Miracle Cure Read Free Page B

and Jack’s shaky medical situation made a move too far away from eastern Massachusetts out of the question. So Brian had done what he could, responding to ads in the cardiology press and the
New England Journal of Medicine
and sending out at least two dozen resumés. He had networked until he had absorbed more than his quota of rejections, and had seen colleagues he thought were his friends turn away. He had even placed an ad himself.
    Former chief of cardiology and cath-lab director at Boston-area hospital seeks group practice in eastern Mass, Rhode Island, southern New Hampshire .
    No job, no license. No license, no job. Catch-22.
    Now, for the past month, he had simply stopped trying. He had stepped back and begun to mull over other directions in which his life might be ready to go. The process hadn’t been easy, but there was one saving grace. Rarely, in all these frustrating months of rejection and disappointment, had he thought about drinking or taking pills.
    “You ready, Pop?”
    “You go on and get that top down. I’ll be right there.”
    Jack Holbrook headed slowly toward the bathroom. When he heard the front door open and close, he quickly braced himself against the wall, fighting to slow his breathing as a skewer of pain bored up to his jaws from beneath his breastbone. He fumbled the vial of nitroglycerin from his shirt pocket and dissolved one under his tongue. Half a minute later, the pain began to subside. He wiped beaded sweat from his upper lip and took a long, grateful breath.
    “Jack, everything okay?” Brian called from the front steps.
    “Yeah, fine, Brian. Everything’s fine.”
    The Towne Deli was a trendy little place on Boylston with a fine salad bar and nine-dollar sandwiches. Brian dropped his father off in front and spent ten minutes finding a parking space. Jack’s condo was in Reading, a working-class suburb that straddled Route 128 northwest of the city. The ride in, beneath brilliant late-afternoon sun, was as much of a joy on Sunday as it was a nightmare during the typical morning commute. And Brian’s three-year-old red LeBaron, by far the best thing he retained after the divorce, was the perfect car for the day.
    During the drive, Brian knew that Jack wanted information. Any job prospects? Any new word from the board? Any interesting women? But perhaps in honor of the warmth of the day and the peace between them, his dad kept his thoughts to himself. Brian, too, avoided the inflammatory topic of his father’s health. Instead, they alternated between sports and silence.
    Brian entered the Towne Deli and spotted his father at a small table in the corner. For a few seconds, he stood by the front door, studying what remained of the man whohad so dominated the first two decades of his life. From almost the day Brian took his first step, Coach was there, monitoring his diet, social life, and workouts, creating what he believed would be one of the great quarterbacks. And save for one play, he might have succeeded.
    Jack sat motionless, staring down at the menu. Then, almost subconsciously, he began rubbing at his chest and up toward his neck. Brian hurried across to him. Beneath his tan, Jack was ashen. His eyes were glazed.
    “Jack, what’s going on? Are you having pain?”
    Jack Holbrook took a breath through his nose and nodded.
    “Some,” he managed in a half-grunt.
    Brian checked the carotid pulses on either side of Jack’s neck. They were regular, but thready. A sheen of sweat had formed across his forehead.
    “Jesus,” Brian whispered. “Jack, do you have your nitro?”
    Jack produced the bottle from his shirt pocket.
    “Shouldn’t have come into Boston,” he said hoarsely.
    “Nonsense,” Brian said, sensing the strange, paradoxical calmness that for many years now had been his response to a medical crisis. “It wouldn’t have made any difference. Come on, Pop. I’m going to sit you over here on the floor and give you one of your nitros. Do you still have that