KEVIN WAS IN HIS office before seven on Monday morning studying a spreadsheet. He had already mined from this data, gathered from everyone with AIDS or ARC seen at City Hospital since the epidemic began, material for half a dozen publications. Now it dawned on him that the substance for two more papers was here. The first time he looked up at the wall clock, it was eight-fifteen. He cursed. The weekly clinic meeting started at eight. On his way out the door, Kevin realized he didn’t have to go. Gwen had volunteered to take over as clinic medical director. Elated, he returned to his data.
In 1981, Kevin could easily handle being the sole primary care doctor for all AIDS and ARC patients coming to City Hospital. By mid-1982, there were too many for him to manage alone, even with the help of a nurse-practitioner. He talked Ray Hernandez into hiring Gwen to share the load. Once she was on board supervising the treatment of hospitalized AIDS patients, Kevin only had to juggle keeping his research afloat and running the clinic. He soon deferred to Gwen’s judgment there as well. Kevin discovered she could tell unerringly which patient complaining of a headache just needed reassurance and pain medication and which one had to be admitted for an emergent brain scan, or which one with a fever would be fine to rest at home and drink lots of fluids and which would die if not immediately given industrial strength antibiotics and sent to the ICU.
Now that a laboratory on the Hill was willing to measure T cells in blood samples, Kevin’s top priority was his Phase 1 trial of suramin. Of all the drugs Rajiv Singh had pulled off the shelf to screen, ancient suramin, used in Africa since the 1920s to treat sleeping sickness, most potently disabled the retrovirus in a test tube. Although the medication had serious side effects, there were no better candidates. Conducting this trial while simultaneously moving his other studies forward absorbed virtually all of Kevin’s attention.
He didn’t look up from the spreadsheet again for another hour. Then a rustling noise startled him. He saw a small envelope slide underneath his door. Inside, he found a familiar pressed flower, a purple wild iris glued to a beige vellum card. He had seen it before mounted under glass. It was part of a wildflower collection in Gwen’s office. Written in firm cursive were the words “Negative. Definitively.”
He ran to her office.
“By Charlie’s new assay?” Kevin asked, trying to keep from shouting.
Gwen smiled beatifically.
He slumped onto a chair.
“That’s…fantastic,” he said, his voice catching.
“Oh my God, Kevin. I don’t want you to cry.”
“I’m not going to cry. I’m just…so happy…for you, for all of us.”
She sat on his lap and hugged him. Kevin ran his fingers through her hair, much finer than his own or Marco’s. Suddenly afraid he might be overstepping the boundaries of their friendship, he stopped. Gwen sighed contentedly. More Catholic guilt, he could imagine Marco saying.
“What color’s your hair?” he asked.
“Golden brown—if you pretend the gray streaks aren’t there. That’s the closest match I’ve found. Think I should dye my hair?”
“No. It looks terrific. It’s better than terrific. It’s you.”
“What a lovely thing to say, Kevin.” She kissed him on the cheek.
“So Rick knows, doesn’t he?”
“No, I’m going to torture him for a few more weeks. Of course he knows. I found out on Friday. We celebrated this weekend.”
A sly grin crept over Kevin’s face.
Blushing and laughing, she said, “Let’s go out to dinner soon. We need to catch up.”
“Absolutely. We need to celebrate, too…with our clothes on.”
Gwen crumpled a piece of paper and threw it at him.