“Damn!” Victor yelled as he slammed his open palm on the top of his desk. He stood up abruptly and stared out the window. He had a good view of the clock tower from his office. The hands had been frozen in the distant past at quarter past two.
“I should have known better!” Victor said to himself, pounding his right fist into his left palm with enough strength to make them both tingle. The Hobbs child’s death brought back all the concern Victor had had for VJ— concern he had finally put to rest. While Marsha fretted over the boy’s psychological state, Victor’s worries had more to do with the boy’s physical being. When VJ’s IQ dropped, then stabilized at what was still an exceptional level, Victor had felt terror. It had taken years for him to overcome his fear and relax. But the Hobbs boy’s sudden death raised his fears again. Victor was particularly concerned since the parallels between VJ and the Hobbs boy did not stop with their conception. Victor understood that, like VJ, the Hobbs boy was something of a child prodigy. Victor had been keeping surreptitious tabs on the child’s progress. He was curious to see if the boy would suffer as precipitous a drop in IQ as VJ
had. But now, Victor only wanted to learn the circumstances of the child’s tragic death.
Victor went to his computer terminal and cleared the screen. He called up his personal file on Baby Hobbs. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, he just thought that if he scanned the data, some explanation for the child’s death might occur to him. The screen stayed dark past the usual access time. Confused, Victor hit the Execute button again. Answering him, the word SEARCHING blinked in the screen’s lower-right-hand corner. Then, to Victor’s surprise, the computer told him there was no such file.
“What the devil?” Victor said. Thinking he might have made an entry error, Victor tried again, typing BABY- HOBBS very deliberately. He pressed Execute and after a pause during which the computer searched all its storage banks, he got the exact same response: NO FILE FOUND.
Victor turned off the computer, wondering what could have happened to the information. It was true that he hadn’t accessed it for some time, but that shouldn’t have made a difference. Drumming his fingers on the desk in front of the keyboard, Victor thought for a moment, then accessed the computer again. This time he typed in the words BABY- MURRAY.
There was the same pause as with the Hobbs file and ultimately the same response appeared: NO FILE FOUND.
The door to the office opened and Victor twisted around.
Colleen was standing in the doorway. “This is not a day for fathers,” she said, gripping the edge of the door. “You have a phone call from a Mr. Murray from accounting. Apparently his baby isn’t doing well either and he’s crying too.”
“I don’t believe it,” Victor blurted. The timing was so coincidental.
“Trust me,” Colleen said. “Line two.”
Dazed, Victor turned to his phone. The light was blinking insistently, each flash causing a ringing sensation in Victor’s head. This couldn’t be happening, not after everything had gone so well for so long. He had to force himself to pick up the receiver.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Murray managed, “but you’ve been so understanding when we were trying to get a baby. I thought you’d want to know. We brought Mark to the Children’s Hospital and he is dying. The doctors tell me there is nothing they can do.”
“What happened?” Victor asked, barely able to speak.
“Nobody seems to know,” Horace said. “It started with a headache.”
“He didn’t hit his head or anything?” Victor questioned.
“Not that we know of,” Horace said.
“Would you mind if I came over?” Victor asked.
A half hour later, Victor was parking his car in the garage opposite the hospital. He went inside and stopped at the information desk. The receptionist told him Mark Murray was in the surgical intensive-care unit, and gave him directions to the waiting room. Victor found Horace and Colette distraught with worry and lack of sleep. Horace got to his feet when he saw Victor.
“Any change?” Victor asked hopefully.
Horace shook his head. “He’s on a respirator now.”
Victor conveyed his condolences as best he could. The Murrays seemed touched that Victor had taken the time to come to the hospital, especially since they never socialized.
“He was such a special child,” Horace said. “So exceptional, so intelligent . . .” He shook his head. Colette hid her face in her hands. Her shoulders began to quiver.
Horace sat back down and put an arm around his wife.
“What’s the name of the doctor taking care of Mark?”
Victor asked.
“Nakano,” Horace answered. “Dr. Nakano.”
Victor excused himself, left his coat with the Murrays, and departed the waiting room with its anxious parents. He walked toward Pediatric Surgical Intensive Care, which was at the end of the corridor, behind a pair of electronic doors.
As Victor stepped on the rubberized area in front of the doors, they automatically opened.
The room inside was familiar to Victor from his days as a resident. There was the usual profusion of electronic gear and scurrying nurses. The constant hiss of the respirators and bleeps of the cardiac monitors gave the room an aura of tension. Life here was in the balance.
Since Victor acted at ease in the environment, no one questioned his presence, despite the fact that he was not wearing an ID. Victor went to the desk and asked if Dr.
Nakano was available.
“He was just here,” a pert young woman replied. She half stood and leaned over the counter to see if she could spot him. Then she sat down and picked up the phone. A moment later the page system added Dr. Nakano’s name to the incessant list that issued from speakers in the ceiling.
Walking about the room, Victor tried to locate Mark, but too many of the kids were on respirators that distorted their faces. He returned to the desk just as the ward clerk was hanging up the phone. Seeing Victor, she told him that Dr.
Nakano was on his way back to the unit.
Five minutes later, Victor was introduced to the handsome, deeply tanned Japanese-American. Victor explained that he was a physician and friend of the Murray family, and that he hoped to get some idea of what was happening to Mark.
“It’s not good,” Dr. Nakano said candidly. “The child is dying. It’s not often we can say that, but in this case the problem is unresponsive to any treatment.”
“Do you have any idea of what’s going on?” Victor asked.
“We know what’s happening,” Dr. Nakano said, “what we don’t know is what’s causing it. Come on, I’ll show you.”
With the hurried step of a busy doctor, Dr. Nakano took off toward the rear of the ICU. He stopped outside a cubicle separated from the main portion of the ICU.
“The child’s on precautions,” Dr. Nakano explained.
“There’s been no evidence of infection, but we thought just in case . . .” He handed Victor a gown, hat, and mask. Both men donned the protective gear and entered the small room.
Mark Murray was in the center of a large crib with high side rails. His head was swathed in a gauze bandage. Dr.
Nakano explained that they’d tried a decompression and a shunt, hoping that might help, but it hadn’t.
“Take a look,” Dr. Nakano said, handing Victor an ophthalmoscope. Leaning over the stricken two-year-old, Victor lifted Mark’s eyelid and peered through the dilated, fixed pupil. Despite his inexperience with the instrument, he saw the pathology immediately. The optic nerve was bulging forward as if being pushed from behind.
Victor straightened up.
“Pretty impressive, no?” Dr. Nakano said. He took the scope from Victor and peered himself. He was quiet for a moment, then straightened up. “The disappointing thing is that it is getting progressively worse. The kid’s brain is
