.

A moment later, Dr. Belsher, handed Bruce back to his mother who began rocking her son, whispering to him.

Ms. Thompkins, the oncologist said, your son’s not responding to the new therapy.

Not responding?’ she replied, looking into Belsher’s face. You mean he’s dying. Right?"

He’s–

Right, Doctor?

Belsher dropped his head, studying his shoes intently. Then Yes.

How much longer can he go on? the Mrs. Thompkins asked, kissing her son’s forehead. How much of how’s he’s feeling is the disease, and how much is the treatment?

That’s a difficult question, Belsher responded, raising his head just a little.

I know we can’t do anything about the disease, the mother interrupted. But isn’t this some of the medicine’s fault? If the medicine’s hurting my Bruce, then we can stop that, right?

We discussed this on the phone, Belsher said with a swift shake of his head. Listen, we don’t want to stop the med—

Can’t we please just make him feel better? the mother persisted.

You know this is a bad disease, Ms. Thompkins, Belsher said, stealing a glance at his watch. We’ve talked before about how quickly some patients—

She suddenly stood. Why can’t my son feel good even if he can’t get better?

This isn’t helping anything, Ms. Thompkins, Belsher said, a scowl spreading across his face as he picked up the Hewlett-Packard tablet to jot a note. We must continue treatment.

Mrs. Thompkins looked at the ceiling for a long moment. Then, I have to find a way out of this. Please help me fig—.

We are, Belcher cut in. The nurse’ll get your son’s new prescriptions. Check with her for an appointment, he added opening the door for her.

Ms. Thompkins, gathering her dying son in her arms, stepped back to leave.

Marie’s eyes caught and held the mother’s. Now, Marie thought. Help this woman, so carved out by her pain. Say what she needs to hear.

But she did nothing but drop her eyes, hearing not her own kind words that she yearned to say, but instead only the hot blood pounding in her ears. A moment later, she realized that the Thompkins were gone, and Belsher was talking.

—an especially severe case. The patient was in pain because of the rapidly enlarging liver and spleen. Bone destruction is common in the skull and mandible.

Why didn’t I reach out to her, she thought, as she listened to Belcher’s technical description of the end of life. Why did he ignore this mother’s concerns? For what? Research? Why did I do nothing? Stomach burning, she swallowed the thick salty taste that now filled her mouth.

What medicines are you using? Doctor Belsher, Lance asked jotting down notes.

Good question. We’re giving him a combination of desmopressin and a new compound to help his dehydration, but it can produce purpura. Unfortunately, the patient is not reacting well to the medication. He cleared his throat. Well, that’s all for today. After you write up your observations, you’re both free to go.

Twenty minutes later, Lance and Marie left the doctor’s office and walked back to the dorms. Lance was ecstatic, Marie remembered. He just couldn’t shut up about the encounter. The appearance of the child, the bruising. On and on.

Purpura. he said. Isn’t that what Belsher called it? That’s an adverse event. An undesirable side effect reasonably believed to be due to the new therapy. Purpura, Lance repeated, squeezing his fist in triumph.

Didn’t you see what was before your face, Lance? Marie asked That boy’s dying. So’s his mom.

What? Lance ask, squinting as he turned his head to look at Marie. How could that be? The disease isn’t contag—

Her heart’s dying, Marie said rubbing her hand over the lapel of her right coat. Her son’s disease is destroying his body, and killing her spirit.

The therapy’ll help some, Lance said.

Bruce’s no better, Marie replied.

OK, Marie. OK, Lance said, coming to a standstill. Just what was Dr. Belsher supposed to do? He has a plan for improved therapy. How can he not try?

He’s tried enough with that family, Marie said, stopping to look up at Lance.

Don’t be so sure of yourself, he said, as he buttoned his coat. This family agreed to be treated at a discounted price if they entered a research programs like this.

And just how much longer must Bruce and his family pay for our education with their feelings and his life, she said, pressing her left hand hard against her eye.

Hey, Lance said raising his voice some. Dr. Belsher didn’t give ’em the disease. He’s trying to help. And, by treating the dehydration, the patient’ll live longer.

Keep your voice down, Lance, she said putting a finger to her lips. Do you not have eyes? Didn’t you see that child’s being hurt by this treatment.

So, Belsher should have just given up? Lance said, starting to walk again.

That family doesn’t need us to guess at a cure for them. They need comfort. There was none in that room. You could have comforted that family yourself, she thought. But, when the time came you did nothing. The pounding in her head got louder.

Then he said it.

Detached concern, Marie. Remember?

That phrase had spun circles in her mind that afternoon and evening.

Later when Marie was in the library, her cell vibrated.

One second, she answered. She scooted out into the lobby. When she was outside the cell-free zone, she put it to her ear. Hello?

Marie. It was Lance. Can you…can you get to the ER.

She’d had enough of him for one day. I’m working on an—

Just come. Need to be here. See…See this.

Click

Marie arrived ten minutes later. Knots of white coats were walking and talking together. Squinting in the bright fluorescent light she walked around the rooms until she saw Lance sitting outside one of the cubicles that isolated the patients and their pain from each other.

Lance, she said, touching his shoulder. What is —?"

A doctor and nurse brushed past her — baking as a treatment for cancer, the doctor said, the nurse laughing in response.

Marie, he said. Remem—?"

Why are you here? she asked. "Why do you want me here?

I try to hang out in the ER some, he said. He wasn’t looking at her and his voice was subdued As long as I’m not in the way, I can observe. You should try it.

Marie shook her head. Maybe when I know more—

They’re dead, He said raising his head to look at her.

What? Whose dead? she said, knowing without knowing how.

The intern says it was suicide, he said, rubbing index fingers and thumbs together. Brought —

Who? Who else, she asked herself.

— in fifteen minutes ago. The patient we saw at Dr. Belsher‘s. Someone smelled gas. The landlord found the mother and the child. Heads in the oven.

Marie gasp, falling back against the wall’s cold tiles. Her head exploded in light and she closed her eyes, her breath coming in shallow ragged wheezes. No.

Terrible trag—

I could’ve stopped that, she cut in, closing her eyes. That mother needed sympathy. Sympathy that you had for her, she raged at herself. She needed you, coward, and what did you do? Talk to Lance on the way home. You’ve lost your heart.

Marie, you can’t t—

Marie turned and ran down the long hall out into night with its whaling sirens and darkness that did not forgive.

It was time. Marie shook off the memories of yesterday as she picked up the phone and dialed the number.

Hello, the stranger’s voice answered. This is the Dean’s Office.

You’ve become a ghost, Marie, she thought to herself. Empty. Now save yourself. Act.

I’m Marie Blackfox, and I’d like to leave this place.

Wanna-Be

Uh, good to see you, Lindsey, Dr. J. Peter Townsend, chairman of the University of Manhattan Therapeutic Virology Division said as he sat behind his huge mahogany desk piled high with papers. He waved her to one of two leather chairs facing his desk.

Dressed in a pants suit that hid the sutured, angry gash on her right leg, Lindsey twisted left then right as she coaxed her aching body around the small office into the leather chair, sitting in the light that streamed in from the large window behind her boss.

Looks like you’re still sore after yesterday? He ran his hand through his thinning blond hair.

Getting better, she said, wincing as her tongue rubbed against tender gum. She squinted, puzzled by how blurred his facial features appeared. How long before the lab is up and run— Sorry, Lindsey said, as she reached for a Kleenex to cover her mouth.

Hope you’re going to lose that cough soon, he answered, shifting in his seat. No more than six weeks. Maybe even sooner. Actually, only half was a total loss. He adjusted a stack of papers on his desk. We should be able to get several projects up in the undamaged section soon.

But, what about the fumes? she asked as she as she massaged her tender right wrist. I’d like to get back to work too, but, I mean, nobody can be allowed in run experiments now right? The air alone’s tox—

I wouldn’t say toxic, Lindsey, he said wrinkling his brow. It may take a day or two to deal with the noxious smell, but the rest of the postdocs are eager to get back to the bench. Grant deadlines are coming up, as you well know. He leaned forward. We need to chat a little about your work habits.

Lindsey hunched over, hands in her lap. My most productive time is in the morning. Always has been. With nobody around I can get an hour’s work done in thirty—

That’s been your modus operandi for months, Townsend said as he flicked his wrist at her. Not what I’m getting at here.

Well, she began, cocking her head. then I don’t –

Lindsey, he said both hands out, palms up. Why didn’t you save the data?

During the fire? she said, as she jerked her head back, grimacing with the pain.

Yes, Lindsey, yes. During the event. The computer was under the lab bench just across from Leonard and Sophie, unlocked. In fact, we never lock it, just to be sure that data extraction is easy during an emergency. The external drive simply detaches, right?

She nodded her head it in short, quick movements. I know, but–

Simply reach down, open the door, pull the external drive, and walk out, he said, That’s all you had to do. Frankly, I’m puzzled and more than a little disappointed.

What are you saying? Lindsey asked cocking her head. I was supposed to just grab the data and walk out?"

That’s exactly what I’m saying, he said, as his eyebrows arched. What’s wrong with you? That data was the product of your research effort. He paused for a moment. And mine.

But, Dr. Townsend, she protested, sitting forward on the chair. Leonard and Sophie were still inside. They were trapped.

Trapped, and expendable. Not the hard drive.

She reared back in the chair, mouth wide open, her head roaring with new pain. Incredible. Are you kidding? Leonard and Sophie were there. They saw me. They recognized me. Reached out to me. Needed to be saved—

Townsend motioned with both hands. Settle down, Lindsey, I’m merely say—"

She balled her left hand into a fist as she shook her head. You expected – no – you wanted me to turn my back on them when they were within arm’s reach, crying for their lives? Burning to death. Are you really sitting there suggesting that?

Yes, he said, with a shrug of his shoulders, and you should have thought of it, too. The data’s gone, Lindsey. So are the chimps. Face facts.

No sir, she said raising her voice, pointing a bandaged index finger straight at him. You’re wrong. One died. Leonard. But not Sophie. I brought her cage back out with me. I saved her. Why don’t you know that?

Because, he sneered, you didn’t.

I know what I did, she said as she brought her hand down hard on the chair’s arm. You weren’t there. Leonard was dead. Sophie wasn’t. I pushed her cage out in front of me, she said, making small quick pushing motions with her hands.

She’s dead.

What? Lindsey sat up straight. That can’t be. She was alive.

Shock. That and pulmonary edema from the fumes. Suffocated. She never even made it to the infirmary, he said. His eyes narrowed.

Lindsey’s vision blurred, as she sank back into her seat. She closed her eyes, forcing air in and out of her lungs. She felt that she could still smell the burning skin and hair as Leonard died and Sophie screamed. Screamed for her life — Still. I had to try, she blurted out.

You made the wrong choice. Townsend asked, rising to his feet. You tried for nothing. Let that sink in right now. He jabbed a hard, stiff finger on the wooden desk.

They need—

You saved nothing, his spittle hurled through the air at her. We gained nothing. You brought back nothing. The chimps died, and since you didn’t save the data, they died for nothing. Am I getting through to you, ‘Doctor’?

She felt her heart hammering in her chest, and her hands, now clenched in tight fists, dug down deep into her lap. She let her tongue run back and forth across the temporary crown as she dropped her head, red hair shielding her puffy face from the vitriolic division chair.

Listen, Townsend said, shaking his head, as he settled back down into his chair. He paused for a moment and through her hot tears she saw him straightened his tie, this has been rough on everybody. Especially you. I didn’t want to go off on you like that. He exhaled. What I really wanted to talk about was the effect of the event on your research.

OK, she said, voice barely above a whisper, studying her fists in her lap.

What happened Monday kicks you out of the funding cycle for the upcoming round of applications, doesn’t it?

You mean the NIH deadline in two months? she said blinking back a tear. My grant app is almost done. That’s what I was working on when the fire started.

I bet you were, he said, his voice level again. And you were counting on the data from Leonard and Sophie, which you don’t have.

Yes, but I can go forward without that.

Oh, c’mon Lindsey, he said as he slapped his hand down on the desk. With no preliminary data, you’ll get laughed out of the grant study section. I know that. You know it too. Or, at least you used to. You need more than good ideas in virology. You need data. Yours burned up.

She squeezed her hands into hard fists to keep her hands from quaking. Anybody could have lost their data in the fire, Dr. Townsend.

But you let it happen. Lost your data, lost your job, lost the chimps.

She looked up at him, her tears now flowing freely. What are you s…saying? I put Leonard and Sophie before the data, and now you’re getting rid of me?

No, he said. Leaning toward her. You got rid of yourself with that stunt.

But my work product up to this point’s been exemp—

Look Lindsey, he said, pushing away from the desk. We’ve got more postdocs than positions this upcoming year. Only the productive ones stay. That’s how it’s got to be. Besides, maybe it’d be good for you to, ah, take some time off. He exhaled. Apply for another post doc. Next year. Somewhere else. He brushed imaginary dust from the desk edge. You need some time to think about your commitment to our work.

I put lives before data, Dr. Townsend, she said in a low tone.

Animal lives, he smirked. You’re a researcher, not a vet. He stood.

I tried to save them, and that makes me unfit? she said looking up at him

I need a responsible postdoc, not a Wonder Woman wannabe, Townsend said as he walked to the door. Let’s end this, shall we? he said, holding it open.

The room spun as Lindsey rose. She steadied herself on the arm of the chair for a moment. The walk to the door was a struggle for balance.

Hope that limp gets better soon, Townsend said as she passed in front of him.

She left the chairman’s office at 9:57 AM, September 24, 2008, each step down the long hall more difficult than the one before. Finally, she made it to Post-Doc country, the small area crammed with cubicles where she and the five other PhD’s worked. A moment later, she found her way to her tiny cubicle, trying not to hunch over as the new anguish of disconnection from her career squeezed her.

The minutes rushed by as she rammed her papers, hi-carb snacks, PDA, and laptop into her black computer bag. Don’t you dare, she thought, as a single tear spilled over her right eyelid. It’s your emotions that got you in this fix. Her vision blurred as another tear appeared.

She grabbed for her last personal paraphernalia, the ten year old picture of her on the Illinois farm. Compelled to gaze at the image of her looking out over the endless fields of Illinois corn, the portrait stirred the memories that turned the key, and the pain at her loss flooded out, sapping her strength. Helpless, Lindsey crammed herself against the cubicle wall, fingers covering her mouth to stop the wracking sobs as she cried into her hand.

You’re almost out of here, she thought. C’mon.

Struggling to regain control of her breathing, she stood up straight, emptying her mind of all but the white hot fury of self control.

She walked the blessedly empty hallway to the elevator. Then, rather than risk riding an elevator crammed with people, she limped the twelve floors down to the ground floor, walking out of the Institute for the last time into the crowded street to face failure alone.

Four o’clock that afternoon, Lindsey sat on