Free Pascal's Wager by Nancy Rue Page B

inevitable.”
    â€œInevitable? That couple had a decision to make. Onlybecause the ID docs saw inconsistencies—inconsistencies you should have caught—did they send a sample to another lab.”
    â€œI know. It came back negative. Bravo for the couple.”
    â€œWhy did another lab beyond Stanford have to find our mistake, Liz? It’s unconscionable. What if that couple had elected to terminate the pregnancy? They would have done it on the basis of your report. We’d be responsible for the abortion of a perfectly normal baby.”
    Here we go
, I thought.
She’s going to get him on improper terminology or something—
    I waited. It didn’t happen. There was a killing silence in the office.
    â€œIt’s not the first major mistake that has come out of this office in the last two months, Liz,” Ted said finally. “My question is this: Is it going to be the
last?”
    â€œYou’ll have to answer that one,” Liz said. “I’m going to lunch.”
    I didn’t even have a chance to back away from the door before she pushed it open. She didn’t look at all as if she’d just lost an argument—probably the first one in her professional life. She just appeared puzzled to see me there.
    â€œOh,” she said. “Oh, yes. We’re having lunch.”
    She headed off down the hall at a stiff march, and her petite form was immediately lost in the sea of white coats. I got to her just as she was about to step into the line in the cafeteria. I looked at the myriad of shoulders in surgical scrubs and shook my head.
    â€œCome on—let’s get out of here,” I said. “It’s way too crowded.” And too public. What I had to say, she wasn’t going to want to hear amid her colleagues.
    I had to move at a dead run to keep up with her as she turned abruptly and headed for the front entrance, lab coat flying out behind her. Was it me, I thought, or was she becoming more unkempt every time I saw her? She was wearing a pair of black slacks and the brown loafers she normally only put on to go outand get the newspaper off the front lawn.
    Her Mercedes wasn’t in much better shape. It was a cream-colored ’85 she’d bought from one of the doctors when he retired. He reminded her of my grandfather or something; it was one of the few sentimental things I’d ever known her to do—that and the way she normally had the thing groomed every week. There was no evidence of that now. I had to move a pair of shoes and several empty Burger King cups before I could sit in the passenger seat.
    Since when did you start drinking soda?
I wanted to say. I managed to withhold comment, though. I had to stay in the right compartment—and that one was going to be hard enough. I’d be lucky if she didn’t shove me out of the car the minute I started talking about it.
    I tried for about the umpteenth time since last night to get my words organized, but it was pointless. The scene I’d overheard between her and Ted Lyons had given the thing a whole new twist. Other people
were
noticing—people who had a real impact on her career.
    â€œLook, Mother,” I said finally, “I heard what happened with Ted. The door was open, and, to be honest, I listened.”
    She looked at me vaguely and pulled the Mercedes out of the parking lot and onto Pasteur Drive. She didn’t pick up any of the CDs in the console and stick them in the player as she was wont to do.
    â€œAnd your point is?” she said.
    â€œMy point is, it sounds like things aren’t going particularly well.”
    â€œThings are going perfectly fine. What are you talking about?”
    I watched her closely. Her square face was as untroubled as ever.
    â€œTed doesn’t seem to think they’re ‘fine,’” I said. “From the way he sounded, you could have caused somebody a personal disaster, not to mention the hospital a