emergency or maternity.”
Whitaker assumed the doctor had referred to the chart. Ms. Tyler did not reply.
“You’ve been pregnant five times and you have four living children; is that correct?”
“Not ‘zactly. I been pregnant more like six, seven times.”
“The others were abortions?”
“I didn’t have nothin’ done.” Somewhat truculently.
“Spontaneous abortions, then. Well, you’re not pregnant this time.”
“Thank the Lord.”
“Thank the Lord, indeed. You’ve just got a stomach upset. And I’ll give you something for that. But you could have been pregnant, couldn’t you?”
“How’s that?”
“You’re sexually active now? You have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“But, Ms. Tyler, you’re a diabetic. The last two times you were here for delivery of a child, you almost died. Didn’t the doctor or a counselor give you any information on family planning? On how not to get pregnant again?”
“Oh, yeah, they done that.”
“What did you decide on? What form of contraceptive did you agree on?”
“Oh, they fitted me with a wire.”
“An IUD? Then what happened? It’s certainly not in place now.”
“It come out.”
“And you didn’t come in to have it replaced? Don’t you know that without it you could get pregnant again?”
“I guess.”
“Look, Ms. Tyler”—his tone grew conciliatory—“this is very serious. Your diabetes—your illness—very much complicates matters when you become pregnant. You could die. As a matter of fact, if you get pregnant again, you probably will die. And you might have been pregnant this time. It’s just luck—and no more than luck—that you aren’t.
“Ms. Tyler, you’ve got four children. You don’t need any more, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“You don’t even want any more, do you?” He sounded hopeful.
There was a pause. “But I can’t lose my man. If I don’t give out, Tyrone be gone.” She sounded worried.
“There’s a way we can fix this all up.”
“There is?”
“Yes. It’s called a tubal ligation.”
“A what?” Nervous.
“We could tie your Fallopian tubes.”
“My what?”
“It’s a simple operation. We can do it right here in the clinic. We can even do it right now.”
“It’s an operation?” A touch of panic.
“Yes. But it’s such a simple operation, we can do it right here in the clinic.”
“What do it do?”
“It’ll make it impossible for you to get pregnant ever again.”
“And I don’t have to wear anything or do anything more?”
“No. The operation will take care of everything.”
“And I can give out to Tyrone?”
“Tyrone will never have been happier.”
“Then I guess it’s okay.”
Whitaker had been listening to their conversation so intently that he hadn’t noticed the nurse’s aide who had been standing next to him, studying him. “Bruce”—she’d read his ID—“if I were you, I’d take my sleeve out of that Gentian Violet.”
Startled, Whitaker glanced first at her, then at his sleeve. The solution had crept upwards until now it had darkened a significant portion of his cuff. And the aide—she was the same girl he had literally run into earlier when they had spilled the lunch tray.
“It’s all right . . . it’s all right,” he repeated inanely as he squeezed the cuff. He succeeded only in staining his fingers.
Bruce left the scene in rather total confusion. But he’d heard enough. He must get to the others as soon as possible and tell them what he’d learned. And he would have to do something about that nurse’s aide. She had noticed him. She had read his ID. She knew his name.
Whitaker had assailed his duties that day confident he was unnoticed. But someone else, due initially to nothing but a series of coincidences, had noted, then taken some interest in this ill-omened man. There had been the food tray collision; the dropped specimen tube; the patient bent almost into pretzel shape when Bruce had tried to adjust her electronically powered bed; the cracked stained-glass window in the chapel where he had tripped over a prie-dieu.
At that, the silent observer hadn’t noted the nurse who was still searching for the chart Bruce had accidentally set afire; the patient who would never find her dentures that Bruce had accidentally flushed down the toilet; or the medical library where books were now out of order because Bruce had tried to look up some information. Not to mention a variety of other mishaps.
But merely from what had been noted, the observer was impressed. Never had the observer seen such a star-crossed creature. However, on the one hand, volunteers were not in great supply, and, on the other, one never knew when information about such a person might come in handy.
3
It seemed many hours since the coffee break. Actually, it was only a little more than four. But, by his lights, Father Koesler had spent a busy afternoon.
He had visited with nine newly admitted patients; heard three confessions; anointed five, three of whom would go to surgery tomorrow; and offered Mass at 5:30 p.m.
It was now 6:15 p.m. “Bay in hand, he was making his way through the cafeteria line. He was hungry, but too tired to eat much. From a fairly generous offering of ingredients, he put together a salad. That and coffee should do it.
The cafeteria was sparsely occupied. It was between visiting hours and much of the day staff had gone home.
Koesler took a seat at a long, empty table, said a silent grace, and started on the salad. He noticed Dr. Scott going through the food line. Scott appeared to be unaccompanied. As he settled with the cashier, he scanned the scattered diners, spotted Father Koesler, and headed in his direction.
That pleased the priest. He had liked Scott from the beginning and was sure he could learn much from him.
Scott sat down heavily, letting out his exhaustion. Koesler glanced at the doctor’s tray. Apparently, tiredness did not affect all men equally. In addition to a salad, there was an ample piece of pizza, sliced roast beef, potatoes and gravy, and a mixture of carrots and peas. No wonder the doctor’s frame, despite the stress and physical demands of his work, carried excess fat.
“I’m glad you happened on this time to eat,” Koesler opened. “Nice coincidence.”
“It was no coincidence,” Scott replied. “I figured you’d eat right after you said Mass, so I timed my break for now.”
“Oh?” There was something more. There had to be. Koesler waited.
“So, then, how did your first day go?”
“Busily. This is a very demanding place. I can see where you could burn out in a hurry here.”
Scott smiled and ran a hand through his beard. “Wait awhile. It gets easier. The newness does take its toll.
