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Shock

Robin Cook

The human egg cell, or oocyte, that was snared by the slight suction exerted through the blunt end of the

holding pipette was no different from its approximately five dozen siblings. It was merely the closest to

the end of the tiny glass rod when the rod came into the technician's view. The group of oocytes was

suspended in a drop of culture fluid under a thin layer of mineral oil beneath the objective of a powerful

dissecting microscope. The oil prevented evaporation. It was vitally important that the environment of

these living cells stay in an appropriate steady state. Like the others the fixated oocyte appeared healthy

with an appropriate granularity of its cytoplasm. Also like the others its chromatin, or DNA, fluoresced

under ultraviolet light like miniature fireflies in a pea-soup fog. The only evidence of the cell's earlier rude

aspiration from its developing follicle were the ragged remains of its corona radiata of granulosa cells

adherent to the comparatively dense envelope called the zona pellucida. All of the oocytes had been

yanked from their ovarian nest prematurely and then encouraged to mature in vitro. At that moment they

were ready for spermatic penetration, but that was not to be the case. These female gametes were not to

be fertilized.

Another pipette entered the visual field. This was a more lethal-appearing instrument, particularly

beneath the microscope's strong magnification. Although in reality only twenty-five millionths of a meter in

diameter, it looked like a sword with a tip beveled to needlepoint sharpness. Inexorably it closed in on

the hapless, immobile gamete and indented the cell's zona pellucida. Then with a practiced tap by the

experienced technician on the pipette's controlling micrometer, the end of the pipette was plunged into the

cell's interior. Advancing to the fluorescing DNA, a slight suction was applied to the pipette's interior and

the DNA disappeared into the glass rod.

Later, after ascertaining that the gamete and its sisters had withstood the enucleation ordeal as well as

could be expected, the cell was again immobilized. Another beveled pipette was introduced. This time

the penetration was limited to the zona pellucida, sparing the oocyte's cell membrane, and instead of

suction being applied, a tiny volume of fluid was introduced into what's known as the perivitelline space.

Along with the fluid came a single, comparatively small, spindle-shaped adult cell obtained from a buccal

scraping of an adult human's mouth.

The next step involved suspending the gametes with their paired adult epithelial cells in four milliliters of

fusion medium and placing them between the electrodes of a fusion chamber. When the gametes were all

appropriately aligned, a switch was thrown sending a ninety-volt electrical pulse through the medium for

fifteen millionths of a second. The result was the same for all the gametes. The shock caused the

membranes between the enucleated gametes and their adult cell partners to dissociate momentarily, fusing

the two cells.

Following the fusion process the cells were placed in an activation medium. Under chemical stimulation

each gamete that had been ready for fertilization prior to the removal of its DNA now worked magic with

its adopted full complement of chromosomes. Following a mysterious molecular mechanism, the adult

nuclei forsook their previous epithelial duties and reverted to their embryonic roles. After a short period

of time each gamete began to divide to form individual embryos that would soon be ready for

implantation. The donor of the adult cells had been cloned. In fact, he'd been cloned approximately sixty

times...

PROLOGUE

APRIL 6, 1999

"ARE YOU COMFORTABLE?" Dr. Paul Saunders asked his patient, Kristin Overmeyer, who lay on

the aged operating table clothed only in a backless hospital johnny. "I guess," Kristin answered, although

she was not comfortable at all. Medical environments never failed to evoke a level of anxiety in her that

was tolerable but not pleasant, and the present room was particularly disagreeable. It was an ancient

operating theater the decor of which was the absolute opposite of the sterile utilitarianism of a modern

medical facility. Its walls were surfaced in bile-green, cracked tile with dark splotches presumably from

old blood staining the grout. It looked more like a scene in a gothic horror movie set in the nineteenth

century than a room currently in use. There were also tiers of observation seats that disappeared up into

the gloom beyond the reach of the overhead surgical light. Thankfully the seats were all empty.

" 'I guess' doesn't sound too convincing," Dr. Sheila Donaldson said from the side of the operating table

opposite Dr. Saunders. She smiled down at the patient, although the only observable effect was a

crinkling at the corners of her eyes. The rest of her face was hidden behind her surgical mask and hood.

"I wish this was over," Kristin managed. At that moment, she wished she hadn't volunteered for the egg

donation. The money would provide her with a degree of financial freedom that few of her fellow

Harvard students enjoyed, but that seemed less important now. Her only consolation was that she knew

she'd soon be asleep; the minor procedure she was about to undergo would be painless. When she'd

been offered the choice of general anesthesia or local she chose the former without a moment's hesitation.

The last thing she wanted to be was awake while they pushed a foot-long aspiration needle into her belly.

"I trust we are going to be able to get this done today," Paul said sarcastically to Dr. Carl Smith, the

anesthesiologist. Paul had a lot to do that day and had scheduled only forty minutes for the upcoming

procedure. Between his experience with the operation and his facility with the instruments, he thought he

was being generous allotting forty minutes. The only holdup was Carl; Paul couldn't begin until the patient

was under, and minutes were inexorably ticking away.

Carl didn't respond. Paul was always in a hurry. Carl concentrated on taping the precordial

stethoscope's head onto Kristin's chest. He already had the IV running, the blood pressure cuff

positioned, the EKG leads attached, and the pulse oximeter in place. Satisfied with the auscultatory

sounds he heard through his earpiece, he reached over and pulled his anesthesia machine closer to

Kristin's head. All was ready.

"Okay, Kristin,' Carl said reassuringly. "As I explained to you earlier I'm going to give you a bit of 'milk

of amnesia.' Are you ready?"

"Yes," Kristen said. As far as she was concerned, the sooner the better.

"Have a good little sleep," Carl said. "The next time I'll be talking with you will be in the recovery area."

Such was Carl's usual comment to his patient just before beginning anesthesia, and indeed it was the

usual course of events. But on this occasion it was not to be. Blithely unaware that disaster was imminent,

Carl reached for the IV line where he had the anesthetic agent piggybacked. With practiced ease he gave

the patient a predetermined amount based on her weight, but on the low end of the recommended

dosage. It was the Wingate Infertility Clinic's policy for outpatient anesthesia to use the least amount

appropriate of any particular drug. The goal was to ensure the patient's same-day discharge, since the

clinic's inpatient facilities were limited.

As the induction dose of propofol entered Kristin's body, Carl dutifully watched and listened to his

monitoring devices. All seemed in order.

Sheila chuckled beneath her mask. "Milk of amnesia" was Carl's humorous sobriquet for the anesthetic

agent propofol, which was Dispensed as a white liquid, and the term never failed to tickle her funny bone.

"Can we start?" Paul demanded. He shifted his weight. He knew he couldn't begin yet, but he wanted to

communicate his impatience and displeasure. They shouldn't have called him until all was ready. His time

was too valuable for him to be standing idly while Carl messed around with all his toys.

Continuing to ignore Paul's peevishness, Carl concentrated on testing Kristin's level of consciousness.

Satisfied she'd reached an appropriate state, he injected the muscle relaxant mivacurium, which he

preferred over several others for its rapid spontaneous recovery time. When the mivacurium had taken

effect, he skillfully slipped in an endotracheal tube to ensure control of Kristin's airway. Then he sat

down, attached the anesthesia machine, and motioned to Paul that everything was set.

"It's about time," Paul mumbled. He and Sheila quickly draped the patient for laparoscopy. The target

was the right ovary.

Carl settled back after making the appropriate entries into the anesthesia record. His role at that point

was to watch his monitors while maintaining anesthesia by carefully titrating the patient's state of

consciousness with a continuous propofol infusion.

Paul moved quickly, with Sheila anticipating his every move. Along with Constance Bartolo, the scrub

nurse, and Marjorie Hickam, the circulator, the team worked with metronomic efficiency. At this point

there was no conversation.

Paul's first goal was to introduce the trocar of the insufflation unit to fill the patient's abdominal cavity

with gas. It was the creation of a gas-filled space that made the laparoscopic surgery possible. Sheila

helped by grabbing two bites of skin alongside Kristin's belly button with towel clips and pulling up on the

relaxed abdominal wall. Meanwhile, Paul made a small incision at the umbilicus and then proceeded to

push in the nearly foot-long Veress insufflation needle. In his experienced hands two distinct pops could

be felt as the needle passed into the abdominal cavity. While holding the needle firmly at its serrated

collar, Paul activated the insufflation unit. Instantly, carbon dioxide gas began to flow into Kristin's

abdominal cavity at a rate of a liter of gas per minute.

As they waited for the appropriate amount of gas to enter, disaster struck. Carl was preoccupied,

watching his cardiovascular and respiratory monitors for telltale signs of the increasing intra-abdominal

pressure, and failed to see two seemingly innocuous events: namely a fluttering of Kristin's eyelids and a

slight flexion of her left leg. Had Carl or anyone else noticed these movements they would have sensed

that Kristin's level of anesthesia was becoming light. She was still unconscious but close to waking, and

the discomfort of the increasing pressure in her belly was serving to rouse her.

Suddenly Kristin moaned and sat up. She didn't get all the way up; Carl reacted by reflex, grabbing her

rising shoulders and forcing her back down. But it was too late. Her rising off the table forced the Veress

needle in Paul's hand to plunge deeper into her belly, where it penetrated a large intra-abdominal vein.

Before Paul could stop the insufflation unit, a large bolus of the gas entered Kristin's vascular system.

"Oh my God!" Carl cried as he heard in his earpiece the beginnings of the ominous telltale mill-wheel

murmur as the gas reached her heart; a threshing sound like the agitation cycle of a washing machine.

"We've got a gas embolism," he yelled. "Get her on her left side!"

Paul yanked out the bloody needle and tossed it to the side, where it clanked against the tile floor. He

helped Carl roll Kristin over in a vain attempt to keep the gas isolated in the right side of her heart. Paul

then leaned on her to keep her in position. Although still unconscious, she fought back.

Meanwhile, Carl rushed to insert, as aseptically as possible, a catheter into Kristin's jugular vein. Kristin

resisted and struggled against the weight on top of her. Inserting the catheter was like trying to hit a

moving target. Carl thought about increasing the propofol or giving her more mivacurium, but was

reluctant to take the time. At last he succeeded with the catheterization, but when he drew back on the

plunger of the syringe all he got was a bloody froth. He did it again with the same result. He shook his

head in dismay, but before he could say anything Kristin briefly stiffened, then convulsed. Her body was

racked by a full-blown grand mal seizure.

Frantically Carl dealt with this new problem while he battled the sinking feeling in his own gut. He knew

all too well that anesthesiology was a profession marked by numbing, repetitive routine occasionally

shattered by episodes of pure terror, and this was as bad as it got: a major complication with a young,

healthy person undergoing a purely elective procedure.

Both Paul and Sheila had stepped back with their sterile, gloved hands clasped in front of their gowned

chests. Along with the two nurses, they watched as Carl struggled to terminate Kristin's seizure. When it

was over, and Kristin was again on her back motionless, no one spoke. The only sound other than the

muted noise of a radio coming through the closed door to the sterilizer room was the anesthesia machine

breathing for the patient.

"What's the verdict?" Paul said finally. His voice was emotionless, and it echoed in the tiled space.

Carl breathed out like a balloon deflating. Reluctantly he reached forward with two index fingers and

pulled back Kristin's eyelids. Both pupils were widely dilated and did not react to the brightness of the

overhead light. He took his own penlight from his pocket and shined the beam into Kristin's eyes. There

was no reaction whatsoever.

"It doesn't look good," Carl croaked. His throat was dry. He'd never had such a complication.

"Meaning?" Paul demanded.

Carl swallowed with difficulty. "Meaning my guess would be that she's stroked out. I mean, a minute ago

she was light, now she's gorked out. She's not even breathing on her own."

Paul's head bobbed up and down perceptively as he pondered this information. Then he snapped off his

gloves, tossed them on the floor, and undid his mask, which he allowed to fall forward onto his chest. He

looked at Sheila. "Why don't you continue with the procedure? At least you'll get some practice. And do

both sides."

"Really?" Sheila questioned.

"No sense being wasteful," Paul said.

"What are you going to do?" Sheila asked.

"I'm going to find Kurt Hermann and have a chat," Paul said as he untied and pulled off his gown. "As

unfortunate as this incident is, it's not as if we haven't anticipated such a disaster, and at least we've

planned for it."

"Are you going to inform Spencer Wingate?" Sheila asked. Dr. Wingate was the founder and titular head

of the clinic.

"That I don't know," Paul said. "It depends. I prefer to hold off and see how events play out. What do

you know about Kristin Overmeyer's arrival today?"

"She came in her own car," Sheila said. "It's out in the parking lot."

"She came alone?"

"No. As we advised her, she brought a friend," Sheila said. "Her name is Rebecca Corey. She's out in

the main waiting area."

As Paul started for the door his eyes locked onto Carl's.

"I'm sorry," Carl said.

Paul hesitated for a moment. He felt like telling the anesthesiologist what he thought of him, but changed

his mind. Paul wanted to keep a cool head, and getting into a conversation with Carl at that point would

have gotten him all worked up. It had been enough that Carl had kept him waiting for so long.

Without even bothering to change out of his surgical scrubs, Paul snatched a long white doctor's coat

from the room that served as the surgical lounge. He pulled the coat on as he descended the metal stairs

in the stairwell. Passing the first floor, he exited out onto the lawn, which was showing the first signs of

spring. With the coat clutched around himself against the blustery early April New England wind, he

hurried down toward the clinic's stone gatehouse. He found the chief of security behind his scarred and

worn desk, hunched over his department's schedule for the month of May.

If Kurt Hermann was surprised by the sudden arrival of the man who ran the Wingate Clinic, he didn't

show it. Other than looking up, his only acknowledgment of Paul's presence was a slight questioning

elevation of his right eyebrow.

Paul grabbed one of the straight-backed chairs that lined the sparse office and sat down in front of the

security chief.

"We have a problem," Paul said.

"I'm listening," Kurt said. His chair squeaked as he leaned back.

"We've had a major anesthetic complication. Catastrophic, actually."

"Where's the patient?"

"Still in the OR, but she'll be out shortly."

"Name?"

"Kristin Overmeyer."

"Did she come alone?" Kurt asked as he wrote Kristin's name down.

"No. She came by car with a friend named Rebecca Corey. Dr. Donaldson said she's in the main waiting

room."

"Make of the car?"

"I have no idea," Paul admitted.

"We'll find out," Kurt said. He raised his steely blue eyes to meet Paul's.

"This is what we hired you people for," Paul stated tersely. "I want you to handle it, and I don't want to

know anything."

"No problem," Kurt said. He laid his pen down carefully as if it were fragile.

For a moment the two men stared at each other. Then Paul stood up, turned, and disappeared out into

the gusty April morning.

ONE

OCTOBER 8, 1999 11:15 P.M.

SO LET ME GET THIS straight,' Joanna Meissner said to Carlton Williams. The two friends were

sitting in the dark inside Carlton's Jeep Cherokee in a no-parking zone on Craigie Street alongside the

Craigie Arms apartment building in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "You've decided that it would be best for

us to wait to be married until after you finish your surgical residency some three or four years from now."

"I haven't decided anything," Carlton said defensively. "We're having a discussion here."

Joanna and Carlton had been out to dinner in Harvard Square that Friday evening and had been

enjoying themselves until Joanna ;id brought up the sore subject of their long-term plans. As usual, from

that moment on, the tone of the conversation had deteriorated. They had been over this thorny issue

many times in the past as a consequence of their engagement. Theirs was a quintessentially long affair;

they had known each other since kindergarten and had been dating each other exclusively since the ninth

grade.

"Listen," Carlton said soothingly. "I'm just trying to think of what's best for both of us."

"Oh, bull!" Joanna blurted. Despite her vow to herself to stay calm, she could feel anger brewing in her

gut as if she were a nuclear reactor about to go critical.

"I'm serious," Carlton said. "Joanna, I'm working my tail off. You know how often I'm on call. You

know the hours. Being a resident at the MGH is a hell of a lot more demanding than I'd ever guessed."

"What difference does that make?" Joanna snapped, unable to keep the irritation she felt from being

painfully obvious. She couldn't help feeling betrayed and rejected.

"It makes a lot of difference," Carlton persisted. "I'm exhausted. I'm no fun to be with. I can't have a

normal conversation outside of what's going on in the hospital. It's pathetic. I don't even know what's

happening in Boston, much less the world."

"That kind of comment might have some validity if we were dating casually. But the fact of the matter is

we've been seeing each other for eleven years. And up until I broached this delicate issue of setting a

date tonight, you were enjoying yourself, and you were perfectly fun to be with."

"I certainly love seeing you..." Carlton said.

"That's reassuring," Joanna interjected sarcastically. "What I find particularly ironic about this situation is

that you're the one who asked me to marry you, not vice versa. The trouble is, that was seven years ago.

I'd say that suggests your ardor has significantly cooled."

"It hasn't," Carlton protested. "I do want to marry you."

"I'm sorry, but you're not convincing. Not after all this time. First you wanted to graduate from college.

That was fine. No problem. I thought that was appropriate. Then you thought you should just get through

the first two years of medical school. Even that was okay with me since I could get most of my Ph.D.

coursework out of the way. But then you thought it best to put things off until you got yourself all the way

through medical school. Are you detecting a pattern here or is it just me? Then the issue became getting

the first year of residency behind you. Stupid me even accepted that, but now it's the whole residency

business. What about the fellowship deal you talked about last month? And then after that you might even

think it best to wait while you set up your practice."

"I'm trying to be rational about this," Carlton said. "It's a difficult decision, and it behooves us to weigh

the pros and cons..."

Joanna was no longer listening. Instead her emerald-green eyes wandered away from the face of her

fiancé who, she recognized, wasn't even looking at her as he spoke. In fact, he'd avoided looking at her

throughout this conversation; as far as she could tell, he'd only intermittently met her glare during her

monologue. With unseeing eyes she stared straight ahead into the middle distance. All at once it was as if

she had been slapped across the face by an invisible hand. Carlton's suggestion of yet another delay in

setting a marriage date had spawned an epiphany, and she found herself laughing, not out of humor but

disbelief.

Carlton halted in midsentence while enumerating the pros and the cons of getting married sooner rather

than later.

"What are you laughing about?" he asked. He raised his eyes from watching himself fumble with the

ignition keys and gazed at Joanna in the car's dim interior. Her face was silhouetted against the dark side

window by a distant streetlamp whose light fingered its way through the windshield. Her sleek and

delicate profile was limned by her lustrous flaxen hair, which appeared to glow in the half light.

Diamond-like flashes glistened from her starkly white teeth just visible through her slightly parted, full lips.

To Carlton, she was the most beautiful woman in the world even when she was badgering him.

Ignoring Carlton's question, Joanna continued her soft, mirthless laugh as the clarity of her revelation

sharpened. Precipitously, she'd come to acknowledge the validity of what her roommate Deborah

Cochrane and her other female friends had been hawking all along, namely that marriage in and of itself

should not be her life's goal. They'd been right after all: she'd been programmed by the totality of her

suburban Houston upbringing. Joanna couldn't believe she'd been so stupid for so long and so resistant to

question a value system she'd so blindly accepted. Thankfully, while treading water waiting for Carlton,

she'd been smart enough to lay the foundation of a rewarding career. She was only a thesis away from a

Ph.D. from Harvard in economics combined with extensive computer skills.

"What are you laughing about?" Carlton persisted. "Come on! Talk to me!"

"I'm laughing at me," Joanna said finally. She turned to look at her fiancé. He appeared perplexed, with

his brows tightly knit.

"I don't understand," Carlton said.

"That's curious," Joanna said. "I see everything rather clearly."

She glanced down at the engagement ring on her left hand. The diamond solitaire sucked in the weak

available light and threw it back at Joanna with surprising intensity. The stone had been Carl-ton's

grandmother's, and Joanna had been thrilled with it, mostly because of its sentimental value. But now it

seemed like a vulgar neon reminder of her own gullibility.

A sudden sense of claustrophobia gripped Joanna. Without any warning she unlatched the door, slid out,

and stood up on the curb.

"Joanna!" Carlton called. He leaned across the car's center console and peered up into Joanna's face.

Her expression was one of fierce resolve. Her usually soft lips were set in grim determination.

Carlton started to ask Joanna what was the matter, although he knew all too well. Before he could even

get the sentence out, the car door slammed in his face. Pushing himself back upright, he groped for the

passenger-side window button. When the window opened, Joanna leaned in. Her expression hadn't

changed.

"Don't insult me by asking what's the matter," she said.

"You're not being very adult about this," Carlton stated firmly.

"Thank you for your unbiased assessment," Joanna retorted. "I also want to thank you for making

everything so clear for me. It certainly makes it easier to make up my mind."

"Make up your mind about what?" Carlton asked. The newly found firmness of his voice vanished. In its

place was a definite quaver. He had a premonition about what was coming, and it was accompanied by a

sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"About my future," Joanna said. "Here!" She extended her clenched fist with the obvious intention of

giving something to Carlton.

Carlton reached out hesitantly with a cupped palm. He felt something cold drop into his hand. Glancing

down, he found himself staring at his grandmother's diamond.

"What's this all about?" Carlton stammered.

"I think it's pretty clear," Joanna said. "Consider yourself free to finish your residency and whatever else

your little heart desires. I certainly don't want to think of myself as a drag."

"You're not serious?" Carlton questioned. Caught completely off guard by this sudden turn of events, he

was befuddled.

"Oh, but I am," Joanna said. "Consider our engagement officially over. Good night, Carlton."

Joanna turned and walked back along Craigie Street toward Concord Avenue and the entrance to the

Craigie Arms. Her apartment was on the third floor.

After a brief struggle with the door release Carlton leaped from his Cherokee and ran after Joanna,

who'd already reached the corner. A few deep red maple leaves, which had fallen from the tree that very

day, wafted in his wake. He caught up to his former fiancée as she was about to enter her apartment

building. He was out of breath. He was clutching the engagement ring in his fist.

"All right," Carlton managed. "You've made your point. Here, take the ring back." He extended his hand.

Joanna shook her head. Her grim determination had disappeared. In its place was a tenuous smile. "I

didn't give the ring back as a mere gesture or machination. Nor am I actually angry. You obviously don't

want to get married now, and all at once, I don't either. Let's give it a rest. We're still friends."

"But I love you," Carlton blurted.

"I'm flattered," Joanna said. "And I suppose I still love you, but things have been dragging on for too

long. Let's go our separate ways, at least for now."

"But

"Good night, Carlton," Joanna said. She pushed herself up onto her tiptoes and gave Carlton's cheek a

brush with her lips. A moment later she was in the elevator. She hadn't looked back.

Putting her key in her apartment door she noticed she was trembling. Despite her airy dismissal of

Carlton, she felt her emotions rumbling just below the surface.

"Wow!" her roommate Deborah Cochrane exclaimed. She checked the task bar on her computer to see

the time. "Rather early for a Friday night. Wussup?" Deborah was dressed in oversized

Harvard-emblazoned sweats. In comparison with the soft, porcelain femininity of her roommate, she was

mildly tomboyish with short dark hair, a

Mediterranean olive complexion, and an athletic build. Her facial features contributed by being stronger

and more rounded than Joanna's yet no less feminine. All in all, the roommates complemented each other

and emphasized each other's natural attractiveness.

Joanna didn't respond as she hung up her coat in the hall closet. Deborah watched her closely as she

came into their sparsely furnished living room and collapsed on the couch. She tucked her feet under

herself and only then met Deborah's inquisitive eyes.

"Don't tell me you guys had a fight," Deborah said.

"Not a fight per se," Joanna said. "Just a parting of ways."

Deborah's jaw dropped. For the six years she'd known Joanna, from freshman orientation onward,

Carlton had been a fixture in Joanna's life. As far as she was concerned there'd not been the slightest hint

of discord within the relationship. "What happened?" she asked with astonishment.

"I suddenly saw the light," Joanna said. There was a slight trill to her voice that Deborah noticed

instantly. "My engagement is off, and, more importantly, I'm not going to count on getting married,

period. If it happens, fine, but if it doesn't, that's okay too."

"My word!" Deborah said, unable to keep the glee from her voice. "This doesn't sound like the 'butter

cream frosting, silky bridesmaids' dresses' girl that I've come to love. Why the change of heart?" Deborah

considered Joanna's march toward marriage almost religious in its unswerving intensity.

"Carlton wanted to postpone the wedding until after his residency," Joanna said. In short order, she

recounted the last fifteen minutes of her date with Carlton. Deborah listened with rapt attention.

"Are you all right?" Deborah asked when Joanna fell silent. She leaned forward to peer more directly

into Joanna's eyes.

"Better than I would have guessed," Joanna admitted. "I feel a little shaky, I suppose, but all things

considered, I'm doing okay."

"Then this calls for a celebration," Deborah exclaimed. She stood up and bounced into the kitchen. "I've

been saving that bottle of champagne cluttering up the fridge for months," she called over her shoulder.

"This is the time to open it."

"I suppose,' Joanna managed. She didn't feel much like celebrating, but resisting Deborah's enthusiasm

would have taken too much effort.

"All right!" Deborah exclaimed as she returned with the champagne in one hand and two flutes in the

other. She knelt at the coffee table and attacked the bottle. The cork came away with a resounding pop

and caromed off the ceiling. Deborah laughed but noticed that Joanna didn't.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Deborah asked.

"I have to say, it's a big adjustment."

"That's an understatement," Deborah averred. "Knowing you as well as I do, it's the equivalent of Saint

Paul falling on the way to Damascus. You've been programmed by the Houston social scene toward

marriage since you were nothing but a twinkle in your mother's eye."

Joanna laughed despite herself.

Deborah poured the champagne too quickly. Both glasses filled, mostly with fizz, and spilled out on the

table. Undeterred, Deborah snatched up the flutes and handed one to Joanna. Then she made Joanna

clink glasses with her.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century social scene," Deborah said.

Both women lifted their stemware and tried to drink. They coughed on the foam and laughed. Not

wanting to lose the moment, Deborah quickly took both glasses into the kitchen, rinsed them, and

returned. This time she poured more carefully by letting the champagne run down the side of the glass.

When they drank, it was mostly liquid.

"Not the greatest bubbly," Deborah admitted. "But it's not surprising. David gave it to me way back

when. Unfortunately he was a cheapskate from the word go." Deborah had broken off a four-month

relationship with her most recent boyfriend, David Curtis, the week before. In sharp contrast to Joanna's,

her longest relationship had been less than two years and that was way back in high school. In many

ways the two women couldn't have been more different. Instead of the affluent southern suburban social

Robin Cook - Shock

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