By My Hands by Alton Gansky Page A

away. We’ve got
to get this press conference pulled together.”
    Without another word Mary turned and left the
office. Morgan returned his gaze to the scene below his window. As
he watched, another van with a large microwave dish antenna and the
call letters of a local television news station pulled into the
parking lot.
    “Maggots,” he said with disgust.
     
    Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 10:15
A.M.
    RACHEL WAS NEARLY FINISHED with morning rounds when
she heard her name paged over the hospital’s public address system.
Leaving a patient’s room on third floor west, she went to the
nursing station, picked up the handset on the phone, punched
two-two, and then waited for the switchboard operator to answer.
After receiving her message, she dialed Dr. Morgan’s number.
    “Administration.”
    “This is Dr. Tremaine.”
    “One moment please, I’ll connect you with Dr.
Morgan’s administrative assistant.”
    Rachel could hear the connection being made.
    “Dr. Morgan’s office, Mary Rivers speaking.” Mary’s
voice was pleasant and cheerful.
    “This is Dr. Tremaine,” Rachel said dryly.
    “Oh, good, Dr. Tremaine. Dr. Morgan would like to
see you as soon as your schedule allows. For what time should I
schedule you?”
    Rachel wondered what would happen if she said that
her schedule didn’t allow for an unplanned meeting.
    Before Rachel could respond, Mary added, “I’ve
checked with surgery and noticed that you have nothing scheduled
for this afternoon.” Rachel felt a twinge of anger at having her
schedule “investigated,” but she knew that antagonizing her
employer wouldn’t be wise. “I have two more patients to see on my
rounds. That will take about forty minutes. I could be there at
12:15.”
    “Just a moment, please.” Rachel was put on hold. She
realized that it was useless to feel irritated at being made to
wait. After all, waiting was a part of life—certainly the medical
life; nonetheless, the irritation was there.
    “Dr. Morgan says he will not be free until 1:00,”
the voice came back. “Will that be convenient?”
    “One o’clock will be fine,” Rachel said, concealing
her frustration. “We’ll see you then,” Mary said, and promptly hung
up. Rachel stared at the disconnected phone for a moment, feeling
angry that she had been hung up on. There was nothing else to be
said; yet, she somehow felt slighted. After a few moments
reflection she decided that Mary Rivers wasn’t worth her
concern.
     
    Wednesday, March 4, 1992; 12:57
P.M.
    AT THREE MINUTES TO ONE Rachel stepped from the
staff elevator that opened into a large reception area. A large
pair of doors directly behind the receptionist bore the name, “Dr.
Evan Morgan, M.D.”
    The receptionist looked at Rachel as she stepped
from the elevator. “Good afternoon. How may I help you.”
    “I’m Dr. Tremaine.”
    “Of course, you have a 1 o’clock appointment. Dr.
Morgan’s office is through that door. Miss Rivers will help you
from there.” Turning the handle, Rachel crossed the threshold and
closed the door behind her. Although she had met Dr. Morgan on
several occasions, usually at staff meetings, she had never been in
his office. The plush surroundings astounded her. Seated behind a
large oak desk was a woman with shoulder-length brown hair and
dark, penetrating eyes. Her complexion was light and contrasted
with the darkness of her hair. She wore just enough makeup to
highlight her features. She was gorgeous. This appraisal was
maintained when the woman rose from her chair. Her body, clad in a
red knit dress with a broad, black waist belt, would have pleased
any fashion photographer.
    “I’m Mary Rivers, Dr. Tremaine. Won’t you please sit
down? Dr. Morgan shouldn’t be a moment.” With that Mary turned and
disappeared behind another door.
    While she waited, Rachel took in the room. The walls
were covered with teak paneling. The plush carpet and furnishings
were all in earth tones. A computer terminal had been