The Touch Read online

  I can do it! Alan thought as he drove home.

  He could no longer doubt that he’d come to possess some sort of healing power. Tonight’s episode proved it. Cunningham’s scalp had been hanging open, bleeding like crazy, and he’d put his hand over it and changed it to a scratch.

  Eleven P.M…. he’d made a mental note of the time it happened.

  Sonja Andersen and Henrietta Westin weren’t freak coincidences. He could do it! But how to control it? How to use it when he wanted to?

  Ginny’s voice broke through.

  “Josie and Terri won’t believe tonight when I tell them about it!”

  “Won’t believe what?” Alan said, suddenly alert to what she was saying. Had she seen? If she had, they could talk about it without him sounding crazy. He desperately needed to share this with someone who believed.

  “The party! All those celebrities! And the fight between Cunningham and Switzer! Everything!”

  “Oh, that.” He was disappointed. Obviously she hadn’t seen.

  He thought Ba might have seen what had happened, but perhaps he hadn’t quite believed his eyes. That would be the normal reaction—disbelief. Which was why Alan had to keep this to himself. If he couldn’t quite believe what was happening, how could he expect anyone else to accept it?

  “You know,” Ginny was saying, “I can’t figure that Sylvia. She seems hard as nails, yet she took in that little retarded boy and cares for him by herself. I just don’t—”

  “Jeffy’s not retarded. He’s autistic.”

  “Just about the same thing, right?”

  “Not really. Most autistic kids score poorly on intelligence tests, but their autism may get in the way of their testing. I have a sense that Jeffy might be pretty bright.” He gave her a quick summary of the latest theories, then said, “Sylvia once showed me a photo of a house he’d built out of blocks. So I know there’s intelligence in that boy: It’s just locked away.”

  Ginny was staring at him. “That’s the most you’ve said in days!”

  “Is it? I hadn’t realized. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay. You’ve been only a little bit more preoccupied than usual. I’m used to it by now.”

  “Again, sorry.”

  “But back to our hostess: How did she come to adopt that little boy? I asked her but she never got around to answering me. As a matter of fact, I got the distinct impression she avoided answering.”

  Alan shrugged. “I don’t know, either. I figure it’s something she doesn’t feel is anybody else’s business.”

  “But isn’t there something that can be done for him?”

  “Every known therapy has been tried.”

  “With all her money, I’m surprised she doesn’t take him to see some bigwig pediatrician in the city—” She stopped abruptly.

  Alan finished for her. “Instead of making do with a local family doc?” he said with a sour smile.

  Ginny looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean that at all.”

  “It’s okay.”

  Alan was not angry, nor was he hurt. He had developed a thick skin on this topic. He knew Ginny wished that he’d specialized in some field, any field, of medicine. She said she wanted it for him so he wouldn’t have to work such long hours, but he knew the real reason. All her friends were the wives of specialists, and she’d come to think of a family doctor as the bottom of the medical pecking order.

  “I didn’t,” she said quickly. “I simply—Alan! That’s our street!”

  Alan braked and pulled in toward the curb.

  “Are you all right?” Ginny asked, genuine concern on her face. “Were you drinking much?”

  “I’m fine,” Alan said in a meticulously steady voice. “Just fine.”

  Ginny said nothing as he backed the car along the deserted road and turned into their street. Alan didn’t understand how he could have missed the turn. He’d been paying attention to the road. He’d even seen the street sign. He simply hadn’t recognized it. And he hadn’t the vaguest notion why not.

  10

  Alan

  Alan spent all day Sunday aching to get to the office to see if he could make the power work again. Finally morning came and he was chafing to get started.

  It was 8:00 a.m. He was going to be scientific about this—get all the data down as it happened: dates, times, names, places, diagnoses. He had fresh batteries in his microcassette recorder. He was ready for his first patient and his first miracle of the day.

  No such luck.

  His first three patients consisted of an elderly couple, each with stable hypertension, and a woman with mild, diet-controlled, type II diabetes. He had no ready means of confirming a cure with these diagnoses. He wouldn’t feel right telling the first two to stop their medications, nor could he tell the third to throw away her 1500-calorie diet and rush down to Carvel’s for a hot fudge sundae.

  He needed an acute illness or injury. It came with the fourth patient.

  Six-year-old Chris Bolland was home from school because of a sore throat and a fever of 101.6 degrees. Alan looked in the child’s throat and saw a white exudate coating both tonsils: tonsillitis.

  “Again?” said Mrs. Bolland. “Why don’t we take them out?”

  Alan glanced back through the chart. “This is only his third episode in the past year. Not enough to warrant that. But let’s try something.”

  He swung around behind Chris and placed his fingertips lightly over the swollen glands below the angles of the jaw. He concentrated—on what, exactly, he did not know; but he tried thinking of a nice pink, healthy throat with normal-sized tonsils; tried willing that ideal throat into little Chris.

  But no outcry from Chris, no tingle in Alan’s fingers and arms. Nothing.

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the mother looking at him strangely. He cleared his throat, adjusted the earpieces of his stethoscope, and began listening to Chris’ lungs, hiding the frustration that welled up in him.

  Failure.

  Why was this power, if it really existed, so damn capricious? What made it work?

  He dutifully dictated a brief, whispered account into his recorder.

  His next patient was an unscheduled emergency. Marla Springer—a new patient, twenty-three years old, brought in by a neighbor who had been coming to Alan for a long time—had cut her right hand earlier this morning. After half an hour of applying ice and direct pressure, the wound was still bleeding. Denise immediately placed her in an empty examining room.

  Alan examined Marla’s hand and found a crescent-shaped laceration, an inch from end to end, on the fleshy edge of the palm below the fifth finger. Blood was oozing slowly but steadily from under the flap of cut skin. He noticed the hand was cold. He looked at the woman and saw the pallor of her face, her tight features, her lower lip trapped between her teeth.

  “Hurt much, Marla?”

  She shook her head. “No. But it won’t stop bleeding!”

  “Sure it will—as soon as I get through with it.” He could feel some of the tension go out of her as she realized she wasn’t about to bleed to death. Now to use a little razzle-dazzle to get her confidence. “And maybe you can use this as an excuse to talk your husband into getting you a dishwasher. Or if not that, at least a sponge with a handle.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this is what you get for trying to get the bottom of the glass spotless.”

  Her eyes widened. “How did you know?”

  Alan winked at her. “My secret.”

  What he didn’t say was that he’d seen dozens of similar wounds over the years, all from the same cause: a bit too much vigor in washing out the inside of a water glass, causing it to shatter and cut either the index finger or the edge of the palm.

  As he had her lie back and relax, Alan realized that he’d been presented with a perfect opportunity to test the power. It had worked on a much larger laceration Saturday night; there should be no problem with a little cut like this. He glanced at his watch:
9:36 a.m. He wanted to document everything as accurately as possible.

  He pressed the flap of skin tightly closed and wished-hoped-prayed for the wound to heal. He held it there for a good twenty seconds, but felt no shock, no rush of ecstasy. He released the pressure and examined the wound.

  The edges of the cut were closed together in a thin crimson line with no sign of further bleeding. Alan felt exultation swell toward bursting—

  —and then the wound edges gapped and fresh blood began to flow again.

  He’d done nothing.

  “Are you going to use a needle to numb it up?” Marla Springer asked.

  “Getting ready to do just that,” Alan said, swallowing the bitter disappointment as he reached for the Xylocaine bottle next to the suturing set.

  Another failure.

  But he wasn’t giving up. As soon as he finished here, he’d go into his consultation room, dictate the failure, and move on to the next patient.

  (Transcribed from microcassette)

  Monday, April 12.

  10:18 a.m.

  MARIE EMMETT: 58-yr-old white female hypertensive on Zestoretic 20/12.5 BID. Bp = 136/84. Says “I think I’ve got shingles.” She’s right. Typical vesiculating rash on left flank along T-10 dermatome. Placed hand over the rash and wished it gone. Tried x 3. No change. Rash still present. No decrease in pain.

  10:47 a.m.

  AMY BRISCO: 11-year-old asthmatic. Mother states child short of breath all night. Auscultation reveals tight expiratory wheezing throughout lungs. Placed right hand on front of chest, left hand over back, and squeezed, willing lungs to loosen up and clear. No change other than odd expression on her mother’s face. Probably thinks I’ve gone a little strange. Bronchospasm sounded as tight as before. Started usual therapy—0.2 cc of aqueous epinephrine subcutaneously, etc.

  11:02 a.m.

  CHANDLER DEKKS: 66-yr-old white male with bilateral lower limb deep and superficial varicosities; severe associated stasis dermatitis. Presents with 2 × 2 cm. ulceration on posterior aspect of left lower leg of approximately 1 week’s duration. Examined carefully, all the time wishing and willing it to heal/fill in/disappear. No change. Prescribed usual treatment.

  11:15 a.m.

  JOY LEIBOV: 16-year-old white female. Unscheduled appointment. Helped in by father and brother after injury to right ankle during high school intramural soccer game. Typical inversion injury with swelling, tenderness, and ecchymosis in area of lateral malleolus. Cupped my hands around the ankle—gently—and willed the damn thing to heal. No change. Nothing!

  This is idiotic.

  (end of transcription)

  Alan pushed all thoughts of mystical healing powers from his mind as he struggled to keep up with the patient load for the rest of the morning. He didn’t do too badly. He stepped into the room with his last patient, scheduled for noon, at 12:30.

  He saw Stuart Thompson sitting on the edge of the examining table looking worried. Alan immediately knew something was wrong. Stu was a forty-two-year-old construction worker with tattoos on both arms and moderate essential hypertension. He was the macho sort who never let his feelings show, never admitted a frailty. If not for his wife virtually putting the medication in his mouth every morning and badgering him to get checkups, his blood pressure would have remained untreated all these years.

  If Stuart Thompson looked the slightest bit frightened on the outside, it meant he was absolutely terrified on the inside.

  “I ain’t no pussy, Doc, but somebody said this thing on my back looks like cancer and it’s got me spooked. Take a look at it and tell me it’s okay.”

  “Sure thing. Lie on your stomach and we’ll see.”

  Alan bit his lip when he saw what Stu was talking about. It looked bad: a blue-black lesion on the left scapula, measuring about two centimeters across, with an irregular border and an uneven surface.

  Alan’s thoughts were ranging in all directions as he leaned closer over Stu’s back. This thing had to be removed, probably with a wide excision, and as soon as possible too. He was trying to think of a way to phrase his suspicions without shooting Stu’s blood pressure through the ceiling when he lightly touched a fingertip to the dark area.

  The now-familiar feeling raced up his arm as Stu arched his back.

  “Shit, Doc!”

  “Sorry,” Alan said quickly. “Just seeing how sensitive it is.”

  Alan stared at the man’s back. The lesion was gone—not a trace of pigment left in the area.

  He looked at his hand. So many unanswered questions, but they sank in the exultation of knowing that he still had the power.

  “Well, now that you know,” Stu said, “what are you going to do—amputate my back?” The tone was sarcastic but Alan sensed the fear beneath.

  “No,” Alan said, thinking fast. “I’m just going to burn off that ugly little wart you’ve got there, and then you can try out for Mr. Universe.”

  “A wart? Is that all?” There was profound relief in his voice.

  “It’s nothing,” Alan said, realizing he was literally telling the truth. “I’ll get the hyfrecator and we’ll have this done in a minute.”

  Alan stepped outside the room and took a deep breath. All he had to do was anesthetize the area, make a little burn where the lesion had been, and send the unsuspecting Stuart Thompson home cured of a malignant melanoma. That way he could avoid any difficult questions.

  Then he heard Stu’s voice from the other side of the door.

  “Hey! It’s gone! Hey, Doc! It’s gone!”

  Alan stuck his head back into the room and saw Stu examining his back in the mirror.

  “What are you? Some kinda miracle worker?”

  “Naw,” Alan said, swallowing and trying to smile. “It must have fallen off. That’s the way it is with warts sometimes…they just…fall off.”

  Alan brushed off the ensuing questions, all the while minimizing what had happened, and ushered the puzzled but happy man from the examining room.

  He ran to the next examining room—empty! The ceiling light was off and the room was clean and ready for the afternoon patients.

  But the afternoon would be too late! He needed somebody now, not later! He was hot! The power was on and he wanted to use it before it left him again! Denise and Connie were getting ready to go for lunch. Both were in excellent health. There was nothing he could do for them.

  He turned in a slow circle, wanting to laugh, wanting to shout his frustration. He felt like a millionaire who had decided to give his fortune to the needy but could find only other millionaires.

  For want of anything better to do, he rushed into his office and picked up the little recorder. He had to get all the details down while they were fresh. He thumbed the record button, opened his mouth…and stopped.

  Funny…he couldn’t think of the patient’s name. He could picture his face perfectly, but his name was lost. He glanced down at the appointment sheet. There it was in the last slot: Stuart Thompson. Of course. Amazing how a little excitement could jumble the mind.

  He began dictating—time, age and condition of the patient, his own feelings at the time. Everything.

  He was going to cage this power, learn everything there was to know about it, train it, bend it to his will, and make damn good use of it.

  In the back of his head he heard Tony Williams of the Platters singing, “You-oo-oo’ve got the maaaaagic touch!”

  MAY

  11

  Charles Axford

  McCready had invited him to the upper office for another of what the senator liked to call “informal chats.” Charles called them pumping sessions.

  Which was just what they were. As namesake of the foundation, McCready seemed to feel it was his prerogative to sit with his director of neurological research and quiz him on the latest developments in the field. Perhaps it was. But Charles knew the Foundation was the furthest thing from the senator’s mind when he asked about neurological diseases. The interest was strictly personal.


  As he waited for the senator, he spotted the Times headline about the strange wilt on Staten Island. The news shows weren’t talking about anything else. He wandered to the huge windows that formed the outer walls of the corner office. If he leaned his head against the panes of the left wall, he could see Park Avenue and its flowering islands twenty stories below.

  The door opened and McCready hobbled in. He fell into the big padded chair behind his desk. He wasn’t looking good at all these days. His features sagged more than usual, and he had to tilt his head back in order to see past his drooping upper eyelids. Charles made a quick mental calculation: Six months and he’ll be in a wheelchair.

  He’d known the man all these years; he owed his present economic security and prestigious position to him; yet he found he could not dredge up a bloody ounce of pity for James A. McCready. He wondered why. Perhaps it was because he knew what drove this man who’d been born with more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. He’d been present during some of the senator’s most unguarded moments, and had seen the naked power lust shine through. Here was a man who could be President merely by choosing to run. Yet he could not run, and Charles was one of the few people in the world who knew the reason.

  Maybe it was all for the best. Men like McCready had brought Great Britain to the edge of economic ruin; perhaps Charles’ adoptive country was lucky that this particular senator had an incurable disease.

  He seated himself and listened to the questions. Always the same: Any new developments? Any promising lines of research we can encourage?

  Charles gave his usual answer: No. He used the Foundation computers to keep tabs on all the medical literature worldwide. As soon as anything of the slightest potential interest to the senator showed up in the most obscure medical journal in the remotest backwater, it was flagged and brought to his attention. The senator could access the information as readily—perhaps more readily; after all, they were his computers—but preferred “a personal touch” from Charles.