an HMO decision makes it not worth it. I’ll make sure our hospital isn’t one of the seventy percent in this case, but I hope you’re planning on fighting this, too.”
“My cousin Pam’s husband is a big-time attorney in Des Moines,” Marybeth said, “as well as being one of the most obnoxious people on the planet. I’ve already spoken to him. He says he specializes in making people wish they had never crossed paths with him.”
“That’s quite a specialty. Well, Jack,” he said, taking the man’s hand in his, “you’ve been one hell of a patient. I don’t throw around the term
“And you’re certainly one of ours,” Marybeth said. Not waiting for a handshake, she threw her arms around Will’s neck. “Thank you, Doctor,” she whispered in his ear. “Thank you for saving my husband’s life.”
Dr. Jeremy Purcell hadn’t been nearly as much help as Will had expected. For one thing, some pneumonia and a urinary-tract infection from the catheter were keeping him down. For another, his notes, while impressive in volume and scope, were not that well organized or easy to read. With Tom Lemm’s help, they had put together a reasonable, albeit dry, presentation. They even had a PowerPoint production of sorts, although it would never win any prizes for flair.
Anxious to get in some final rehearsal, Will hurried back to the office, where he had left the carton full of notes, articles, and slides in preparation for the trip into Boston. He was Custer, riding off to inspect the troops, only this time he knew what Little Bighorn held in store.
Fredrickston Surgical Associates occupied most of the second floor of the Medical Arts Building. The airy central waiting area was half full. On a Thursday, they would be Susan’s and Gordo’s patients. Will felt relieved knowing that none of them was his. He still had an hour or so to review before making the thirty-five-mile drive into Boston.
“We’re all excited about tonight, Dr. Grant,” the receptionist said.
“Are you coming, Mimi?”
“Once we knew you were going to be part of it, my husband and I tried getting tickets, but there are none. It’s a sellout.”
“You might be just as well off staying home together and watching professional wrestling. The guy Halliday who will be representing managed care has been preparing for months. I’ve had a week.”
“Oh, Dr. Grant, you’ll do great.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“Just tell them all what goes on around here with all the paperwork and delayed payments and grumpy patients.”
“I may do that.”
“Excuse me, Dr. Grant?”
A trim, attractive Asian woman approached him from one of the seats to his right. Her ebony hair, cut in a pageboy, was very appealing.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Grant, there’s no reason you should remember me, but there’s no reason I would ever forget you.”
“I’m embarrassed I don’t re-”
“Please don’t be. My name is Grace Davis. That’s my husband, Mark, over there.”
Will glanced over at an athletic-looking man in his early forties-business or perhaps law was his guess. He also caught sight of the ornate grandfather clock that Jim Katz had lent the practice. In forty-eight minutes he had to be on the road.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m still not able to-”
“My maiden name was Peng. Grace Peng. For more than a year I was a regular at the-”
“Oh my God! Grace! I don’t believe this.”
Excitedly, Will held her by the arms and studied her face. It was most definitely Grace Peng, but it wasn’t. The Grace Peng he knew was a woeful, down-and-out alcoholic who was a regular patron of the Open Hearth a decade ago. She was a woman of intelligence and potential, whom he and everybody else around the Hearth was drawn to and wanted to help. But sooner or later, her anger and virulent drinking drove them all away. More than one of the volunteers and staff-perhaps Will included-predicted a premature and possibly violent death for the woman.
“Gosh, but you look wonderful. How long has it been?”
“More than ten years since I saw you and also since I had my last drink.”
Inadvertently, Will glanced at the clock again. Forty minutes.
“It sure looks as if you have a tale to tell,” he said.
“I’m so sorry. You’re in a rush. I didn’t mean to hold you up.”
“No! Well, I mean yes. I have a speech to give tonight in Boston. I’m a little nervous about it.”
The transformation in the woman was absolutely astounding. She was always filthy and disheveled-more so even than most of the Open Hearth patrons. To the best of Will’s memory, Grace had gone off to yet another treatment center and had never been heard from at the Hearth again. If, as she said, it had been more than ten years ago, the twins were about to arrive and he was hustling about trying to hook up with a practice. His involvement with the place he had helped found fell off for a couple of years.
“I had no idea you were working here,” she said.
“Well, who are you here to see?”
“Dr. Hollister.”
“For?”
“I was referred to her by the clinic where I had my mammogram. They’re suspicious of cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I certainly hope that’s not the case.”
“I’m afraid it is. My husband has my mammograms. It’s not that big, but even I can see it.”
Thirty-five minutes.
“Dr. Hollister is one of my partners. You’ll really like her.”
“Now I don’t want her to be my doctor.”
“Why? You said you haven’t even met her.”
“I want you, Dr. Grant. If I had known you were here, I would have insisted they refer me to you.”
“But-”
“I’m sorry. I know you’re in a hurry. I’ll just cancel this appointment and reschedule with you. We can talk then.”
“Grace, we make it a point in our practice not to switch patients.”
“I’m sure Dr. Hollister will understand when I tell her that I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you.”
Thirty minutes.
Will sighed inwardly. “Why don’t you and your husband come into my office,” he said.
“There is so much about me and my upbringing and my life that I would never let you or anyone else at the soup kitchen know,” Grace said as Will held her mammograms up to the window. As she predicted, the cancer was quite easily discernible-a marble-size density in the upper outer quadrant of her left breast. If the adjacent lymph nodes were cancer free, the lumpectomy to remove it would be quite routine. “You and some of the others at the soup kitchen were incredibly kind and nonjudgmental,” she went on, “but you were the only one who really pushed through my anger and denial to talk with me. Even when I was filthy and acting abominably, you kept trying. Then one night you told me that it was horribly difficult for you to see so many patients who wanted to live but had terminal illness, then to have to come to the soup kitchen and see me systematically killing myself. You gave me the name of a priest. Do you remember?”
“Father Charlie,” Will said wistfully. “I remember now. He was a patient of mine, sober in AA for many years.”
“And he was dying of cancer. You knew that when you sent me to him. He talked to me for a long time, then he arranged for me to go to a special treatment center. He never would tell me how it got paid for. I certainly didn’t have any money. I was there for nine months, during which time I had almost no contact with the outside world. While I was there, I got a letter Father Charlie had written to me just before he passed away, telling me how proud he was of me.”
“He was a wonderful man.”
