Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer

that it was impossible to read.
    “You mean originally?” the man responded. “Australia originally. But I’ve been here in the U.S. since I was a child. You have a very astute ear, Mr. Bevins.”
    “I taught English before I got sick.”
    “Aha. I see,” Turner said, glancing swiftly at the door, which he had partially closed on his way in. “Well, then, shall we get on with this?”
    “Just be careful of my shunt.”
    Turner lifted Joe’s right forearm, and gently ran his fingers over the dialysis shunt—the firm, distended vessel created by joining an artery and vein. His fingers were long and finely manicured, and Joe had the passing thought that the man played piano, and played it well.
    “We’ll use your other arm,” Turner said. He tightened a latex tourniquet three inches above Joe’s elbow, and took much less time than most technicians did to locate a suitable vein. “You seem to take all this in stride; I like that,” he said as he gloved, then swabbed the skin over the vein with alcohol.
    “All those doctors don’t keep me alive,” Joe said. “My attitude does.”
    “I believe you. I’m going to use a small butterfly IV needle. It’s much gentler on your vein.”
    Before Joe could respond, the fine needle, attached to a thin, clear-plastic catheter, was in. Blood pushed into the catheter. Turner attached a syringe to the end of the catheter and injected a small amount of clear liquid.
    “This is just to clear the line,” he said.
    He waited for perhaps fifteen seconds. Then he drew a syringeful of blood, pulled the tiny needle out, and held the small puncture site firmly.
    “Perfect. Just perfect,” he said. “Are you okay?”
    I’m fine
.
    Joe was certain he had said the words, but he heard nothing. The man standing beside his bed kept smilingdown at him benevolently, all the while keeping pressure on the spot where the butterfly needle had been.
    I’m fine
, Joe tried again.
    Turner released his arm, and placed the used needle and tube in the metal basket.
    “Good day, Mr. Bevins,” he said. “You’ve been most cooperative.”
    With the first icy fingers of panic beginning to take hold, Joe watched as the man turned and left the room. He felt strange, detached, floating. The air in the room was becoming thick and heavy. Something was happening to him. Something horrible. He called out for help, but again there was no sound. He tried to turn his head, to find the call button. From the corner of his eye, he could see the cord, hanging down toward the floor. He was paralyzed—unable to move or even to take in a breath. The call button was no more than three feet away. He strained to move his hand toward it, but his arm was lifeless. The air grew heavier still, and Joe felt his consciousness beginning to go. He was dying, drowning in air. And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.
    The pattern on the drop ceiling blurred, then darkened, then faded to black. And with the deepening darkness, Joe’s panic began to fade.
    From beyond the nearly closed door to his room, he heard the sound of the cart from dietary being wheeled to the kitchen at the far end of the hallway. Next he caught the aroma of food.
    And after twenty-one hospitalizations at Parkside, most of them on Pavilion 5, he knew that it was exactly eleven-fifteen.
    *   *   *
    Seven of the ten chairs in Harry’s waiting room were occupied, although three of them were taken by the grandchildren of Mabel Espinoza. Mabel, an octogenarian, graced him with the smile that no amount of pain or personal tragedy had ever erased for long. She had high blood pressure,vascular disease, hypothyroidism, fluid retention, a love affair with rich foods, and chronic gastritis, For years, Harry had been holding her together with the medical equivalent of spit and baling wire. Somehow, the therapeutic legerdemain continued to work. And because of it, Mabel had been able to care for the grandchildren, and her