The only woman in the crowded room was Molly, who shared bartending duties with Pete. Before Sean could even say anything a brimming mug of ale slid along the bar toward him. A hand grasped his shoulder as a cheer spread through the crowd. The Bruins had scored a goal.
Sean sighed contentedly. It was as if he were at home. He had the same comfortable feeling he’d get whenever he was particularly exhausted and settled into a soft bed.
As usual, Jimmy and Brady drifted over and began to brag about a little job they’d done in Marblehead the previous weekend. That led to humorous recollections of when Sean had been “one of the guys.”
“We always knew you were smart the way you could figure out alarms,” Brady said. “But we never guessed you’d go to Harvard. How could you stand all those jerks.”
It was a statement, not a question, and Sean let it pass, but the comment made him realize how much he’d changed. He still enjoyed Old Scully’s Bar, but more as an observer. It was an uncomfortable acknowledgment because he didn’t truly feel part of the Harvard medical world either. He felt rather like a social orphan.
A few hours later when Sean had had a few drafts, and he was feeling more mellow and less an outcast, he joined in the raucous decisionmaking involving a trip up to Revere to one of the strip joints near the waterfront. Just at the moment the debate was reaching a frenzied climax, the entire bar went dead silent. One by one heads turned toward the front door. Something extraordinary had happened, and everyone was shocked. A woman had breached their all-male bastion. And it wasn’t an ordinary woman, like some overweight, gum-chewing girl in the laundromat. It was a slim, gorgeous woman who obviously wasn’t from Charlestown.
Her long blond hair glistened with diamonds of moisture, and it contrasted dramatically with the rich deep mahogany of her mink jacket. Her eyes were almond shaped and pert as they audaciously scanned the room, leaping from one stunned face to another. Her mouth was set in determination. Her high cheekbones glowed with color. She appeared like a collective hallucination of some fantasy female.
A few of the guys shifted nervously, guessing that she was someone’s girlfriend. She was too beautiful to be anyone’s wife.
Sean was one of the last faces to turn. And when he did, his mouth dropped open. It was Janet!
Janet spotted him about the same time he saw her. She walked directly up to him and pushed in beside him at the bar. Brady moved away, making an exaggerated gesture of terror as if Janet were a fearful creature.
“I’d like a beer, please,” she said.
Without answering, Molly filled a chilled mug and placed it in front of Janet.
The room remained silent except for the television.
Janet took a sip and turned to look at Sean. Since she was wearing pumps she was just about eye level. “I want to talk with you,” she said.
Sean hadn’t felt this embarrassed since he’d been caught with his pants off at age sixteen with Kelly Parnell in the back of her family’s car.
Putting his beer down, Sean grasped Janet by her upper arm, just above the elbow, and marched her out the door. When they got out on the sidewalk Sean had recovered enough to be angry. He was also a little tipsy.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Sean allowed his eyes to sweep around the neighborhood. “I don’t believe this. You know you weren’t supposed to come here.”
“I knew nothing of the kind,” Janet said. “I knew I wasn’t invited, if that’s what you mean. But I didn’t think my coming constituted a capital offense. It’s important I talk with you, and with you leaving on Sunday, I think it’s more important than drinking with these so-called friends of yours.”
“And who is making that value judgment?” Sean demanded. “I’m the one who decides what is important to me, not you, and I resent this intrusion.”
“I need to talk to you about Miami,” Janet said. “It’s your fault you’ve waited until the last minute to tell me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sean said. “I’m going and that’s final. Not you, not my mother, and not my brother are going to stop me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go back in and see what I can salvage of my self- respect.”
“But this can impact the rest of our lives,” Janet said. Tears began to mix with the rain running down her cheeks. She’d taken an emotional risk coming to Charlestown, and the idea of rejection was devastating.
“I’ll talk with you tomorrow,” Sean said. “Good night, Janet.”
TED SHARENBURG was nervous, waiting for the doctors to tell him what was wrong with his daughter. His wife had gotten in touch with him in New Orleans where he’d been on business, and he had gotten the company Gulfstream jet to fly him directly back to Houston. As the CEO of an oil company that had made major contributions to the Houston hospitals, Ted Sharenburg was afforded special treatment. At that moment his daughter was inside the huge, multimillion-dollar MRI machine having an emergency brain scan.
“We don’t know much yet,” Dr. Judy Buckley said. “These initial images are very superficial cuts.” Judy Buckley was the chief of neuroradiology and had been happy to come into the hospital at the director’s request. Also in attendance were Dr. Vance Martinez, the Sharenburgs’ internist, and Dr. Stanton Rainey, chief of neurology. It was a prominent group of experts to be assembled at any hour, much less at one o’clock in the morning.
Ted paced the tiny control room. He couldn’t sit still. The story he’d been told about his daughter had been devastating.
“She experienced an acute paranoid psychosis,” Dr. Martinez had explained. “Symptoms like that can occur, especially with some sort of involvement of the temporal lobe.”
Ted reached the end of the room for the fiftieth time and turned. He looked through the glass at the giant MRI machine. He could just barely see his daughter. It was as if she were being swallowed by a technological whale. He hated being so helpless. All he could do was watch, and hope. He’d felt almost as vulnerable when she’d had her tonsils out a few months earlier.
“We’ve got something,” Dr. Buckley said.
Ted hurried over to the CRT screen.
“There’s a hyperintense circumscribed area in the right temporal lobe,” she said.
“What does it mean?” Ted demanded.
The doctors exchanged glances. It was not customary for the relative of a patient to be in the room during such a study.
“It’s probably a mass lesion,” Dr. Buckley said.
“Can you put that in lay terms?” Ted asked, trying to keep his voice even.
“She means a brain tumor,” Dr. Martinez said. “But we know very little at this point, and we should not jump to conclusions. The lesion might have been there for years.”
Ted swayed. His worst fears were materializing. Why couldn’t he be in that machine and not his daughter?
“Uh oh!” Dr. Buckley said, forgetting the effect such an exclamation would have on Ted. “Here’s another lesion.”
The doctors clustered around the screen, transfixed by the vertically unfolding images. For a few moments they forgot about Ted.
“You know it reminds me of the case I told you about in Boston,” said Dr. Rainey. “A young woman in her twenties with multiple intracranial tumors and negative metastatic workup. She was proved to have medulloblastoma.”
“I thought medulloblastoma occurs in the posterior fossa,” Dr. Martinez said.
“It usually does,” Dr. Rainey said. “It also usually occurs in younger kids. But twenty percent or so of the incidents are in patients over twenty, and it’s occasionally found in regions of the brain besides the cerebellum. Actually, it would be wonderful if it turns out to be medulloblastoma in this case.”
“Why?” Dr. Buckley asked. She was aware of the high mortality of the cancer.
“Because a group down in Miami has had remarkable success in getting remissions with that particular tumor.”
“What’s their name?” Ted demanded, clutching onto the first hopeful news he’d heard.
“The Forbes Cancer Center,” Dr. Rainey said. “They haven’t published yet but word of that kind of a result
