Part I: Hypodermic Syringe

Editor's Note

Dr. James Carter will always be, in medical history, a pioneer in radical surgery. A talent for the most complicated surgical procedures, coupled with the nerve to perform difficult, if not impossible, operations made the good doctor one of the leading lights of medicine in his time.

Fellow surgeons, medical staff and students often describe Dr. Carter as the consummate professional. Of course, that degree of genius came with a aloofness. Yet they understood it was not arrogance on his part, just a genuine reservedness and also his viewpoint that his job was one thing, his personal life another.

Compartmentalising, Dr. Carter's forte. There were many facets to this man, and one which caused public outrage. On the 16th August 2005, Dr. Carter was charged with negligence following the death of a high profile client. Further investigations revealed that he was a regular user of cocaine. The case quickly became of national interest. The incident came to an abrupt halt when the doctor was found dead in his prison cell a day before the date of sentencing.

After his death, his secret papers and journals were released. The medical journals were bestowed to the hospital he served in. Those, and his private notes show a man of extreme intelligence and logic, and dare I say, even exonerate him of what is perceived to be a major crime. These private papers, written by a young Dr. Carter, from his childhood, provide us with the who, why, where and how of this man.

SDW

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Chapter I: Separation

June 1987. I learnt a new word today. Nouveau riche is used to describe someone who has recently become rich, and flaunts his newly acquired wealth in not so tasteful ways.

My father Gerard could be described as such, cruel as it is to say so. He struck it rich by partnering some cigar-smoking Italians in the tobacco industry. We were immediately transported from extreme poverty to filthy wealth.

Wealth doesn't buy class. I never brought any friends from school to play in my house. They'd laughed at the garish colours, the heavy drapes. Thankfully, my relatively down-to-earth mother managed to persuade the old man to allow me to decorate my bedroom as I pleased. Hence, my room was a spotless white, with the most minimal of decorations.

I was the doted-upon only son, but not so much the pride of my father. I didn't look much like him. Gerard Carter was a musclebound, sturdy man. Quite like how I'd imagined Goliath from the Bible to be. He was crass but a good man, if it makes any sense. I looked more like my mother, a quiet country rose. Our hair were the same shade of chocolate brown, our eyes light grey. My father was a swarthy guy with well-oiled black hair and flashing eyes; the macho man. I was quiet and bookwormish. Nobody ever thought I was his son, and sometimes I myself wondered too.

Well, it didn't take me long to find out. One afternoon, Tuesday, I think, I returned home to find my parents yelling at each other. It was surprising because Mother was usually demure and softspoken. Sensing that something big was going on, I didn't enter but hid near the window to listen.

Father left Mother for a few minutes. I caught the words "not mine" and "ho", or something like that (my vocab is limited for a 12-year-old I know). I almost burst with curiosity. Then, he came storming down the staircase with luggage bags and boomed,"Get out of my house!"

I was stunned an' knocked down a flowerpot. The folks saw me. Mother just grabbed the bags, walked out, took my hand and dragged me away.

I screamed for my Father. Note that I said he was a good man and I loved him, despite his lack of societal graces. Mother slapped me once, and cried after that. I kept silent from that moment.

"Mum, what's going on?" I asked her brusquely. We'd been trainhopping for the past 3 days, with minimal sleep and food = cranky me. Mum refused to tell me. So I bugged her for the entire 4 hours to Manhattan and she finally gave in.

Gerard wasn't my father. So that's why! That's why I never resembled him in any way! I was sad that I didn't know my true father, but at the same time, I felt sorry for Gerard. He was a good man to my mother and I. Mother wouldn't tell me who my true father was.

I watched the scenery rush by and thought of both of them.