Cassi always experienced a degree of apprehension when she dipped the test tape into her urine. There was always the chance that the color of the tape would change and indicate she was losing sugar. Not that a little sugar in her urine was all that big a deal, especially if it occurred only once in a while. It was more an emotional thing; if she was spilling sugar, then she was not in control. It was the psychological aspect that was disturbing.
The light in the toilet was poor, forcing Cassi to unlatch the stall door in order to get a good look at the tape. It had not changed its color. Having gotten so little sleep the night before and having cheated that afternoon with a fruit yogurt snack, she wouldn’t have been too surprised to see a little sugar. Cassi was pleased that the amount of insulin she was giving herself and her diet were in balance. Her internist, Dr. Malcolm McInery, talked occasionally of switching her to a constant insulin-infusion device, but Cassi had demurred. She was reluctant to alter a system that seemed to be working. She did not mind giving herself two injections a day, one before breakfast and one before dinner. It had become so routine as to be effortless.
Closing her right eye, Cassi looked at the test tape. There was just a vague sensation of light as if she were looking through a wall of ground glass. She wished that she didn’t have the problem with her eye because the idea of blindness terrified her more, in some ways, than the idea of death. The possibility of death she could deny, just like everyone else. But denying the possibility of blindness was difficult with the condition of her left eye there to remind her each and every day. The problem had happened suddenly. She’d been told that a blood vessel had broken, causing blood to enter into the vitreous cavity.
As she washed her hands, Cassi examined herself in the mirror. The single overhead light was kind, she decided, giving her skin more color than she knew it possessed. She looked at her nose. It was too small for her face. And her eyes: they curved unnaturally upwards at the outer corners as if she had her hair pulled back too tightly. Cassi tried to look at herself without concentrating on any single feature. Was she really as attractive as people said? She’d never felt pretty. She had always thought that diabetes was indelibly stamped in bold letters across her forehead. She was convinced that her disease was a major flaw that everyone could see.
It hadn’t always been that way. In high school Cassi had tried to reduce it to a small aspect of her life. Something she could compartmentalize. And although she was conscientious about her medicine and diet, she did not want to dwell on it.
Yet this approach made her parents, mostly her mother, understandably concerned. They felt that the only way she would be able to maintain the discipline the disease required was to make it her major focus. At least that was the way Mrs. Cassidy had dealt with the problem.
The conflict came to a head at the time of the senior prom.
Cassi came home from school beside herself with excitement and anticipation. The prom was to be held in a fashionable local country club, followed by a breakfast back at the school. Then the entire class was to head down to the New Jersey shore for the rest of the weekend.
Unexpectedly Cassi had been asked to the prom by Tim Bartholomew, one of the more popular boys in the school. He’d talked with Cassi on a number of occasions following a physics class they shared. But he’d never asked Cassi out, so the invitation came as a total surprise. The thrill of going out with a desirable boy to the biggest social event of the year was almost too much for Cassi to bear.
Cassi’s father was the first to hear the good news. As a rather dry professor of geology at Columbia University, he didn’t share the same enthusiasm as Cassi but was pleased she was happy.
Cassi’s mother was less enthusiastic. Coming in from the kitchen, she told Cassi that she could go to the prom but had to come home instead of going to the breakfast.
“They don’t cook for diabetics at such affairs,” said Mrs. Cassidy, “and as far as going to the shore for the weekend, that is completely out of the question.”
Not expecting this negative response, Cassi was ill-prepared to deal with it. She protested through tears that she’d demonstrated adequate responsibility toward her medicine and diet and that she should be allowed to go.
Mrs. Cassidy was adamant, telling Cassi that she was only thinking of her welfare. Then she said that Cassi had to accept the fact that she was not normal.
Cassi screamed that she was normal, having emotionally struggled with that very issue for her entire adolescence.
Mrs. Cassidy grasped Cassi’s shoulders and told her daughter that she had a chronic, life-long disease and that the sooner she accepted the fact the better off she’d be.
Cassandra flew to her room, locking her door. She refused to talk with anyone until the next day. When she did, she informed her mother that she’d called Tim and told him that she couldn’t go to the prom because she was ill. She told her mother that Tim had been surprised because he’d not known she had diabetes.
Staring at her reflection in the hospital mirror, Cassi brought herself back to the present. She wondered to what degree she had overcome her disease intellectually. Oh, she knew a lot about it now and could quote all sorts of facts and figures. But had that knowledge been worth the sacrifices? She didn’t know the answer to that question and probably never would. Her eyes strayed up to her hair, which was a mess.
After taking out her combs and hairpins, Cassi gave her head a shake. Her fine hair tumbled down around her face in a disorganized mop. With practiced hands she carefully put it back up, and when she emerged from the bathroom she felt refreshed.
The few things she’d brought with her for the overnight in the hospital fitted easily into her canvas shoulder bag despite the fact that it already contained a large folder of reprinted medical articles. She’d had the bag since college, and although it was soiled and threadbare in places, it was an old friend. It had a large red heart on one side. Cassi had been given a briefcase on graduation from medical school, but she preferred the canvas bag. The briefcase seemed too pretentious. Besides, she could get more into the bag.
Cassi checked her watch. It was five-thirty, which was just about perfect timing. She knew that Thomas would be heading down the stretch, seeing his last office patients. As Cassi hefted her things, she remarked to herself that the regular schedule was another benefit of psychiatry. As a medical intern or pathology resident, she was never finished much before six-thirty or seven, and at times worked to eight or eight-thirty. On psychiatry she could count on being free after the four to five afternoon team meeting, provided she wasn’t on call.
Stepping into the corridor, Cassi was initially surprised to find it empty. Then she remembered that it was dinner-time for the patients, and as she passed the common room, she could see most of the patients eating from their trays in front of their TV sets. Cassi ducked into her cubbyhole office and collected the charts she’d been extracting. She only had four patients, including Colonel Bentworth, and she’d spent a portion of the afternoon carefully going over their charts and making three-by-five index cards on each case.
With the canvas bag over her shoulder and the charts in her arms, Cassi went down to the nurses’ station. Joel Hartman, who was on call that night, was sitting in the station, talking to the two nurses. Cassi deposited the charts in their respective slots and said good night. Joel told her to have a good weekend and to relax because he’d have her patients cured by Monday. He said he knew just how to handle Bentworth because he had been in ROTC in college.
As she walked down to the first floor, Cassi could feel herself beginning to relax. Her first week on psychiatry had been a trying and difficult period, one that she would not like to relive.
Cassi took the interior pedestrian crosswalk to the Professional Building. Thomas’s office was on the third floor. She paused outside the polished oak door, gazing at the shining brass letters: THOMAS KINGSLEY, M.D., CARDIAC AND THORACIC SURGERY, and felt a thrill of pride.
The waiting room was tastefully decorated with Chippendale reproductions and a large Tabriz rug. The walls were powder blue and hung with original art. The door leading to the inner office was guarded by a mahogany desk occupied by Doris Stratford, Thomas’s nurse-receptionist. As Cassi entered, Doris looked up briefly, then went back to her typing when she recognized who it was.
Cassi approached the desk.
“How’s Thomas doing?”
“Just fine,” said Doris, her eyes on her paper.
Doris never looked Cassandra in the eye. But over the years Cassi had become accustomed to the fact that her illness made some people uncomfortable. Doris was obviously one of them.
“Would you let him know I’m here?” said Cassi.
Cassi got a fleeting glimpse of Doris’s brown eyes. There was an aura of petulance about her expression. Not enough for Cassi to complain about but enough to let her know that Doris did not appreciate the interruption. She didn’t answer Cassi but rather depressed the button on an intercom unit and announced that Dr. Cassidy had arrived. She went directly back to her typing.
Refusing to allow Doris to irritate her, Cassi settled herself on the rose-colored couch and pulled out the articles she wanted on borderline personality. She started to read but found herself looking over the top of the paper at Doris.
Cassi wondered why Thomas kept Doris. Granted she was efficient, but she seemed moody and irritable, hardly the qualities one would like in a physician’s office. She was presentable although not overly attractive. She had a broad face with large features and mousy brown hair pulled back in a bun. She did have a good figure; Cassi had to admit that.
Letting her eyes drop back to her paper, Cassi forced herself to concentrate.
Thomas looked across the polished surface of his desk at his last patient of the day, a fifty-two-year-old lawyer named Herbert Lowell. Thomas’s office was decorated like his waiting room, except the walls were a forest green. The other difference was that the furniture was authentic Chippendale. The desk alone was worth a small fortune.
Thomas had examined Mr. Lowell on several occasions and had reviewed the coronary arteriograms done by Mr. Lowell’s cardiologist, Dr. Whiting. To Thomas the situation was clear. Mr. Lowell had anginal chest pain, a history of a mild heart attack, and radiographic evidence of compromised arterial circulation. The man needed an operation, and Thomas had told Mr. Lowell as much. Now Thomas wanted to terminate the visit.
“It’s such an irreversible decision,” Mr. Lowell was saying nervously.
“But still a decision that must be made,” said Thomas, standing up and closing Mr. Lowell’s folder. “Unfortunately I’m on a tight schedule. If you have any further questions you can call.” Thomas started for the door like a clever salesman indicating the issue was beyond further negotiation.
“What about the advisability of a second opinion?” asked Mr. Lowell hesitantly.
“Mr. Lowell,” said Thomas, “you can get as many opinions as you’d like. I will be sending a full consult letter back to Dr. Whiting, and you can discuss the case with him.” Thomas opened the door leading to the waiting room. “In fact, Mr. Lowell, I would encourage you to see another surgeon because, frankly, I do not feel good about working with people with negative attitudes. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Thomas closed the door behind Mr. Lowell, confident the man would schedule the required operation. Sitting down, he gathered the material he needed for his Grand Rounds presentation the following morning, and then started signing the consultation letters Doris had left for him.
When Thomas emerged with the signed correspondence, he was not surprised to find Mr. Lowell in the waiting room. Thomas glanced at Cassi, acknowledging her with a brief nod, then turned to his patient.
“Dr. Kingsley, I’ve decided to go ahead with the operation.”
“Very well,” said Thomas. “Give Miss Stratford a call next week, and she’ll set it up.”
Mr. Lowell thanked Thomas and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Holding her reports in front of her as if she were reading, Cassi watched her husband going over some notes with Doris. She’d noticed how well he’d handled Mr. Lowell. He never seemed to hesitate. He knew what should be done and he did it. She’d always admired his composure, a quality she felt she lacked. Cassi smiled as her eyes traced the sharp lines of his profile, his sandy hair, and his athletic body. She found him extraordinarily attractive.
After the insecurities of the day, in fact the entire week, Cassi wanted to rush up and throw her arms around him. But she knew instinctively that he would not care for that kind of show of emotion, especially with Doris there. And Cassi knew he was right. The office was not the place for such behavior. Instead, she put the reprint back into the folder and the folder back into the canvas bag.
Thomas finished with Doris, but it wasn’t until the office door closed behind them that he spoke to Cassi.
“I’ve got to go to the ICU,” he said, his voice flat. “You can come or wait in the lobby. Your choice. I won’t be long.”
“I’ll come,” said Cassi, already guessing that Thomas’s day had not been smooth. She had to quicken her step to keep up with him.
“Was there trouble with your surgery today?” she asked tentatively.
“Surgery went fine.”
Cassi decided against further questioning. It was difficult to talk as they threaded their way back into the Scherington Building. Besides, she’d learned from experience that it was usually better to let Thomas volunteer information when he was upset.
In the elevator she watched while he kept his eyes glued to the floor indicator. He seemed tense and preoccupied.
“I’ll be glad to get home tonight,” said Cassi. “I need a good night’s sleep.”
“The weirdos keep you busy last night?”
“Let’s not have any of your surgeon’s opinions about psychiatry,” said Cassi.
Thomas didn’t respond, but an ironic smile appeared on his face, and he seemed to relax a little.
The elevator doors opened on seventeen, and they got out. Thomas walked swiftly ahead. No matter how many years Cassi had spent in hospitals, she always had the same reaction when she found herself on the surgical floor. If it wasn’t fear, it was close to it. The crisis aspect undermined the elaborate denial she used about the implications of her own illness. What mystified Cassi about the response was that she didn’t feel the same way on the medical floor where there invariably were patients with diabetically induced complications.
As Cassi and Thomas neared the ICU, several waiting relatives recognized Thomas. Like a movie or rock star, he was instantly surrounded. One old woman was intent on touching him as if he were some kind of god. Thomas remained composed, assuring everyone that all the surgery had gone routinely and that they would have to wait for further updates by the nursing personnel. With some difficulty he finally detached himself and entered the ICU where no one dared follow him except Cassi.
With its enormous number of machines, oscilloscope screens, and bandages, it intensified all of Cassi’s unspoken fears. And in fact, the patients themselves seemed all but forgotten, lost as they were in the tangle of equipment. The nurses and doctors seemed to tend the machines first.
Thomas went from bed to bed. Each patient in the ICU had his own specially trained nurse to whom Thomas spoke, hardly looking at the patient unless the nurse called his attention to some abnormality. He visually checked all the vital signs which could be seen on the read-out equipment. He glanced at the fluid balance logs, held portable chest X rays up to the overhead light, and looked at electrolyte and blood gas values. Cassi knew enough to know how much she didn’t know.
As Thomas had promised, he didn’t take long. His patients were all doing well. With Larry Owen in command, the resident staff would deal with all the minor problems that arose during the night. When Thomas and Cassi reemerged, the patients’ families again set upon him. Thomas said that he regretted he didn’t have more time to talk but that everyone was doing well.
“It must be extraordinarily rewarding to get that kind of feedback from families,” said Cassi as they were walking toward the elevator.
Thomas didn’t respond immediately. Cassi’s statement reminded him of the pleasure he had felt years earlier when the Nazzaros had greeted him. Their gratitude had meant something. Then he thought about Mr. Campbell’s daughter. He glanced back down the corridor, realizing that he hadn’t seen her.
“Oh, it’s nice that the relatives are appreciative,” said Thomas without much feeling. “But it’s not that important. It’s certainly not why I do surgery.”
“Of course not,” said Cassi. “I didn’t mean to imply that.”
“For me recognition by my teachers and superiors was always more important,” said Thomas.
The elevator arrived and they got on.
“The trouble is,” continued Thomas, “now I’m the teacher.”
Cassi glanced up. To her surprise his voice had an unexpected and uncharacteristic wistfulness. As she watched him, she could see that he was staring ahead, daydreaming.
Thomas’s mind flashed back to his thoracic residency, a time of unbelievable excitement and adventure. He remembered that he all but lived in the hospital for three years, going home to his drab two-room apartment only to recharge by sleeping for a few hours. In order to excel he had worked harder than he’d ever thought possible. And in the end he was appointed chief resident. In many respects Thomas felt that event had been the crowning achievement of his life. He’d come out on top of a group of gifted people as committed and competitive as himself. Thomas would never forget the moment that each of his attendings congratulated him. There was no doubt, he thought, that surgery and life in general were more rewarding and more fun then. Thankful relatives were nice, but they were no substitute.
When Cassi and Thomas emerged from the hospital, they were rudely slapped by a wet Boston evening. Gusts of wind lashed the rain in chaotic circles. At six-fifteen it was already dark. The only illumination came from the city lights reflecting off the low, swirling cloud cover. Cassi grasped Thomas about the waist and together they ran for the nearby parking garage.
Once under shelter, they stomped the moisture from their feet and walked more slowly up the concrete ramp. The wet cement had a surprisingly acrid smell. Thomas still wasn’t acting normally, and Cassi tried to guess what was bothering him. She had the uncomfortable feeling that it was something she’d done. But she couldn’t imagine what. They hadn’t seen each other since the ride in to the hospital Thursday morning, and everything had seemed fine at that time.
“Are you tired from working last night?” asked Cassi.
“Yes, I probably am. I haven’t thought too much about it, though.”
“And your cases? They went okay?”
“I told you, they went fine,” said Thomas. “In fact I could have done another bypass if they had allowed me to schedule it. I did three cases in the time it took George Sherman to do two and Ballantine, our fearless chief, to do one.”
“Sounds like you should be pleased,” said Cassi.
They stopped in front of an anthracite metallic 928 Porsche. Thomas hesitated, looking at Cassi over the top of the car. “But I’m not pleased. As usual there was a host of little things to annoy me, making my work more difficult. It seems to be getting worse, not better, around the Memorial. I’m really fed up. Then to top it all off, at the cardiac surgery meeting, I was informed that four of my weekly OR slots were being expropriated so George Sherman could schedule more of his goddamn teaching cases. They don’t even have enough teaching patients to fill the slots they already have without dredging up patients who have no right to precious space in the hospital.”
Thomas unlocked his door, climbed in and reached across to open Cassi’s.
“Besides,” said Thomas, gripping the steering wheel, “I have a feeling something else is going on in the hospital. Something between George Sherman and Norman Ballantine. God! I’ve just had it with all the bullshit!”
Thomas gunned the engine, then rammed the car back, then forward, the tires screeching in protest. Cassi braced herself against the dashboard to keep herself upright. When he stopped to stick his card into the slot for the automatic gate, she reached over her shoulder for her seat belt. As she locked it in place, she said, “Thomas, I think you should fasten yours, too.”
“For Chrissake,” yelled Thomas. “Stop nagging me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Cassi quickly, now certain that she was in some way partially responsible for her husband’s foul mood.
Thomas weaved in and out of traffic, cutting in front of irate commuters. Cassi was afraid to say anything lest she anger him further. It was like a Grand Prix free-for-all.
Once they were north of the city, the traffic thinned out. Despite the fact Thomas was going over seventy, Cassi began to relax.
“I’m sorry I seemed like a pest, especially after an aggravating day,” she said finally.
Thomas didn’t respond, but his face was less tense and his grip on the steering wheel not as tight. Several times Cassi started to ask if she’d been responsible for upsetting him, but she could not find the right words. For a while she just watched the rain-slicked road rushing toward them. “Have I done something that’s bothered you?” she said at last.
“You have,” snapped Thomas.
They rode for a while in silence. Cassi knew it would come sooner or later.
“It seems Larry Owen knows all about our private medical matters,” said Thomas.
“It’s no secret that I have diabetes,” said Cassi.
“It’s no secret because you talk about it so often,” said Thomas. “I think the less said the better. I don’t like us to be the brunt of gossip.”
Cassi could not remember mentioning anything to Larry about her medical problems, but of course that wasn’t the issue. She was well aware she’d talked to a number of people about her diabetes, including Joan Widiker that very day. Thomas, like her mother, felt Cassi’s disease was not a subject to be shared, even with close friends.
Cassi looked over at Thomas. The bands of light and shadow from the oncoming cars moved down his face and obscured his expression.
“I guess I never thought discussing my diabetes affected us,” said Cassi. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
“You know how gossip is in a medical center,” said Thomas. “It’s better not to give them anything to talk about. Larry knew more than just about your diabetes. He knew that you might have to have eye surgery. That’s pretty specific. He said he heard it from your friend Robert Seibert.”
Now it made sense to Cassi. She knew she hadn’t said anything to Larry Owen. “I did talk to Robert,” she conceded. “It seemed only natural. We’ve known each other so long, and he told me about his surgery. He’s having impacted wisdom teeth out. With his history of severe rheumatic fever he has to be admitted and treated with IV antibiotics.”
They turned north off Route 128, heading toward the ocean. There were unexpected patches of heavy fog, and Thomas slowed down.
“I still don’t think talking about such problems is a good idea,” said Thomas, squinting through the windshield. “Especially to someone like Robert Seibert. It’s still beyond me how you can tolerate such an overt homosexual.”
“We never talk about Robert’s sexual preferences,” said Cassi sharply.
“I don’t understand how you could avoid the subject,” said Thomas.
“Robert is a sensitive, intelligent human being and a damn good pathologist.”
“I’m glad he has some redeeming qualities,” said Thomas, conscious that he was baiting his wife.
Cassi bit down her reply. She knew that Thomas was angry and was trying to provoke her; she also knew that losing her own temper would accomplish nothing. After a brief silence, she reached across and massaged Thomas’s neck. At first he remained rigid, but after a few minutes she felt him respond.
“I’m sorry I talked about my diabetes,” she said, “and I’m sorry I talked about my eye condition.”
Maintaining her massage, Cassi stared out the window with unseeing eyes. A cold fear made her wonder if Thomas was getting tired of her illness. Maybe she’d been complaining too much, especially with all the upset about changing residencies. Thinking about it, Cassi had to admit that Thomas had been distancing himself from her in the last few months, acting more impulsive and with less tolerance. Cassi made a vow to talk less about her illness. She knew, more than anyone, how much pressure Thomas put himself under, and she promised herself not to make it worse.
Moving her hand up his neck, Cassi thought it would be wise to change the subject.
“Did anyone say anything about your doing three bypasses while the others did one or two?”
“No. No one says anything because it’s always the same. There really isn’t anyone for me to compete with.”
“What about competing with the best: yourself!” said Cassi with a smile.
“Oh, no!” said Thomas. “Don’t give me any of that pseudopsychology.”
“Is competition important at this point?” asked Cassi, becoming serious. “Isn’t the satisfaction of helping people return to active lives enough?”
“It’s a nice feeling,” admitted Thomas. “But it doesn’t help me get beds or OR time even though the patients I propose are the most deserving both from a physical and sociological standpoint. And their gratitude probably won’t make me chief, although I’m not sure I want the position any longer. To tell you the truth, the kick of surgery doesn’t last like it used to. Lately I get this empty feeling.”
The word “empty” reminded Cassi of something. Had it been a dream? She glanced around the interior of the car, noting the characteristic smell of the leather, listening to the repetitive click of the windshield wipers, letting her mind wander. What was the association? Then she remembered—“empty” was the word Colonel Bentworth used to describe his life in recent years. Angry and empty, that’s what he’d said.
Emerging from the leafless woods, they sped across the salt marshes. Through the rain-swept window, Cassi caught glimpses of the bleak November landscape. Fall was gone, its last agonal bits of color driven from the naked tree limbs by the rain. Winter was coming, its arrival heralded by the damp chill of the night. They rounded the last bend, thundered over a wooden bridge, and turned into their driveway. Within the bouncing headlights, Cassi could see the outline of their house. It had originally been built around the turn of the century as a rich man’s summer home in the shingle style peculiar to New England. In the nineteen-forties it had been winterized. Its sprawling character and irregular roof line gave it a unique silhouette. Cassi liked the house, perhaps more in summer than in winter. The best part was the location. It was situated directly on a small inlet with a northern view of the sea. Although it was a forty-minute drive north of Boston, Cassi felt the commute was worth it.
As they pulled up the long driveway, Cassi thought back to when she had first started dating Thomas. They had met when she was sent to the Memorial on her internal medicine rotation her third year of medical school. She’d seen Dr. Thomas Kingsley one day on the ward. He and a group of residents who followed after him like puppies were evaluating a heart attack victim in cardiogenic shock. Cassi had watched Dr. Kingsley with fascination. She’d heard about him and was astonished that he looked so young. She found him extremely attractive, but she never thought someone as dashing as Thomas would ever give her a second glance, except perhaps to ask her an embarrassing medical question. If Thomas had seen her on that first day, he’d given no indication whatsoever.
Once within the hospital community, Cassi found that it wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared. She worked very hard and to her amazement suddenly found herself very popular. Previously she had not had time to date, but at the Boston Memorial, work and social life merged. Cassi found herself actively pursued by most of the house staff, who taught her all sorts of things, frivolous and otherwise. Soon even some of the younger attendings began to compete, including a handsome ophthalmologist who could not take no for an answer. Cassi had never met anyone quite so single-minded and persistent, especially in front of his Beacon Hill fireplace. But it had all been fun and not serious until George Sherman asked her out. Without much encouragement from Cassandra, he sent her flowers, small presents, and then, out of the blue, proposed marriage.
Cassi did not turn George down immediately. She liked him even though she didn’t think she loved him. While she was still thinking over how best to handle things, something even more unexpected occurred. Thomas Kingsley asked her out.
Cassi remembered the intense excitement she had felt being with Thomas. He had an aura of self-assurance that some people might have labeled arrogance. But not Cassi. She felt he simply knew what he wanted and made decisions with bewildering rapidity. When Cassi tried to talk about her diabetes early in their relationship, Thomas dismissed the subject as a problem of the past. He gave her all the confidence she’d lacked since third grade.
It had been difficult for Cassi to face George and tell him that not only did she not want to marry him, but she had fallen in love with his colleague. George took the news with seeming composure and said he’d still like to be her friend. When she saw him on occasion in the hospital afterward, he seemed more concerned about her happiness than the fact that she had jilted him.
Thomas was charming, considerate, and gallant, a far cry from what Cassi expected. She’d heard that he was famous for intense but short relationships. Although he rarely told her that he loved her, he showed it in many ways. He took Cassi on teaching rounds with the fellows and had her come to the OR to see special cases. For their first Christmas together he bought her an antique diamond bracelet. Then on New Year’s Eve he asked Cassandra to marry him.
Cassi had never intended to get married while in medical school. But Thomas Kingsley was the kind of man that she had not even allowed herself to dream about. She might never meet anyone like him, and since Thomas was in medicine himself, she was confident it would not hinder her work. Cassi said yes and Thomas was ecstatic.
They were married on the lawn in front of Thomas’s house in view of the sea. Most of the hospital staff had attended and afterward referred to it as the social event of the year. Cassi could remember every moment of that glorious spring day. The sky had been a faraway blue, not unlike Thomas’s eyes. The sea had been relatively calm, with small white caps licked by the westerly breeze.
The reception was sumptuously catered, the lawn dotted with medieval-looking tents from the top of which heraldic flags snapped in the wind. Cassi had never been so happy, and Thomas appeared proud, ever mindful of the smallest details.
When everyone had left, Thomas and Cassi walked the beach, mindless of the icy surf grabbing at their ankles.
Cassi had never felt quite so happy nor quite so secure. They spent the night at the Ritz-Carlton in Boston before leaving for Europe.
After they had returned from their honeymoon, Cassi went back to her studies but ever mindful of her powerful mentor. In every conceivable way, Thomas helped Cassi. She’d always been a good student, but with Thomas’s help and encouragement, she excelled beyond her wildest expectations. He continued to encourage her to come frequently to the OR to see particularly interesting cases and, while she rotated on surgery, to have her assist, experiences which other medical students could only dream about. Two years later, when it came to graduate study, it was the pathology department that recruited Cassi, not vice versa.
Perhaps the memory that warmed Cassi’s heart more than any other was the weekend she graduated from medical school. Thomas had acted subdued from the moment they’d awakened that morning, which Cassi had attributed to a complicated surgical case Thomas was expecting. During dinner the night before, he’d told Cassi about a patient who was scheduled to be flown in from out of state. He’d apologized for not being able to take her to the celebration dinner the evening after the commencement, and although she was disappointed, Cassi had assured Thomas that she understood.
During the ceremony, Thomas had made a fool of himself and embarrassed Cassi by following her to the podium and taking hundreds of flash pictures with his Pentax. Afterward, when Cassi expected him to disappear abruptly to surgery, he led her across the lawn to an awaiting limousine. Confused, Cassi climbed into the long black Cadillac. Inside were two long-stemmed glasses and a chilled bottle of Dom Perignon.
As if in a fantasy, Cassi was whisked out to Logan Airport and hurried aboard a commuter flight to Nantucket. She tried to protest that she had no clothes and could not possibly go without first returning home, but Thomas had assured her that every detail had been attended to and indeed it had. He showed her a bag, packed with all her makeup and medicine, as well as some new clothes, including the sexiest pink silk Ted Lapidus dress Cassi had ever seen.
They only stayed for a single night, but what a night. Their room was the master suite of an old sea captain’s mansion that had been converted to a charming country inn. The decor was early Victorian with a huge canopy bed and period wallpaper. There was no television and more importantly, no telephone. Cassi had the delicious sensation of total isolation and privacy.
Never had she felt so in love nor had Thomas ever been so attentive. They spent the afternoon bicycling along country lanes and running in the icy surf on the beach. Dinner was at a nearby French restaurant. Their candlelit table was set within the shelter of a dormer whose window looked out over Nantucket Harbor. The lights from the anchored sailboats flickered across the water like the sparkle of gemstones. Capping the dinner was Cassi’s graduation present. To her utter astonishment, she gingerly lifted from a small, velvet-lined box the most beautiful three-strand pearl choker she’d ever seen. It was secured in front by a large emerald surrounded by diamonds. As Thomas helped her put the necklace on, he explained that the clasp was a family heirloom, brought from Europe by his great-grandmother.
Later that night, they discovered that the imposing canopied bed in their room had one unexpected flaw. It squeaked mercilessly whenever they moved. This discovery brought on fits of uncontrolled laughter but did nothing to diminish their enjoyment. If anything, it gave Cassi another wonderful memory of the weekend.
Cassi’s reverie was broken by the jerk with which Thomas brought his Porsche to a stop in front of their garage. He reached across and pressed the automatic door button inside the glove compartment.
The garage, also weathered shingle, was completely separate from the house. There was an apartment on the second floor, originally designed for servants, where Thomas’s widowed mother, Patricia Kingsley, resided. She’d moved from the main house when Cassi and Thomas married.
The Porsche thundered into the garage, then with a final roar, died. Cassi got out, careful that the door did not hit her own Chevy Nova that was parked alongside. Thomas loved his car as much as his own right arm. She also closed the door without too much force. She was accustomed to slamming car doors, something which had been a necessity with the old family Ford sedan. On several occasions Thomas had become livid when she’d reverted back to her old habit despite his lectures on the careful engineering of the Porsche.
“It’s about time,” said Harriet Summer, their housekeeper, when Thomas and Cassi entered the hall. To emphasize her displeasure, she made sure they saw her check her wristwatch. Harriet Summer had worked for the Kingsleys since before Thomas was born. She was very much the old family retainer and had to be treated as such. Cassi had learned that very quickly.
“Dinner will be on the table in a half hour. If you’re not there, it will get cold. Tonight’s my favorite TV show, Thomas, so I’m leaving here at eight-thirty come what may.”
“We’ll be down,” said Thomas, removing his coat.
“And hang up that coat,” said Harriet. “I’m not going to be picking them up all the time.”
Thomas did as he was told.
“What about Mother?” asked Thomas.
“She’s as she always is,” said Harriet. “She lunched well and she’s expecting a call for dinner, so get cracking.”
As Thomas and Cassi started upstairs, Cassi marveled at the change in her husband. At the hospital he was so aggressive and commanding, but the minute Harriet or his mother asked him to do something, he obeyed.
At the top of the stairs, Thomas turned into his second-floor study, saying that he’d see Cassi in a few moments. He didn’t wait for her to reply. Cassi wasn’t surprised, and she continued down the hall toward their bedroom. She knew he liked his study, which was something of a mirror image of his office at the hospital except that it had a wonderful view of the picturesque garage and the salt marshes beyond. The problem was that over the last few months Thomas had begun to spend more and more time there, occasionally even sleeping on the couch. Cassi had not commented, knowing that he was troubled with insomnia, but as the number of nights he spent away from her increased, it had begun to distress her more and more.
The master bedroom was at the very end of the hall, on the northeast side of the house. It had French doors giving out onto a balcony that had a commanding view of the lawn down to the sea. Next to the bedroom was a morning room facing east. On nice days the sun would stream through the windows. Between the two rooms was the master bath.
The only part of the house Cassi had redecorated was the bedroom suite. She’d salvaged and repaired the white wicker porch furniture that she had found ignominiously abandoned in the garage. She had chosen bright chintz fabrics for matching comforter, drapes, and seat cushions. The bedroom had been papered with a Victorian-style vertical print; the morning room painted a pale yellow. The combination was bright and cheerful, in sharp contrast with the dark and heavy tones of the rest of the house.
Cassi had essentially taken over the morning room as her study since Thomas had shown no inclination to share it. She’d found an old country-style desk in the basement, which she’d painted white, and had bought several simple pine bookcases, which she’d painted to match. One of the bookcases had a second role; it served to conceal a small refrigerator that contained Cassi’s medicines.
After testing her urine again, Cassi went to the refrigerator and removed a package of regular insulin and one of Lente insulin. Using the same syringe, she drew up a half cc of the U100 regular and then one-tenth cc of the U100 Lente. Knowing she had injected herself in her left thigh that morning, she chose a site on her right thigh. The whole procedure took less than five minutes.
After a quick shower, Cassi knocked on the door to Thomas’s study. When she entered she sensed that Thomas was more relaxed. He’d just finished buttoning a fresh shirt and ended up with more buttons than buttonholes when he got to the top.
“Some surgeon you must be,” teased Cassi, rapidly fixing the problem. “I met a medical resident whom you impressed last night. I’m glad he didn’t see you buttoning your shirt.” Cassi was eager for light conversation.
“Who was that?” asked Thomas.
“You helped him on a resuscitation attempt.”
“It wasn’t a very impressive effort. The man died.”
“I know,” said Cassi. “I watched the autopsy this morning.”
Thomas sat down on the sectional sofa, pulling on his loafers.
“Why on earth were you watching an autopsy?” he asked.
“Because it was a post-cardiac-surgical case where the cause of death was unclear.”
Thomas stood up and began to brush his wet hair. “Did the entire department of psychiatry go up to watch this event?” asked Thomas.
“Of course not,” said Cassi. “Robert called me and . . .”
Cassi paused. It wasn’t until she’d mentioned Robert’s name that she remembered the talk they had had in the car. Fortunately Thomas kept brushing his hair.
“He said that he thought there was another case for the SSD series. You remember. I’ve spoken to you about that before.”
“Sudden surgical death,” said Thomas as if he were reciting a lesson in school.
“And he was right,” said Cassi. “There was no obvious cause of death. The man had had a bypass operation by Dr. Ballantine . . .”
“I’d say that was a sufficient cause,” interrupted Thomas. “The old man probably put a suture right through the Bundle of His. It knocks out the heart’s conduction system, and it’s happened before.”
“Was that your impression when you tried to resuscitate him?” asked Cassi.
“It occurred to me,” said Thomas. “I assumed it was some sort of acute arrhythmia.”
“The nurses reported the patient was very cyanotic when they found him,” she said.
Thomas finished his hair and indicated he was ready for dinner. He gestured toward the hall while he spoke: “That doesn’t surprise me. The patient probably aspirated.”
Cassi preceded Thomas out into the hall. From the autopsy she already knew the patient’s lungs and bronchial tubes had been clear, meaning he had not aspirated anything. But she didn’t tell that to Thomas. His tone suggested he’d had enough of the subject.
“I would have thought that beginning a new residency would keep you busy,” said Thomas, starting down the stairs. “Even a residency in psychiatry. Aren’t they giving you enough work to do?”
“More than enough,” said Cassi. “I’ve never felt quite so incompetent. But Robert and I have been following this SSD series for a year. We were eventually going to publish our findings. Then, of course, I left pathology, but I truly think Robert is onto something. Anyway, when he called me this morning I took the time to go up and watch.”
“Surgery is serious business,” said Thomas. “Particularly cardiac surgery.”
“I know,” said Cassi, “but Robert has seventeen of these cases now, maybe eighteen if this new one checks out. Ten years ago SSD only seemed to occur in patients who were in coma. But lately there’s been a change. Patients who have come through surgery with flying colors are seemingly dying postop without cause.”
“When you consider the number of cardiac cases done at the Memorial,” said Thomas, “you must realize how insignificant a percentage you’re talking about. The Memorial’s death rate is not only well below the average, it’s equal to the best.”
“I also know that,” said Cassi. “But still it’s fascinating when you consider the trend.”
Thomas suddenly took Cassi’s arm. “Listen, it’s bad enough that you chose psychiatry as a specialty, but don’t try embarrassing the surgical department about our failures. We are aware of our mistakes. That’s why we have a death conference.”
“I never intended to cause you embarrassment,” said Cassi. “Besides, the SSD study is Robert’s. I told him today that he was going to have to carry on without me. I just think it’s fascinating.”
“The competitive climate of medicine always makes other people’s mistakes fascinating,” said Thomas, gently propelling Cassi through the archway into the dining room, “whether they are legitimate mistakes or acts of God.”
Cassi felt a pang of guilt as she thought about the truth of Thomas’s last statement. She never considered it that way, but it was true.
As they entered the dining room, Harriet gave them a petulant glance and said that they were late.
Thomas’s mother was already seated at the table. “It’s about time you two showed up,” she said in her strong, raspy voice. “I’m an old woman. I can’t go this long before dinner.”
“Why didn’t you eat earlier?” said Thomas, taking his chair.
“I’ve been by myself for two days,” complained Patricia. “I need some human contact.”
“So I’m not human, am I?” said Harriet with annoyance. “The truth has finally come out.”
“You know what I mean, Harriet,” said Patricia with a wave of her hand.
Harriet rolled her eyes and began serving the casserole.
“Thomas, when are you going to get that hair of yours cut?” said Patricia.
“As soon as I have a little extra time,” said Thomas.
“And how many times do I have to tell you to put your napkin on your lap,” said Patricia.
Thomas pulled the napkin from the silver holder and threw it onto his lap.
Mrs. Kingsley placed a minute amount of food in her mouth and began chewing. Her bright blue eyes, similar to Thomas’s, ranged around the table, following Harriet’s progress, waiting for the slightest slip-up. Patricia was a pleasant-looking, white-haired lady with a will of iron. She had smoked Lucky Strikes for years and had deep creases running from her mouth like spokes on a wheel. She was obviously lonely, and Cassi continually wondered why the woman didn’t move to some place where she’d have friends her own age. Cassi knew the thought was motivated by her own interests. After more than three years of eating almost every evening meal with Patricia, Cassi longed for a more romantic end to the day. Despite Cassi’s strong feelings in this regard, she never said anything. The truth of the matter was that Cassi had always been intimidated by this woman, and she’d been reluctant to offend her and thereby incur Thomas’s wrath.
Still and all, Cassi got along passingly well with Mrs. Kingsley, at least from Cassi’s perspective, and she did feel sorry for the woman, living in the middle of nowhere over her son’s garage.
After Harriet served, the dinner proceeded in silence, punctuated by silver clanking against china and whispered negatives to Harriet who tried to force seconds on everyone. It wasn’t until they were almost finished that Thomas broke the silence: “My surgeries went well today.”
“I don’t want to hear about death and disease,” said Mrs. Kingsley. Then she turned to Cassandra and said, “Thomas is just like his father, always wanting to discuss his business. Never could talk about anything important or cultural. Sometimes I think I would have been better off if I’d never married.”
“You can’t mean that,” said Cassi. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have such an extraordinary son.”
“Ha!” said Patricia with explosive suddenness. Her laugh echoed in the room, making the Waterford candelabra vibrate. “The only thing truly extraordinary about Thomas is how closely he resembles his father, even to having been born with a clubfoot.”
Cassi dropped her fork. Thomas had never mentioned this. The image of him as a tiny baby with a twisted foot triggered a wave of sympathy in Cassi, but it was clear from his expression that Thomas was furious with his mother’s revelation.
“He was a wonderful baby,” continued Patricia, oblivious to her son’s barely suppressed rage. “And a handsome, wonderful child. At least until puberty.”
“Mother,” said Thomas in a slow, even voice. “I think you’ve said enough.”
“Fiddlesticks, as they used to say,” returned Patricia. “It’s your turn to be quiet. I’ve been alone here, except for Harriet, for two days, and I should be able to talk.”
With a final glance of exasperation, Thomas bent over his food.
“Thomas,” called Patricia after a short silence. “Please remove your elbows from the table.”
Thomas pushed back his chair and stood up, his face flushed. Without a word, he threw down his napkin and left the room. Cassi heard him stomping upstairs. Then the door to his study slammed. The Waterford candelabra again tinkled gently.
Caught in the middle, as usual, Cassi hesitated, not knowing what was the best thing for her to do. After a moment of indecision she too stood up, planning on following Thomas.
“Cassandra,” said Patricia sharply. Then in a more plaintive voice she said, “Please sit down. Let the child be. Eat. I know people with diabetes have to eat.”
Flustered, Cassi sat down.
Thomas paced his study, mumbling out loud that it was unfair that he should have to weather such abuse at home after his frustrating day at the hospital. Angrily he wondered why Cassi had stayed with his mother instead of joining him. For a moment he considered returning to the hospital, fantasizing about Mr. Campbell’s daughter and the respect that she would be willing to show him. He remembered her comment about wishing there was something she could do for him.
But the cold rain beating on the window made the idea of returning to town seem like too much effort. Instead he picked up the journal from the top of his towering pile of reading and sprawled in the burgundy leather armchair next to the fireplace.
Trying to read, Thomas found his mind wandering. He wondered why his mother could still, after all these years, irritate him so easily. Then Thomas thought about Cassi and the SSD series that she’d been helping Robert Seibert with. There was no doubt in his mind that the kind of publicity that such a study would generate would be extraordinarily detrimental to the hospital. He also knew that Robert just wanted to get his name in print. He didn’t care who he hurt.
Thomas threw the unread journal to the side and went into the bathroom off the study. Staring into the mirror, he looked at his eyes. He’d always thought he looked young for his age, but now he was not quite so sure. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the lids seemed red and swollen.
Returning to his study, he sat at his desk and opened the second drawer on the right, removing a plastic bottle. He popped a yellow pill into his mouth and, after a brief hesitation, another. Over at the bar he poured himself a single-malt whiskey and sat down in the leather armchair that had been his father’s. He already felt a lessening of his tension. Reaching over to the side table, he picked up the journal again and tried to read.
But he couldn’t concentrate. He still felt too much anger. His mind went back to his first week as the chief cardiac surgery resident when he’d been faced with a full intensive care unit and two senior attendings who were demanding space. Without empty available beds, the whole surgical schedule came to a halt.
Thomas remembered how he had gone into the intensive care unit and carefully checked over each patient to see if any could be moved out. In the end he chose two “gorks,” patients in irreversible coma. It was true they needed round-the-clock special nursing that could only be given in the ICU, but it was also true they were beyond any hope of recovery. Yet when Thomas ordered them moved, their physicians were livid and the nursing staff refused the order. Thomas could still remember the humiliation he experienced when the nursing staff prevailed and the brain-dead patients stayed in the ICU. Not only hadn’t the problem been solved, but Thomas had made additional enemies. It was as if no one understood that surgery, that life-giving process, as well as the costly intensive care unit, were intended for patients who would recover, not the living dead.
Back at the bar, Thomas refreshed his drink. The ice had diluted the Scotch and blunted its taste. Looking back at the burgundy leather chair, Thomas remembered his father, the businessman, and Thomas wondered what the old man would have thought of him had he lived. Thomas had no idea because, like Patricia, Mr. Kingsley had never been particularly appreciative or supportive of Thomas, always more willing to criticize than commend. Would he have approved of Cassi? Thomas guessed that his father probably would not have thought much of a girl with diabetes.
Cassi felt anxious after Thomas had left the table. Since he’d already been in a bad mood prior to coming down for dinner, she was afraid he was upstairs seething. Desperately she hunted for conversation but could only elicit “yes” or “no” from Patricia, who acted as if she were pleased she’d driven Thomas away.
“Did Thomas have a bad clubfoot?” Cassi finally asked, hoping to break the silence.
“Terrible. Just like his father, who was crippled for life.”
“I had no idea. I never would have guessed.”
“Of course not. In contrast to his father, he got treated.”
“Thank goodness,” said Cassi sincerely. She tried to imagine Thomas with a limp. It was hard for Cassi even to think of Thomas being crippled as a young baby.
“We had to lock the boy in foot braces at night,” said Patricia, “which was a strain because he screamed and carried on as if I were torturing him.” Patricia dabbed at her lips with her napkin.
Cassi pictured Thomas as an infant, strapped into his confining foot braces. Undoubtedly it had been a type of torture.
“Well,” began Patricia, abruptly standing up. “Why don’t you go up to him? Obviously he needs someone. He’s not such a strong boy despite his aggressive manner. I’d go, but he’s obviously chosen you. Men are all the same. You give them everything and they abandon you. Good night, Cassandra.”
Dumbfounded by Patricia’s rude exit, Cassi sat by herself for a moment. She heard Patricia talking with Harriet, then the front door slammed. The house was quiet except for the squeak of the porch swing as gusts of wind blew it back and forth.
She got up and began to mount the stairs, smiling suddenly at the thought that she and Thomas had shared a point in common while growing up; they both had had childhood afflictions. Knocking on the study door, Cassi wondered what kind of mood Thomas would be in. After the way he’d behaved in the car, combined with Patricia’s pestering, she expected the worst. But when she entered the room, she was immediately relieved. Thomas was sitting sideways with his legs draped over one arm of his chair, drink in one hand, medical journal in the other. He looked relaxed and handsome. And more important, he was smiling.
“I trust you and Mother remained cordial,” he said, raising his eyebrows as if there were a chance that the opposite had occurred. “I’m sorry for my abrupt departure, but the old woman was about to drive me mad. I didn’t quite feel up to a scene.” Thomas winked.
“You’re so predictably unpredictable,” said Cassi, smiling. “Your mother and I had a most interesting conversation. Thomas, I never knew about your clubfoot. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She sat down on the arm of his chair, forcing him to swing around into a normal position. He didn’t answer, concentrating on his drink.
“It’s not important,” said Cassi, “but I’m an expert on childhood afflictions. I find it reassuring that we shared such an experience. I think it gives us a special degree of understanding.”
“I can’t remember anything about a clubfoot,” said Thomas. “As far as I know I never had one. The whole thing is some elaborate delusion of my mother’s. She wants you to be impressed by how she suffered bringing me up. Look at my feet: Do they look deformed?”
Thomas took off his shoes and raised his feet.
Looking down, Cassi had to admit both feet looked entirely normal. She knew Thomas had no problem walking and had been something of a college athlete. But she still wasn’t sure who had been telling the truth.
“It seems incredible that your mother would make something like that up?” Her tone was more a question than a statement, but Thomas took it as a statement.
Throwing down the medical journal, he leaped to his feet, nearly knocking Cassi to the floor. “Listen, I don’t care who you believe,” said Thomas. “My feet are fine, have always been fine, and I don’t want to hear anything more about a clubfoot.”
“All right, all right,” said Cassi soothingly. With a professional eye she watched her husband, noting that his equilibrium was slightly off in that he’d overshoot with simple motions that required him to make subtle readjustments. And that wasn’t all. His speech was slightly slurred as well. Cassandra had noticed similar episodes over the previous months but she’d ignored them. He had every right to indulge himself with alcohol now and then, and she knew he liked Scotch. What surprised her was how short a time had passed since he’d fled from the dinner table. He must have tossed off quite a few drinks, one after another.
More than anything, Cassi wanted Thomas to relax. If a discussion about a hypothetical clubfoot was going to upset him, she was perfectly willing to drop the subject forever if necessary. Sliding off the chair, she reached up to place her arm around his shoulder.
He fended her off, defiantly taking another sip of Scotch. He looked contentious and eager to quarrel. At close range Cassi noted his pupils were constricted to mere dots of black in his bright blue irises. Suppressing her own irritation at being rejected, Cassi said: “Thomas, you must be exhausted. You need a good night’s sleep.” She reached up again and this time he permitted her to put her arm around his neck. “Come to bed with me,” she said softly.
Thomas sighed but didn’t speak. He put down his half-finished drink and let Cassi lead him back down the hall to their bedroom. He started to unbutton his shirt, but Cassi pushed his hands away and did it for him. Slowly she undressed him, discarding his clothes in a careless heap on the floor. Once he was under the covers, she rapidly undressed herself, sliding in next to him. It was a delicious sensation to feel the coolness of the freshly laundered sheets, the comforting weight of the blankets, and the warmth of Thomas’s body. Outside the November wind howled and shook the Japanese wind chimes on the balcony.
Cassi began by rubbing his neck and shoulders. Then she slowly worked her way down his body. Beneath her fingers she could feel him relax and respond to her. He stirred and enveloped her in an embrace. She kissed him and gently reached down between his legs. He was flaccid.
The moment Thomas felt Cassi’s hand touch him, he sat up and pushed her away. “I don’t think it’s quite fair to expect that I’d be able to satisfy you tonight.”
“I was interested in your pleasure,” said Cassi softly, “not my own.”
“I’ll bet,” said Thomas viciously. “Don’t try any of your psychiatric bullshit on me.”
“Thomas, it doesn’t matter if we make love or not.”
Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Thomas grabbed for his discarded clothes with jerky, uncoordinated motions. “I find that hard to believe.”
Thomas went into the hall, slamming the door behind him with such force that the storm windows rattled in their frames.
Cassi found herself engulfed in lonely darkness. The howling wind, which moments before had enhanced her sense of security, now did the opposite. The old fear of being abandoned haunted her. Despite the warmth of the blankets, Cassi shivered. What if Thomas left her? Desperately she tried to put the thought out of her mind because she could not bear the possibility. Maybe he had just been drunk. She recalled his lack of equilibrium and slurred speech. In the short time she’d spoken with Patricia, it didn’t seem possible that Thomas could have absorbed enough alcohol to cause such an effect, but when she thought about it, she had to admit that there had been several such episodes in the last three or four months.
Rolling onto her back, Cassi stared at the ceiling where an outdoor lamp shining through the leafless tree outside created a pattern like a gigantic spider web. Frightened by the image, she turned on her side only to confront the same scary shadow on the wall across from the window. Was Thomas taking some kind of drug? Having admitted the possibility, she recognized that she’d been denying the signs for months. It was further evidence that Thomas was unhappy with her, that their life had drastically changed, and that he had changed.
In the bathroom off his study, Thomas stared at his naked body in the mirror. Although he hated to admit it, he did look older. And more worrisome than that was his shriveled penis. To his own touch it felt almost numb, and the lack of sensation filled him with agonizing fear. What was wrong with his sexuality? When Cassi had been massaging him he’d felt the need for sexual release. But obviously his penis had had other ideas.
It must have been Cassi’s fault, he reasoned halfheartedly, as he returned to the study and got into his clothes. Rescuing his drink, he sat at his desk and opened the second drawer on the right. In the very back, hidden by his stationery, were a number of plastic bottles. If he was going to sleep, he needed one more pill. Just one! Deftly he flipped one of the small yellow tablets into his mouth, then chased it down with his Scotch. It was amazing how quickly he felt the calming effect.