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“Sara,” he said, “what were you doing at the hospital today?”
She hesitated. “I didn’t want to say anything to you until I was sure.”
Michael sat up, his voice unsettled. “Sure about what? Are you okay?”
She nodded. His concerned, tender gaze plucked at her heart. “You know about my time of the month?”
“I guess so,” he replied. “It was pretty well covered in seventh grade health class.”
She chuckled but the anxiety still would not leave Michael’s face. “Well, mine is six weeks late.”
His eyes widened. “You’re pregnant?”
“I don’t know yet. The test results should be back in a few hours.”
“Jesus, Sara, why didn’t you tell me?”
She sat next to him on the bed and took his hand in hers. “I didn’t want to get either of our hopes up if it was just another false alarm. I hate to see the disappointment in your face . . .” She turned away, but Michael gently tilted her face back toward him.
“Sara, I love you. Not being able to have kids is not going to change that.”
She nestled her face into his chest. “Mean it?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, mean it.”
“You got a lemon when you married me.”
“Yeah, but a pretty foxy lemon. Great in the sack too.”
“Fresh. You’re supposed to be sick.”
“I can still have a lewd thought now and again. Doctor said it’s good for me.”
“Funny, I didn’t hear him say that.”
“What did you hear him say?”
“Something about the fact that your skin was jaundiced and you may have hepatitis.”
“Well, is it true? Does my skin look jaundiced?”
She examined him. “You look like a Ticonderoga pencil.”
“Thanks.”
“But a cute pencil.”
There was a sharp knock on the door and then Sara’s father peeked his head through the opening. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Come in,” Michael called out. “I could use all the doctors I can get ahold of.”
John Lowell entered the room. He was of average height and extraordinarily good-looking. His neatly parted, full head of gray hair was the very definition of distinguished. His face boasted cheeks that dimpled when he smiled and a cleft chin, but one’s gaze was immediately drawn to his eyes—eyes as bright green as Sara’s. He crossed the room, kissed Sara, and shook Michael’s hand. “I think I’m a little out of my field of expertise here. Who examined you?”
“Harvey and Eric—you remember my friend Eric Blake?”
“Of course. I hear he is working with Dr. Riker at . . . at the clinic.”
John Lowell’s face shadowed at the mention of the clinic. Sara and Michael both noticed it. Michael decided to let it slide; Sara did not.
“Yes, he is,” Sara said. “The clinic is making marvelous progress.”
“Good,” her father said, his tone clearly ending any discussion of the clinic. “Now, then, Michael, what seems to be the problem with you?”
“They’re running some test, but they think it’s hepatitis.”
“What specialist is Harvey recommending?”
“Dr. Sagarel.”
John nodded his approval. “Good man. Listen to what Sagarel says, Michael, not those two epidemiologist friends of yours.”
Sara said, “You know Harvey Riker is an exceptional physician, one of the top men in his field.”
“I’m sure that is so—”
“And the clinic is on the threshold of a major breakthrough in the war against AIDS.”
“I’m happy to hear that,” John replied without enthusiasm. “The sooner, the better. We need those funds elsewhere.”
“How can you say that?”
“Let’s not start this again, okay?” he said. “It is a simple question of economics.”
“Economics?” Sara repeated. “Economics is more important than saving lives?”
“Please do not use that preachy, simplistic argument on me,” her father replied evenly. “I’ve used it too often myself in front of Senate subcommittees to fall for it now. The truth of the matter is that only X amount of dollars goes into health care and medical research. X amount. Period. Some goes to the Heart Association, some to my own Cancer Center, and then there is muscular dystrophy, rheumatoid arthritis, senior citizens, whatever. We all compete for funds. Now AIDS comes along and gets an astronomical—not to mention disproportional—slice of that pie.”
“You make it sound like some sort of contest,” Sara said. “Doesn’t compassion—”
“This is the real world,” her father interrupted. “In the real world you have to deal with economic realities. Fact is, every dollar spent on AIDS is taken away from those other organizations.”
“Wrong,” a voice pronounced. John Lowell turned. Harvey Riker stood in the doorway. “Donations toward AIDS research are often raised separately,” Harvey continued.
“Some, perhaps,” Lowell replied, “but Liz Taylor and her friends can just as easily hold garage sales for the Heart Association or the Cancer Center. And let me ask you, Dr. Riker, who is the major contributor to your clinic here at the hospital?”
Harvey paused. “The federal government and the hospital board.”
“And where would that money go if not to your clinic? Toward the cure of cancer or arthritis or heart disease, that’s where. Many people will die of AIDS this year, but how many thousands more will die from either cancer or heart disease? Innocent victims who do not indulge in self-destructive and immoral activities—”
“Listen to yourself,” Harvey interrupted. “You sound like Reverend Sanders.”
Lowell stepped toward Harvey, his eyes blazing. “I don’t know Sanders personally, but don’t you ever compare me to that money-hungry pig, do you understand? And stop playing the naive academic. You know that there have to be priorities in medical research—to deny that is to deny reality. Some illnesses have to take precedence over others.”
“And you don’t think AIDS should be a priority case?”
“The disease is almost one hundred percent preventable, Dr. Riker. Can you say the same about cancer? About heart disease? About arthritis? That’s why I voted against funding your clinic at the board meeting. Innocent people—people who weren’t screwing strange men behind sleazy bars or jamming needles filled with poison into their veins—are killed in horrifying ways. People who weren’t engaging in sexual acts that boggle the mind—you’re not stupid, Dr. Riker. You know that the gay community ignored all the warning signs. Epstein-Barr ran rampant through them, but they ignored it. Cytomegalovirus and a host of other viruses infected a frighteningly high percentage of the gay community, but they chose to maintain their wanton lifestyles.”
