The Complete Collection. William Wharton
the mirror. That mirror has a crazy crack through the middle so I can make myself look as if I have a thick nose with three nostrils. I keep promising Bess I’ll buy a new one but always forget. I start scraping away, wiping the suds and cut stubble off on my finger.
Ten minutes later, a large, tweedy man comes strolling onto the ward. I watch him stop at the nurses’ section. Even if I didn’t see abject panic on the nurses’ faces I could tell this is top dog. He has proprietorship written all over him.
The nurses point and he heads over. As he comes in the room, he switches on the overhead light. I walk past him and turn it off again.
‘I think we can see well enough for what we have to discuss, Dr Benson. My father is in a very sensitive condition and the light might bother him.’
Two points for me and the lines are drawn. He pauses, gives a benevolent grandfatherly grin and pulls out the other chair in the room. I’ve taken the armchair for myself; he’s stuck with the armless one. He turns the chair around to straddle it, the knight talking to the peasants from his horse. It’s tubular steel frame with black seat and black padded back. It helps him maintain his Marlboro-Chief Surgeon role.
‘My secretary says you want to see me, Mr Tremont.’
So that’s the way we play it. OK.
‘That’s right, Mr Benson.’
No accent, just lay it out quietly. He wants me to go on; I wait.
I’m wishing it all weren’t so important so I could enjoy our little farce. There’s something crazy in me. I desperately avoid this competitive confrontation nonsense; it’s unrelated to my ideal of the good life. But when I’m in it, I enjoy myself. He waits as long as he can.
‘Well, Dr Tremont, I’m a very busy man; my schedule is tight and I fly to Boston in three hours. Just what is it you want to see me about?’
I pick up my clipboard and pull off the statement I showed to Knight & Knight; I include the write-up of what happened last night. I hand this to him, switch on the small light beside the bed and tilt it away from Dad.
‘I think you’d better read this first, Dr Benson.’
He takes it from me, riffles through the pages; it’s up to thirteen single-space now.
‘Really, Dr Tremont, I don’t have time to go through all this. Couldn’t you abstract this manuscript for me?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Dr Benson; this is as succinct a statement of the situation as I can possibly present. I’m sure reading it now will be to your advantage.’
He sighs, pulls his glasses from his coat pocket. The Knight & Knight card is dislodged, lifted a bit, as he slides them out. He quickly tucks it back, eases his glasses free. That quick move verifies Knight & Knight. He adjusts his glasses and tilts his head back to read through his bifocals. He’d like to move the papers closer to his chest, but he’s stuck trying to read straddled around the chair.
‘Dr Benson, I presented this statement to the firm of Knight & Knight; they suggested I show it to you.’
He shoots a full double whammy over the top of his glasses. That, combined with his graying cowlick forelock, gives him the look of a mean Will Rogers.
I’m not going to wait around while he reads, so I go over and fuss with Dad some more. I feel his head, cool; take his pulse, irregular, racing; and tuck the bedclothes in. I stare at the monitors, pretend to make some notes on my clipboard, then stand leaning in the doorway watching the nurses. They’re all in a semi-catatonic state. Here’s Dr Benson, himself, on their floor in a patient’s room with a wild-eyed, bearded man.
I wait till I’m sure he must be almost finished, then go and play with Dad again. His breathing is deep, his mouth open.
I hear Benson putting the papers together; he clears his throat. I sit in my chair again. He hands the statement to me and I lock it onto the clipboard. I slip the letter with my list of requests on top. I wait. He pulls the card out of his pocket now.
‘I suppose this means you intend to institute a suit against the hospital, Dr Tremont?’
I wait, staring at him, through him, for perhaps five seconds.
‘I’d rather not, Dr Benson.’
‘It seems to me, Dr Tremont, that all your complaints, though serious, would not constitute a malpractice suit.’
‘Knight & Knight disagree with you on that, Dr Benson.’
He’s pissed all right. I’d love to be there when he rips into Santana and Ethridge. He stares at the card again. I know he’s repressing an urge to call that security guard and have me thrown out.
‘Just what is it you want, Dr Tremont?’
Knight & Knight primed me for that, God bless their reptilian hearts.
‘Dr Benson, here’s a copy of a registered letter I mailed to Dr Chad this morning. It lists some of the things I’m asking for.’
I hand the letter across to him. It’s in the envelope unsealed. He reads it through carefully; looks up.
‘Are you a neurologist, Dr Tremont? These are rather specific requests.’
‘No, Dr Benson.’
He stares at me again; let him stew; he’s about to burst but he’s keeping his administrative cool. This guy earns his money for Perpetual.
‘I see nothing amiss in arranging for these tests if they haven’t already been performed. Most are somewhat superfluous in this case, but I can approve these procedures.’
He looks over at Dad.
‘But the condition of your father is rather critical, some of these tests are rigorous.’
‘Naturally, Dr Benson, I don’t want these tests given until my father is in a condition to support them; I assume Dr Chad has the medical judgment to determine that. I’ve chosen him on the recommendation of medical friends in this area not associated with Perpetual.’
‘Dr Tremont, I assure you Dr Chad and any doctor here at Perpetual is fully qualified to make these kinds of decisions.’
I almost expect him to stand and salute; for God, Perpetual and the AMA.
‘I disagree, Dr Benson, but that isn’t the question here. The issue is whether or not I bring a malpractice suit against the Perpetual organization, against Dr Ethridge and against Dr Santana. My attorneys await my decision.’
I sit back. There’s sweat in the hollow of my back and it surprises me when I press against it. It’s his move again. He goes to the door and one of the nurses scurries over.
‘Would you get me the records for Mr Tremont, please, Nurse?’
She practically does a full Oriental bow and a back flip. She runs off.
When he comes back, Benson turns the chair around, sits down in it and crosses his legs. We’re through with the cowboy act.
The nurse comes in. She hands the records to Benson. He opens them on his lap and starts from the front. He’s either a quick study or he’s only going through the motions. He could be thinking of something else. I couldn’t care less. I hope he doesn’t skip over that gallbladder operation. I wait. He closes the record and looks up at me.
‘Well, Dr Tremont, your father is a very sick man. I’m not sure Dr Ethridge isn’t correct in his diagnosis of a sudden decline to deep senility, or there could be some stroking. Just what is it you want from the hospital?’
I’m ready. I was awake two hours last night spinning my head on that one.
‘First, Dr Benson, I want to be the one who decides when my father is ready to leave this hospital.’
I let that sink in. He half nods his head.
‘Also,