bed with her earbuds in, listening to whatever music she had recorded on her Vox. Susan waved from the doorway but got no response. It would do little good to talk to Monterey. The girl could not hear her and would not answer even if she could.
Susan saw the irony in the situation. She would finish quickly and move on to Connor Marchik, trying to reach Kendall’s patient when she could not even reach one of her own. Monterey truly seemed like the ultimate hopeless case, and Susan understood why her doctors wished to resort to desperate measures. She had more difficulty comprehending the motives of the Society for Humanity. Did those protestors truly prefer that the girl live out her remaining decades in a psychiatric institute rather than undergo a process that might give her a chance at a completely normal life? Electroconvulsive therapy had its drawbacks, of course; but how could anything be worse than counting the hours and days till death in utter silence?
Susan thought back to the years when cancer therapy was as much of a crapshoot as refractory mental illness. Then, bone marrow transplant offered the possibility of a cure for otherwise certain death. It had required massive doses of radiation and/or chemotherapy to destroy all of the patient’s fast-growing cells, then an infusion of non-diseased bone marrow, usually from a donor. Patients frequently died of overwhelming infection, bleeding, graft failure, relapse, organ failures, or graft versus host disease. Even when it worked, the patients felt lousy for months, and full recovery often took years. Survival rates varied from disease to disease but averaged about fifty percent, assuming the cancer itself did not recur.
Nevertheless, people with otherwise fatal diseases would choose the procedure, willing to risk immediate death for a possible cure rather than the slower, certain lethality of the initial illness. In contrast, mortality from ECT was exceptionally rare. The worst common complication was memory loss, most often mild. In the extremely unlikely event Monterey became wholly amnestic, it still seemed preferable to the existence she currently suffered.
Susan performed her obligatory greeting. “Good morning, Monterey.” She paused, hoping for some sign the girl had heard her.
But Monterey only stared back, blinking occasionally, her face expressionless.
Susan tried her best. “If you want me to stay and keep bugging you, do nothing. If you want me to leave, wave.”
Monterey kept studying Susan in silence. Then, to Susan’s surprise, the girl raised a hand and moved it feebly. A ghost of a smile touched her features.
Susan froze for an instant. Then, true to her promise, she turned on her heel and left the room. Her heart pounded. Monterey had not spoken; but she had communicated, even if only to send Susan away. When it came to Monterey, Susan would relish even those tiny victories.
Having interacted with her two remaining patients, however superficially, Susan felt free to visit Connor Marchik. She stood outside the room for several moments, taking deep, calming breaths and loosing them slowly. She knew she was entering a lion’s den and promised herself that, whatever he said, she would not take it personally. Having fully prepared herself, she walked into Connor’s room, grumbling loudly. “This sucks. Everything sucks.”
Connor looked up from the palm-pross balanced on his thighs. He had dark, uncombed hair that tousled in every direction, sunken blue eyes, and long bony cheeks. A hint of downy hair fuzzed the area between his nose and upper lip, and a few hairs clung to his chin.
Arms crossed over her chest, Susan glanced in his direction, then snarled, “What are you looking at?”
Connor seemed shell-shocked. Since he had transferred to the PIPU, no one had ever spoken to him that way. Susan supposed they all plastered on fake smiles, trying to sweet-talk him from the depths of his raging depression. Images flashed across the palm-pross, and Susan recognized them as characters in the newest display case in the Manhattan Hasbro Hospital lobby. The grimy stuffed animal on his pillow vaguely resembled one of the main critter characters. He finally managed to speak. “Who the hell are you?” Though hostile, his tone sounded practically neutral compared to her own.
Susan maintained her stance, half-turned away, arms across her chest. “I’m Dr. Susan Calvin, and I wish I were dead.”
Connor growled, “No, you don’t.”
“I do. I’d trade places with you in a second.”
“Bullshit.”
Susan turned fully toward him. “You’ve got it made. Lying around all day doing whatever you want to do, watching whatever you want to watch, until the day you die.”
“Which could be tomorrow.”
“Or two years. Or three years.” Susan turned him a sullen look. “Or maybe some brilliant scientist will discover a cure, and you’ll have the bad luck to live seventy more years.”
“Yeah, right.” Connor returned his attention to the palm-pross. “I’ve been hearing that ‘future cure’ shit for years.” Sarcasm deepened his voice. “Be happy. Nobody knows for sure when it’s his time to go.” He snorted. “Well, I fucking know. I’ve got a few more fucking months at best, and I don’t want to spend them skipping around rainbows with dancing ponies, okay?”
Susan shrugged. “Yeah? Then why go on at all? Why not end it all now?”
She had Connor’s full attention again. “What?”
Susan let her arms drop to her sides. “Your room seemed like the perfect place to commit suicide. I have enough pills to share.” She pulled the Slookies from her pocket. From across the room, they could pass for drugs.
Connor shut the palm-pross. “Hey! You can’t kill yourself here.”
Susan drifted toward him. “Why not? You don’t give a shit about anyone else, so I knew you wouldn’t try to stop me.”
Connor looked distinctly uneasy. Susan hoped she had not overplayed her gambit. “What’s so bad about your life, anyways? I heard you fixed Starling. And Diesel.”
“Yeah. And now everyone expects miracles. I can’t do anything for Monterey . . . or for you.” Susan shook her head angrily. “I can’t stand the pressure anymore. Better to end it all now.” She shook the candies in her hand and raised them to her lips.
“Don’t do it!” Connor shouted.
Susan froze, then slowly turned her head toward him. She wrinkled her brow, as if in confusion. “Why not? Life blows.”
“Yeah, it does,” Connor agreed. “But what if you’re the one who’s supposed to find the cure for me? Or for Monterey? Or, if not for either of us, for someone just as desperate next month?”
“Are you saying what I do or don’t do affects . . . other people?” Susan spoke as if she had come to a great epiphany.
“Of course . . . it . . .” Connor caught on. “You bitch.”
Susan dumped the candy back into her pocket. “That’s
“I’m dying.”
“Get over it. And yourself.” Susan refused to show any sympathy. “We’re all dying at our own speed. You’re neither the oldest nor the youngest person to die. Do you know how many people would pay good money to have a couple years’ warning? Most of us crawl into our deathbeds worrying about trivia, never knowing we won’t wake up in the morning. We leave a million things undone. At least, you can tie up all your loose ends.”
“I’m fifteen,” Connor reminded her. “My ends are all pretty tight.”
Susan chuckled.
“You’re not supposed to laugh at a dying kid.”
“Well, no wonder you’re so spittin’ mad. No one laughs at your jokes.”
Though tempted to continue while she had him listening, Susan knew when she had said enough. She had given Connor something to think about. Lecturing him about how he affected his family, his doctors, and his friends would only form a wedge, losing all the ground she had gained. With teenagers, often the less said, the better. “Dr. Susan Bitch,” she repeated. “And don’t you forget it.” With that, she turned and left the room.
