Free Oxygen by Carol Cassella Page B

assigned to that room”; “You have to get up and go on, Marie.” Only the vaguest shadow of judgment in their eyes, only the slightest drop in their voices dangles the question of doubt.
    Within a few days after Jolene’s funeral it becomes obvious that my closer friends are working harder so I can get out of the hospital earlier. Joe, Will, even Sandy McLaughlin, who is usually so private and self-contained, all seem to be coincidentally discovering my late case has been transferred into one of their rooms. They wind up unexpectedly free right around noon with nothing better to do than send me out to pick up Thai food for everyone. It’s hard not to care that I’m never assigned any pediatric cases.
    One morning the garage elevator opens and Brad gets in. As soon as he sees me I can tell he wishes he’d taken the stairs. It’s the first moment I admit to myself that I’ve been avoiding him in the cafeteria and conference room. He nods at me and pushes the button for the next floor up, even though we both have to get to the fourth floor operating rooms. When the doors open, though, I get out with him in the deserted vestibule of basement offices.
    “Brad.” I hesitate, stretching for safe words. “Look. I never got a chance to tell you how sad I am that you’re caught up in this. It was just…bad timing. Bad luck.” I intend to stop with that, I know I should stop, but there isn’t a soul around to hear us. “I don’t think anything could have made a difference, on either of our parts, but if you noticed something, even some change that didn’t seem important at the time…”
    He is beet red, shaking his head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Marie. My lawyer says I can’t say anything to anyone except a shrink or a priest.” He reaches past my head to push the elevator button, and I feel my own face grow hot.
    “Your lawyer? Why did you talk to a lawyer?”
    He shrugs and pushes the button again. “I just needed to know where I stand. When…if a suit’s filed.” He steps inside the elevator and looks directly at me for the first time. His eyes seem sad, or disappointed, or maybe just afraid. “Marie, I’m the new guy here. I don’t have any record to stand on. Who are they gonna try to hang?” The doors close between us and the cables hum as he is hoisted away.
     
    A week to the day after Jolene’s death I need to leave early to meet with my malpractice case representative and Joe comes in to take over my thyroidectomy.
    “Got your speech ready?”
    “I guess. Do I look nervous?”
    He puts an arm around my shoulder, his mouth at my ear. “Just remember. You’re paying her .”
    “Yeah. It’s easy to forget that right now. Sort of feels like she’s the whole jury.”
    I tell him my patient’s medical history and allergies and my anesthetic plan for her. I’m about to leave when I remember her primary request of me. “She really wants her dentures back in as soon as she’s awake,” and I point out the clear container holding a perfect plastic grin.
     
    Caroline Meyers-Yeager, my malpractice claims manager, is a petite woman, somewhat older than myself, wearing a crisply fitted ivory silk suit that matches her equally crisp blond hair. Her clipped New York accent cuts to the bone of historical payouts for pediatric deaths and the statistical odds against prevailing in front of a jury if this comes to trial. I’m sitting opposite her desk, unable to swallow the tea her assistant brought, uncomfortably aware that I haven’t combed my hair in hours.
    She listens to my well-rehearsed synopsis of Jolene’s anesthetic and code—the version my own bathroom mirror confirmed I’d performed flawlessly. “I’ve gone over my notes repeatedly,” I tell her in my most objective and collected voice. “The most likely explanation is anaphylaxis.”
    She jots a note or two on a long yellow legal pad. “But she had no history of allergies.”
    “Not in her record. Her mother didn’t know of