The Proteus Cure Read online

  “You were a match so you—”

  “What makes me so special? We’ve all got the Big C.”

  “Seven-twenty-three isn’t for everyone, Sean. You know that. It’s got to be individually matched.”

  “The therapy uses stem cells, right? Can’t they become anything, fix anyone?”

  She’d wondered the same thing, many times. Why did some patients not qualify? VecGen, the company producing VG723, was secretive about the selection process—probably with good proprietary reasons. But she couldn’t argue with their great results.

  Males, females, blacks, whites, rich, poor, Tethys had no criteria for admission beyond the fact that the patient be eighteen or older and that all other therapies had failed. No pattern she could see to those who didn’t qualify, but it appeared as if younger patients got the nod most often. She hadn’t done a statistical analysis, but it seemed more people in their twenties wound up with VG723 than all other age groups combined.

  Beyond the standard screening tests, VG also required current photos of each patient. A photographer shot full body views and face shots from every angle.

  The heartbreak came when patients she thought would succeed didn’t qualify. Like that young pre-law from Harvard. She was smart as a whip, with rich parents who begged for the VG723. God, her father was a state representative. You’d think he’d have some pull. But no match. Sweet girl. Albino. Sheila had had to watch her grow even paler as the cancer took her away. So damn frustrating, but it was out of her hands. Sheila had no say, no control. VG723 had to be tailored to the patient and the malignancy. If they couldn’t make a match, it wouldn’t work.

  Informing the rejects usually fell to her. How she dreaded those days.

  “Sean.” Paul leaned over and touched the young man’s foot. “Listen, when my son Coogan had leukemia, when he was in a bed like this one, he saw some of his roommates die. Good friends who didn’t all come through. No, it’s not fair. It sucks. But a lot are saved. That’s what counts. Yes, I feel terrible for the others, but at the end of the day… well…” His voice caught. “I was able to take my son home and I thank God every day for that. You’ve got to be thankful too.”

  Sheila touched Paul’s arm. He’d said what she felt.

  “It’s true, Sean. Seven-twenty-three can’t save everyone, but it can save so many who’d die without it. I want you to be happy.”

  Sean wiped his eyes. “I am happy. I’m freakin’ stoked. But I feel wicked guilty, okay? Katie died last week. I wanted her to get the treatment. She could have been saved.”

  Sheila shook her head. “Not by seven-twenty-three, Sean. They couldn’t make a match. Forget the guilt, okay? You didn’t take seven-twenty-three from Katie or anyone else. It simply wouldn’t have helped her. But it will help you. Smile, now, okay? You’re going to live.”

  Sean sobered. “Well, there’s no guarantee.”

  Sheila and Paul exchanged glances.

  “You’re right,” she said. “No promises, but seven-twenty-three has a great track record. No reason we can’t add you to our successes.”

  A smile crept onto Sean’s face. “I’ve got a chance,” he whispered. Then louder. “I’ve got a freakin chance! Do my parents know yet?”

  “No, you’re the first.”

  “I’ve gotta call them.” He was beaming now as he turned to Paul. “Well, Prof, looks like Classics 101 is canceled for tonight. Got about a hundred calls to make.”

  Sheila placed the phone on his bed and patted his hand.

  “Congratulations, Sean. Come on, Paul. ”

  As soon as they reached the hallway, Paul threw an arm across her shoulders.

  “You folks are amazing. What you do here at Tethys—”

  Sheila softened at his touch. Feeling his muscular arm around her reminded her how long it had been since a man had held her. She breathed his scent, Irish Spring, just like Dek used to wear.

  Paul released her. “… don’t you think?”

  Sheila stared at him. What had he said? Her mind had wandered off. He brought back feelings … she’d felt a connection.

  God, what a high school thing to think.

  “What?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  “Don’t you think it’s just matter of time before Tethys wins the Nobel? They’ve pretty much wrapped up a cure for cancer. If that doesn’t warrant a trip to Sweden, I don’t know what does.”

  “It’s not us. It’s VecGen’s development. We just administer it.”

  “So modest.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking… Want to go to lunch? To uh, to celebrate about Sean?”

  Sheila looked at her watch. “I can’t. I’ve got back-to-back patients till late today.”

  “I can hang around. Afternoon coffee?”

  Sheila took a mental step back. Was he hitting on her? She’d never thought of him that way. Rarely thought of anyone that way. After Dek, work had become her life. But she liked Paul. Had liked him for a long time from the little she knew of him. Looked forward to seeing his smile every week.

  “I don’t mind waiting,” Paul said. “I can bother some more patients. I’m sure someone wants to hear about Dickens.” He grinned and shrugged. “Or not.”

  She was tempted. It was just coffee, not a marriage proposal.

  “All right. I’d like that.”

  “Me too.”

  He held her gaze and Sheila didn’t seem able to say anything else or move from the spot. But it was a good immobility. A surge of long-forgotten excitement rushed through her.

  ”Okay then,” he said.

  She broke eye contact and noticed that her heart rate had kicked up. “Three o’clock? We’ll meet by the river in the parking lot. Coog wants to practice some skateboard moves. We can watch.”

  “Okay, see you then,” she said.

  “Looking forward to it.”

  He turned and walked down the hall. She stood for a minute, enjoying the feeling of being interested in something other than work.

  Work! She needed to call a patient.

  The chart was back in her office, so she put on her leather coat and gloves, and then headed outside.

  Early December and unseasonably warm. By now they should have been buried in snow but the predicted high today was forty-five. She knew it was only a matter of time before they’d be into the single-digits of winter.

  There’s New England for you.

  The clang and clatter of heavy machinery echoed through the air from the construction site of the new wing. She couldn’t wait for it to be finished. No matter how much refurbishing they underwent, these old buildings were still so, well, old.

  She kicked at the brown leaves as they blew into her path. A crisp morning. Tethys and its surrounding town of Bradfield sat amid rolling hills. Down the slope to her right the Copper River glistened, winding past the campus, down through the center of their little village, and on into the woods.

  A month ago an Autumn-in-New England postcard. Today the trees stood bare and the massive surrounding hills blocked the sun. The grass had gone into hibernation. A clear sky today, but soon the snow would come and she’d be hurrying through a Winter-in-New England postcard.

  All the buildings at Tethys Medical Center looked the same: majestic, old, solid structures with granite block walls nearly black with age. Stately but intimidating.

  All this used to be Bradfield College, a medical school built in 1890. It went under in the eighties and sat empty until Tethys Medical Center stepped in about a dozen years ago and bought it. After major renovations the Admin building kept its purpose, the men’s dorm became the Tethys Cancer Center, the women’s dorm the Tethys Birthing Center, a fertility clinic, the classroom building the lab. The smaller dormitories and faculty housing became homes for the employees.

  Sheila had bought the gardener’s home upriver. An awful nice house for a gardener: two stories, three bedrooms, roof patio … and for a third of what she would have paid if she’d bought off campus in overpriced B
radfield.

  Bill, her boss, friend, and one of the founders, lived in the former Dean’s house, a mansion overlooking the river.

  Must be nice, Sheila thought. Jesus, just look at that house.

  Even from this far, she could see Elise Gilchrist’s shiny new Porsche pull into the driveway. She stiffened as the chic brunette got out of the car, arms loaded with shopping bags.

  Sheila shook her head. No, I’m not jealous.

  She turned away from the Gilchrist mansion and trudged on.

  Sheila liked living in Bradfield. She’d grown up in Massachusetts, was used to the weather, wouldn’t dream of leaving. This was a great town for shopping—ten miles from tax-free New Hampshire, forty miles to Boston, and only an hour to the outlet stores in Freeport, Maine. People needed access to L.L. Bean’s winter gear if they lived around here.

  A gust blew some leaves into her face. Nice. The wind puffed again but she stepped into the Admin building ahead of the leaves.

  She trotted up to her third-floor office, turned on the overhead light, flung her coat on the guest chair, and sat in her rolling black leather ergonomic. She’d decorated it as an extension of her house: White walls with the same tan curtains she’d bought for her home office.

  A picture of Dek holding a model train engine smiled at her from a brass frame. She sniffed apple pie and remembered the gel candle on the side table. A comforting smell, unlike the “Summer Rain” one she’d bought a few months ago that smelled like Windex.

  She grabbed Kelly Slade’s chart from her desktop. Records had dropped it off because Kelly had missed her appointment today. That wasn’t like her. Last week the poor woman had been virtually devastated by some truly odd symptoms. Sheila had taken pictures, ordered labs, and scheduled a follow-up for today.

  She’d been a Tethys patient, another VG723 success story. For two years, no contact, then last week, presenting with those disturbing changes in her skin and hair. Sheila hadn’t known what to think.

  Odd she didn’t make it in today.

  Sheila dialed the home number from the chart. After a few rings, she got an answering machine and hung up. She couldn’t find a cell number so she turned on her computer.

  While she waited for it to boot up she tapped on the desk’s glass top and looked around. Framed degrees and academic awards dotted the walls. Papers covered the desk. Despite her efforts, the place still didn’t feel homey. Not enough color. She frowned. Have to work on that.

  She reached across the desk and retrieved the clay pencil cup a patient’s child had made her as a thank-you for saving her dad. She pushed back the papers and set it before her. In purple crayon it read, Thank you, Dr. Sheila.

  It should have read Thank you, VG723.

  For the thousandth time she wondered why 723 wasn’t used on children.

  Well, at least it cured their parents.

  When her screen came to life she keyed in Kelly’s name. Gray letters popped onto the screen: “File closed—Deceased.”

  Her fingers jumped off the keys. The date was two days ago. How could that be?

  She put her index finger to her lips where her teeth started to tug at a nail, but she caught herself.

  Bad habit.

  She felt a pang as she stared at the screen.

  Poor Kelly. She’d overcome so much, and now … gone. Doctors were supposed to be inured to death, but she sure wasn’t. Not yet anyway.

  No cause of death mentioned but Sheila guessed it must have been some kind of accident.

  She’d presented with a fascinating syndrome. Well, fascinating to Sheila, maddening to Kelly. The distraught woman had cried for answers and Sheila hadn’t had any.

  She had to investigate Kelly further. She’d talk to Bill about it at lunch. Get his take.

  She put on her coat on and headed back to the hospital.

  TANESHA

  Tanesha Green slipped off the edge of the examining table in her oversized napkin cape and stepped to the small mirror on the wall.

  Lordy, how she hated looking at herself these days. Her hair, skin … downright scary, not to mention embarrassing what with all her friends and relations staring at her like she done it on purpose. And no matter how many times she told them it weren’t none of her doing, absolutely none, she could tell by their eyes that they thought she was fronting, like she was trying to become some sort of Afro-Saxon.

  Her hair … used to be so black. Black as an eight ball—and just as shiny when she fixed it up. Okay, maybe not perfect black. A touch of gray had been creeping in—after all, she was pushing forty. But now … mousy brown and straight as corn flax. Where’d that come from?

  And her skin? Her lifelong shade of fresh-brewed Jamaican coffee had upped and gone. Now it was … she didn’t know what to call it. Weak tea with four of those little creamer things thrown in. Yeah, that came close.

  And it was getting worse.

  Even her little Jamal was starting with the funny looks.

  Something damn well had to be done. Which was why she come here again, dammit. She hated this city hospital.

  Nothing here like the fancy rooms over at Tethys, but this was a lot closer. And Tethys just did cancer. This wasn’t cancer. She heard a sound on the other side of the door and bustled back to the paper-covered table. But with short legs and too much belly, not easy getting herself seated again.

  Damn, girl, but you’re packing on the pounds.

  Hell, it was all this worry. Once she got her condition fixed, she could start on a diet. Now she was just too nervous. And when she got too nervous she just ate. And ate.

  Tanesha was smoothing the front of the paper cape when the door opened.

  A man in a white coat stepped inside, carrying a manila folder. Tanesha had never seen him before.

  “Hey, you’re not Doctor Gleason.”

  The man smiled—not a happy smile, not by a long shot. Hardly a smile at all.

  “Hey, I’m quite well aware of that.”

  This hatchet-faced stranger was older than Dr. Gleason by at least ten years—looked mid fifties—with graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and pale skin. Had that air of honkey superiority that riled Tanesha every time she faced it.

  “Well then, where’s Doctor Gleason? He’s the one I usually see.”

  She knew you didn’t always get the same doctor here at the public clinic, but she liked Gleason. Folks said the Penner Brigham had the best clinic in Boston, and only a short hop on the T from her place. Kind of like a lottery with which doctor you got, but if they worked here they must be good.

  “Doctor Gleason is a bit under the weather, so I’m covering for him. If you wish to cancel today and make another appointment, no problem. You can stop at the desk on your way out and I’m sure they’ll be happy to accommodate you.”

  Tanesha thought about that. She’d taken an instant dislike to this Wonder Bread with a stethoscope, but appointments here took time to get. And to tell the truth, Doc Gleason hadn’t been much help. Some tests and such, but everything kept coming back normal. This one wasn’t so friendly, but maybe he was smarter.

  Tanesha gave a mental shrug: What she have to lose?

  She sighed. “No, I guess you’ll do.”

  “A ringing endorsement if I ever heard one.”

  Without another look at her he seated himself at the little desk built into the wall and opened her chart. Doc Gleason always shook her hand and acted like he was glad to see her. This cracker looked like he could care less.

  “Ain’t you gonna tell me your name?”

  Without looking up he said, “Kaplan. Doctor Gerald Kaplan. And you, I see, are Tanesha Green.” Finally he looked at her. “What can I do for you, Tanesha Green?”

  She snorted. “Something more than Doc Gleason, I hope.”

  “That is certainly a possibility. But I’ll need a little more input than ‘Something more than Doc Gleason.’ Could we be a little more specific?”

  Lord, this was one cold-ass bastard.

>   She pointed to her head. “Lookit my hair. It didn’t used to be like this. I used to have a full-frizz Afro. Now I gots this … this light brown thatch. But as if that ain’t enough, my skin’s going white. I been going around in circles with Doc Gleason and—”

  “It’s obviously some odd variant of vitiligo.”

  This guy sounded bored to death. Didn’t even bother to get up.

  Tanesha pointed to him. “That’s what Doc Gleason said at first. Viti … viti—”

  “Vitiligo. It’s an autoimmune condition that causes loss of skin pigment.” He frowned as he eyed her exposed arms. “But it’s usually patchy. Yours appears to be unusually uniform and pervasive.”

  “It’s all over the place too. And it ain’t that viti-thing.”

  She saw the doctor cock his head, saw his eyebrows jump toward his hairline.

  “Oh? And you received your medical degree from …?”

  He was steaming her, really getting her blood up. She had a mind to haul off and whack him good upside the head.

  “Ain’t got no medical degree, but I know I ain’t got viti-whatever. First thing Doc Gleason did was send me to a skin guy. He couldn’t figure it out neither, but he said it wasn’t no viti-thing.”

  “Did he take a biopsy?”

  “Supposed to but it got put off.”

  Kaplan frowned. “Too bad. I would have liked to have seen the result.”

  Yeah, he sounded real interested—about as interested as she was in watching Seinfeld reruns.

  She grabbed her shoulder bag from behind her, fished out her driver's license, and held it out to Kaplan.

  “Here. Looky this.”

  Kaplan didn’t bother to stand, just rolled his chair toward her, took the card, and rolled back to the desk. He looked at the photo on the license, then back to her.

  “You’re right. A startling change.”

  “I been living with this skin for thirty-nine years. I know when something ain’t right.”

  He kept shaking his head as he looked at the card, then at her, then at the card again.