Free The Portable Veblen by Elizabeth Mckenzie

stack of past newsletters. “Here’s what I do. It’s actually considered one of the best hospital newsletters in the country.”
    “Yes, it’s impressive,” Paul said.
    “We’ve won the Aster four times in the last seven years, honoring excellence in medical marketing. Look, each issue has a theme and variations, but it takes a careful reading to detect it.”
    “News is marketing?”
    Shalev blinked, as if Paul had just emerged from an ancient pod. “Yes, it is.”
    The cover story was about the art exhibition in the lobby, and went on to list the names of the local artists who had contributed. On the inside page was an article on the free shuttle bus that operated continuously between Greenslopes and the Palo Alto Caltrain station. There was a picture of the little shuttle bus. The next page had a continuing feature called “Meet Our Specialists.” This month’s specialist was Dr. Burt Wallman, a psychiatrist who specialized in suicide prevention. Paul restlessly flipped through the pages, not able to detect a theme.
    He noted the headline WIDOWS, WIDOWERS HONORED WITH DAFFODILS . It seemed the Daffodil Society of Greenslopes gave symbolic daffodils to the families of vets.
    “Did you see it?” asked Shalev.
    “See what?”
    “You’re picking something up. Try to say what it is.”
    “Man’s inhumanity to man?”
    “Close. This month’s theme is regeneration, starting over, springtime.”
    Paul said, “Why did you write this? As one of the leading clinical trials hospitals for veterans, Greenslopes is proud of the wonderful relationship it has forged with widows . . .  ?”
    “Nothing wrong with it, is there? Here’s your dependent clause headed by your subordinating conjunction—”
    “It implies that the clinical trials create widows.”
    Shalev said, “The people in your trial, they’re either brain damaged or brain dead, aren’t they? But nobody stops hoping.”
    “Nobody ever said this was about a cure .”
    “Have you talked to any of the families?” Shalev prodded.
    “What do they think?”
    Shalev gathered the pile into his case. “Someone they love is laid out before them, trapped in an endless sleep. You ever loved someone in a coma?”
    Paul shook his head.
    “From what I’ve seen, when someone you love is in a coma, you simply want to believe. As long as they’re alive, there’s hope.” He snapped the latches on his satchel, and adjusted his glasses. “We had a trial in here last year with big funding, they extracted the essence of a tumor, gave it a whirl in a centrifuge, then injected a concentrated dose back into the patient.”
    “Immune therapy, very cutting edge,” Paul said.
    “The volunteers went extinct in a matter of weeks. But research-wise, hey, it was a big success. Doctors high-fiving each other all over the place.”
    To extract more of Paul’s essence, they made plans to meet again. And after Shalev left him, Paul gauged he’d been spending too much time in the lab. Bedside manners had never been his strong suit. Maybe he could delegate them.
    But the greats knew how to handle their patients. Look at the superstar neurologist Oliver Sacks. Patients adored him, stayed in touch for the rest of their lives. Paul recalled an interview in which Sacks said he loved to find the potential in people who “weren’t thought to have any.” That noble sentiment had haunted him since. Surely his commitment to medicine showed that he cared in his own way. Was it his job to deal with magical thinking too?
    •   •   •
    A ND THEN TO T ASSO S TREET. Veblen had that tendency to try to coax some desired outcome from anything he told her, her faceas bright as a daffodil, overpowering him with good cheer. She met him at the door and gave him a kiss. “So, how’d it go?”
    “We’ll see,” he said.
    “How’s your assistant? What’s she like?”
    “Seems efficient.” He went to wash his hands in the sink. His lifelong habit, on the hour. Wash