A dozen times that day, as he went about his daily routine, the thought seized Logan’s consciousness: We’re really doing this thing! Soon, one way or another, we’ll know!
He made three visits to Novick’s room during the next six hours. Sabrina made four. Even Reston stopped by a couple of times. Always she was resting comfortably, watching TV or reading; and by the end of the day, the doctors’ repeated appearances seemed to baffle her as much as they pleased her.
“Are you looking for something?” she asked Logan finally as he hovered above her with a stethoscope. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” he exclaimed, feeling just slightly foolish. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
In fact, they were all hoping to find the same thing: evidence of a miracle. Generally, under the best of circumstances, a drug may take several weeks to show its effects. But once in a very great while, the impact on the tumor will be almost immediate.
Logan was back the next morning, and again late that afternoon—though, like the others, he made a point of being less intrusive. By staggering their visits, the three of them were still able to guarantee she was seen every couple of hours.
By the third day, she was ready to go home, and there was no plausible reason to keep her.
“Fine,” agreed Logan, “tell your husband he can pick you up tomorrow morning.”
“Great. I’m ready.”
Gingerly, he felt the tumor. By now, he knew it intimately—not only its size, but its feel, its distinctive contours. “As long as you’re back here a week from Tuesday for your next treatment.”
“Of course.”
Could the tumor really be slightly softer than before? No, that had to be his imagination; he knew from experience that he could be as suggestible as anyone else.
“So everything’s status quo? No pain?”
“Same as this morning. Just fine.”
“Good, that’s what we like to hear—”
Abruptly, there came a knock at the door.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry, Doctor,” said a nurse-trainee, opening the door a crack. “Mrs. Byrne is on the phone and she says it’s very important.”
“Okay, we’re almost done here anyhow.” He smiled at Judy Novick. “Just keep on keeping on. We’ll see you on Tuesday.”
A moment later, abruptly switching gears, he picked up the phone at the reception desk. “Faith?” he said, with concern. “This is Dr. Logan. Is something the matter?”
“With me, nothing. Except the cancer. What I want to know is what’s wrong with you.”
“I don’t understand.” There was a hardness to the voice that had nothing to do with the woman he’d seen here just a couple of weeks before.
“You told me I have to wait a month and a half to get my treatment.”
“Yes.”
“So how come someone else has already gotten hers? What do you do, play favorites?”
“Who told you that?” For precisely this reason, the ACF made a policy of not keeping protocol patients abreast of the status of others in their tests. This wasn’t a competition; in the final analysis, the order rarely had any bearing on patient performance.
“Never mind who told me. That isn’t the point.”
“Faith, listen to me, we’ve got a schedule we must abide by. The drug is administered according to when patients joined the protocol.”
“I don’t give a damn about that,” she shot back. “I’ve got cancer! I’ve got to look out for me.”
“Faith,” he said, with exaggerated calm, “we’ll have to discuss this later. I’m very busy right now.”
“When?”
“Later.”
As he headed for home a few minutes later, he felt confused, exasperated, betrayed. Unavoidably, the most disheartening question any doctor must face loomed increasingly large: how in the world could he have been so wrong? Could he no longer trust his own instincts?