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“The patients kept complaining she was too young.”

“Of course they did.” I locked my eyes on his face. This had to be a joke. I can usually break a man’s resolve just by staring at him. This kid was about to crack. I could feel it.

“So what made you choose Dana?” I said.

“Dana’s the oldest nurse on the ward.”

“Is she,” I said, thinking, any nurse younger than Dana would have to be wearing a training bra.

“Dana will be just fine,” Dr. Hedgepeth said, “but there’s a learning curve, you see.”

I decided to move things along.

“Are you doing the heart cath or shall I look forward to meeting your grandson, the Chief of Surgery?”

“No need to be contentious,” he said.

“Contentious,” I said, wondering if that had been one of his spelling bee words.

“Performing a heart catheterization would be premature at this point,” he said. “You’re relatively young, you’re in great physical shape, your blood pressure’s excellent, your EKG is perfect, and the tests we’ve done showed none of the classic heart attack symptoms.”

“So what happens now?”

“We do a Cardiolite stress test. If that comes back normal, I’d advise you to get the hell out of here as soon as possible.”

“Why’s that?”

“You can get sick faster in a hospital than almost anyplace on earth.”

I was beginning to like Dr. Hedgepeth. “So I don’t need a heart cath?”

“I don’t think so. What you probably need is a couple of hours and a bathroom.”

“A bathroom.”

“Your problem could be acute heartburn, a precursor of food poisoning. Did you eat something of questionable origin recently?”

I thought about the beef burrito I’d choked down at the Horse Head Inn a few hours ago. And realized “beef ” didn’t necessarily mean cow.

“Could you have eaten something truly vile and shortly thereafter engaged in some form of physical activity?”

I thought about the Peterson sisters.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve had heartburn before. But this pain was severe, and emanated from the center of my chest.”

“Hey, we can always do the heart cath if you want. I mean, the hospital would love to pick up another thirty grand today. Ten times that, if we manage to poke a hole in your artery while performing the procedure."

I frowned. "Is that type of complication likely?"

"How to put this delicately," Dr. Hedgepeth said. "Our cath guy seems to be a cardiologist, but according to law he doesn't have to be a surgeon. He's from India and appears very bright, but he's quite young and his experience with heart caths is limited."

"How limited?"

"You'd be his cherry."

“Uh huh. Heartburn, you say?"

"Acute heartburn, yes. That, coupled with physical stress, could certainly produce the types of symptoms you’ve experienced.”

I understood why he’d said it, but I’ve always had a cast-iron stomach. In years of testing weapons for the Army, I’ve had to swallow pills that made Horse Head burritos seem like Saltines.

“If the stress test comes back clean, what should I do?" I said.

"Go home and spend some quality time bonding with your toilet.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

Dr. Hedgepeth hesitated. “Do you currently see a psychiatrist?”

I frowned. “You think I’m imagining this pain?”

“I believe the pain is very real. But you appear to be the sort of man who can handle a great deal of pain.”

If you only knew, I thought, wondering if I should tell Hedgepeth that I’d been testing torture weapons for the Army for years. In the end I decided to just say, “I’ve certainly never had a problem handling heartburn in the past.”

“Well, the pain’s coming from someplace,” he said, “and I’m almost certain it’s not the heart. But the heart is what I do, so we’ll test that first. Then the toilet, then the brain.”

“Okay, I’m sold,” I said. “What’s the first step to this Cardiolite thing?”

Dr. Hedgepeth, without the slightest trace of a smirk, said: “We need to get an IV started.”

Then he walked to the doorway and yelled for Dana.

Chapter 5

I was still in the hospital, back in my street clothes, awaiting the results of the stress test. With time on my hands, I decided to break hospital rules and make a call on my cell phone. Kimberly answered on the first ring.

“Daddy!” she squealed.

“You sound almost too happy,” I said.

“Does it show?”

Oh oh, I thought. She’s in love. “Does what show?”

“I’m in love!”

“You’re too young,” I said, instinctively.

“Oh, Father,” she said. “I’m a junior in High School.”

“That’s young. Anyway, you’re not a junior until next semester.”

“A technicality,” she said, “seeing as how school starts in ten days.”

I sighed.

“His name’s Charlie,” she said.

“Please tell me it’s not Charlie Manson.”

On the other end of the phone, in Darnell, West Virginia, my daughter giggled.

We spent the next fifteen minutes talking about books we’d read, music we liked, and summer vacations we hoped to take someday. I asked her how serious her relationship with Charlie was, and she changed the subject.

“Has Mom called you?” she said.

“Not recently.”

“She will.”

I groaned. “What now?”