No sign of Vicki Bottomley; the nurse on shift was a stranger. After completing my own notes, I reread Stephanie's, the neurologist's, and those of the consulting endocrinologist someone named Alan Macauley, with strong, large handwriting.
The neurologist had found no abnormality on two successive EEGs and deferred to Macauley, who reported no evidence of any metabolic disorder, though his lab tests were still being analyzed. As far as medical science could tell, Cassie's pancreas was structurally and biochemically normal. Macauley suggested further genetic tests and scans to rule out some sort of brain tumor, and recommended further 'intensive psychological consultation per Dr. Delaware.'
I'd never met the man and was surprised to be referred to by name.
Wanting to know what he meant by 'intensive,' I looked up his number in a hospital directory and called it.
'Macauley.'
'Dr. Macauley, this is Alex Delaware-the psychologist who's seeing Cassie Jones.'
'Lucky you. Been to see her recently?'
About a minute ago.'
'How's she doing?'
'Wiped out-post-seizural fatigue, I guess.'
'Probably.'
'Her mother said she didn't hold her dinner down.'
'Her mother, huh?... So, what can I do for you?'
'I read your notes-about psychological support. Wondered if you had any suggestions.'
Long pause.
'Where are you now?' he said.
'Chappy Ward nursing station.'
'Okay, listen, I've got Diabetes Clinic in about twenty minutes.
I can get there a little early-say in five. Why don't you catch me?
Three East.'
He waved when he saw me coming and I realized I'd seen him the day before at Ashmore's memorial. The husky, dark, bald man who'd talked about Texas and guns, a Smith & Wesson in every black bag.
Standing, he looked even bigger, with thick sloping shoulders and stevedore arms. He had on a white polo shirt over pressed jeans and western ostrich boots. His badge was pinned just above the jockey-and-horse logo. His stethoscope was in one hand. The other hand made aeronautic movements nosedives and fast climbs-as he talked to a gangly boy of around seventeen.
Fifteen minutes before clinic was scheduled to start and the Endocrinology waiting room was filling up. Nutritional posters hung on the walls. Children's books and battered magazines were stacked on the table, along with brochures and packets of artificial sweetener.
Macauley slapped the boy's back and I heard him say, 'You're doing great-keep it up. I know sticking yourself sucks the big hairy one, but depending on Mommy to stick you sucks even worse, doesn't it? So keep her the heck out of your life and go have some fun.'
'Yeah, right,' said the boy. He had a big chin and big nose. Big jug ears, each pierced with three gold wire loops. Well over six feet, but Macauley made him look small. His skin was oily-looking and sallow, spotted with pimples on cheeks and brow. His hair had been mowed in a
new-wave do with more levels and angles than an architect's wet dream.
'Party on,' he said glumly.
