We'll Meet Again

barely perceptible nod, he answered Lou’s unspoken question.

50

Did I detect a change in Tasha when I was there last week, or am I just imagining it now? Barbara Colbert asked herself as she stared out into the darkness on the drive to Greenwich. Nervously she clasped and unclasped her hands.

Dr. Black’s call had come just as she was preparing to leave for the Met, where she had a subscription for the Tuesday night opera performance series.

“Mrs. Colbert,” the doctor had said, his tone grave, “I’m afraid there’s been a change in Tasha’s condition. We believe that her systems may be shutting down.”

Please let me get there in time, Barbara prayed. I want to be with her when she dies. They’ve always told me that she probably doesn’t hear or understand anything we say to her, but I’ve never been sure of that. When the time comes, I want her to know that I am there. I want my arms around her when she draws her last breath.

She sat back and gasped. The thought of losing her child had the physical impact of a dagger in her heart. Tasha… Tasha…, she thought. How did this ever happen?

Barbara Colbert arrived to find Peter Black at Tasha’s bedside. His countenance conveyed a kind of practiced grimness. “We can only watch and wait,” he said, his voice solicitous.

Barbara ignored him. One of the nurses moved a chair close to the bed so that she could sit with her arm slipped around Tasha’s shoulders. She looked into her daughter’s lovely face, so serene, as though she were simply sleeping and might open her eyes at any minute and say hello.

Barbara stayed next to her daughter throughout the long night, unaware of the nurses in the background, or of Peter Black adjusting the solution that dripped into Tasha’s veins.

At six o’clock, Black touched her arm. “Mrs. Colbert, it appears that Tasha has stabilized, at least to a degree. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and let the nurses attend to her? You can come back then.”

She looked up. “Yes, and I must speak to my chauffeur. You’re sure…”

He knew what she meant, and nodded. “No one can be sure, but I don’t think Tasha is ready to leave us yet, at least not in the next little while.”

Mrs. Colbert went out to the reception area. As she expected, Dan was asleep in one of the club chairs. A hand on his shoulder was enough to bring him to alert wakefulness.

Dan had been with the family since before Tasha was born, and over the years they had grown very close. Barbara answered his unasked question: “Not yet. They say she has stabilized for now. But it could be anytime.”

They had rehearsed this moment. “I’ll call the boys, Mrs. Colbert.”

Fifty and forty-eight years old, and he still calls them the boys, Barbara thought, vaguely comforted by the realization that Dan was grieving with her. “Ask one of them to pick up a bag for me at the apartment. Call and tell Netty to have it ready.”

She forced herself to go into the small coffee shop. The sleepless night had not affected her yet, but she knew it was inevitable.

The waitress in the coffee shop clearly knew about Tasha’s condition. “We’re praying,” she said, then sighed. “It’s been a sad week. You know, Mr. Magim died early Saturday morning.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Not that it wasn’t expected, but we were all hoping he’d make his eightieth birthday. You know what was nice, though? His eyes opened just before he died, and Mrs. Magim swears they focused right on her.”

If only Natasha could say good-bye to me, Barbara thought. We were a very happy family, but never a particularly demonstrative one. I regret that now. So many parents end every conversation with their children by saying, “I love you.” I always thought that was overdone, even silly. Now I wish I had never let Tasha out of my presence without saying that to her each and every time.

When Barbara went back to the suite, Tasha’s condition appeared to be unchanged. Dr. Black was standing at the window of the sitting room, his back to her. He was using his cellular phone. Before Barbara could indicate her presence, she overheard him say, “I don’t approve, but if you insist, then I don’t have a choice, do I?” His voice was tight with anger-or was it fear?

I wonder who gives him orders, she thought.

51

On Wednesday morning, Fran had an appointment in Greenwich with Dr. Roy Kirkwood, who had been the primary care physician of Josephine Gallo, the mother of Tim Mason’s friend, whose death Fran had been asked to investigate. She was surprised to find the doctor’s reception room empty-not a usual situation for a physician these days, she thought.

The receptionist slid open the glass that separated her desk from the waiting area. “Miss Simmons,” she said without asking Fran’s name, “the doctor is expecting you.”

Roy Kirkwood looked to be in his early sixties. His thinning silver hair, silver eyebrows, steel-frame glasses, lined forehead, and kindly, intelligent eyes all made Fran immediately think that this man looked like a doctor. If I were here because I was sick, I’d have confidence in him, she decided.

On the other hand, it occurred to her as he politely indicated the seat opposite his desk, she was here because one of his patients was dead.

“It’s good of you to see me, Doctor,” she began.

“No, I would say that it is necessary for me to see you, Ms. Simmons,” he interrupted. “You may have noticed that my reception room is empty. Other than longtime patients, for whom I will care until I can transfer their records to other physicians, I am retired.”

“Has this anything to do with Billy Gallo’s mother?”

“It has everything to do with her, Ms. Simmons. Mind you, Mrs. Gallo might very easily have had a fatal heart attack in any circumstances. But with a quadruple bypass she also would have had a very good chance to live. Her cardiogram was within the normal range, but a cardiogram is not the only thing that can reveal that a patient is in trouble. I suspected she might be suffering from blocked arteries and wanted to do extensive testing of her. My request, however, was vetoed.”

“By whom?”

“By management-Remington Health Management, to be specific.”

“Did you protest the veto?”

“Ms. Simmons, I protested and continued to protest until there was no point. I protested that veto as I have many others in cases where my recommendations that my patients see specialists were denied.”

“Then Billy Gallo was right-his mother might have had a longer life. Is that what you’re saying?”

Roy Kirkwood looked both defeated and sad. “Ms. Simmons, after Mrs. Gallo had the coronary occlusion, I went to Peter Black and demanded that the necessary bypass surgery be done.”

“And what did Dr. Black say?”

“He consented, reluctantly, but then Mrs. Gallo died. We might have saved her if that surgery had been authorized earlier. Of course, to the HMO she was just a statistic, and her death is a plus for the Remington profit line, so you have to wonder if they really care.”

“You did your best, Doctor,” Fran said quietly.

“Best? I’m at the end of my career and can retire comfortably. But God have pity on the new doctors. Most of them start out deep in debt and have to pay back loans for their education. Believe it or not, $100,000 is an average amount they owe. Then they have to borrow to equip an office and set up a practice. The way it stands today, they either work directly for a health maintenance organization, or have ninety