Eleven

THAT NIGHT LINDSEY REALIZES she was counting her chickens before they hatched—she hasn’t quite made it through the weekend, and the brain whirl won’t let her sleep. She lies in bed, throwing off the sheets and thin blanket for the hot flashes, pulling them back up when she starts to shiver. She surrenders to the insane rhythm of it, turning and shifting in efforts to find a cool spot on the sheets, finally driving the cats off their curled hotspots flanking her knees.

She checks the alarm clock. 2:03 am.

Desperate, she tries the chakra-opening meditation Crystal told her about. Then a progressive-relaxation positive-imaging exercise.

2:57 am.

Another hot flash attacks, and it feels like her skin is crisping under a heated iron. She throws off the sheet one more time, grabs the towel off the nightstand to blot her face and back, then lies back down and gives way to the grief and longing she’s been trying to tamp down all weekend. She’s mourning for Kevin, freaking out about her job and paying the bills, worrying about coping with her mom’s frailty. And wanting Newman’s touch. She remembers the “Guest House” poem and just gives in, flings open her doors before they get torn off their hinges by these unruly visitors.

Maybe the heart-chakra thing worked, after all, because suddenly she feels an expansion in her chest. A shift. She’s back at Fern Lake, sitting on the intertwined roots, dipping her feet into the cool water as backlit leaves whisper overhead. She slides into the water, floating eyes closed, and she feels another touch to her heart. Inside her closed eyelids, she opens other eyes and sees it’s Newman. They’re floating together now, and he’s smiling, touching her wounded breast with his fingertips.

She blinks, startled, and the images start to dissolve into static. “What—?”

“Sshhh….” He takes her hand.

A deep ocean blue lulls her in its waves. Peace. She sighs and sinks deeper, sinks into sleep.

July 1

Dear Diary,

Such a lovely dream! Or was I actually meditating? That peaceful ocean blue, the color of Newman’s eyes….

But today is Monday. Time to get my feet on solid ground, so I don’t turn into one of those eccentric crones with twenty cats, house a labyrinth of piled-up old newspapers and magazines. The one they find a week later trapped under a collapsed pile with her desperate cats feeding on her body. Which reminds me, when am I going to do some housecleaning around here??

Time for the shock treatment: I’m off to the hospital for that meeting with Administration….

The Director of the Board and the personnel manager keep Lindsey waiting for twenty minutes while she dies a slow death under the scrutiny of the secretary and what seems to be the entire staff of the hospital just happening to pass by the reception area on urgent errands. She wipes damp palms down the nice slacks she wore for the occasion. Right on schedule, a hot flash ignites just as the inner office door swings open and the manager beckons her in.

Her skin’s burning, prickling under her summer-weight blazer. She was determined to keep it on, present a professional image, but her face feels like it’s going to explode with the heat. Sighing, she pulls off the jacket. She manages to resist fanning herself with it.

“Are you all right?” Ms. Landon, the manager, frowns slightly, waiting in her office doorway. She’s wearing a blue blazer and skirt, tinted blond hair sculpted and sprayed into rigidity.

Lindsey just looks at her.

She lowers her gaze, ushers Lindsey past and follows her into the office, where a paunchy man in a rumpled white shirt, thinning dark strands combed over his bald spot, is drumming his fingers on the armrest of one of the chairs in front of the manager’s desk. Another man, in a suit, stands looking out the window over the parking lot toward the park.

The first man stands when Lindsey comes in, straightening his tie and taking a step toward her. A big, shambling fellow, he smiles jovially and extends a hand, takes hers in a damp grip. “Roger Stone. I’m on the Board. And this is Allen Dunshire.” He indicates the other man.

He’s a slight, shortish man, dapper in an immaculate gray suit, sandy hair crisply curled tight to his head. He gives Lindsey’s hand a brief, brisk shake and hands her a business card. “Nice to meet you.” He doesn’t meet her eyes.

Lindsey looks down, sees the long name-conglomerate of a legal firm. The heaviness in her gut settles deeper.

“Sit down, Lindsey.” Big smiling Roger indicates the chairs facing the desk with its nameplate, Alicia Landon.

Alicia shoots Roger a narrow-eyed look—some kind of turf war going on?—and moves around to assert her position behind the desk, sitting in her leather chair. She picks up a folder, makes a show of opening it and laying it flat on the desk.

A pause, as the three of them settle into the curve of chairs, Lindsey flanked by the two men, the contained erectness of the attorney on her left, expansive bulk of the director on her right. “See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil” pops absurdly into Lindsey’s mind, along with the matching monkey poses, and for a moment she thinks she’s said it aloud. If she bursts out laughing, maybe they’ll just cart her off to the Psych wing and they can save going through the motions here.

“Well, Lindsey,” Alicia starts, clears her throat, and continues, “I see by your employee reviews you’ve been an asset to the hospital. Aside from a bit of a tardiness issue, you’re rated excellent, with a top production rate in transcription. So, in light of that—”

“Okay, Alicia, let’s not beat around the bush.” Roger leans forward with his affable smile, spreads big pink hands topped by black hairs. “I’m sure Lindsey would appreciate it if we just cut to the chase.” He turns to raise an eyebrow at Lindsey, who nods mutely, waiting to see what their game plan is. On her left, the attorney makes a small movement, quickly checked.

Roger runs a hand over his head, smoothing the dark strands. “The Spielers are family friends, I understand?”

Lindsey bites her lip, then nods again.

Roger’s smile morphs into an expression of sincerity, sympathy. “The accident—a terrible tragedy. Believe me, everyone at the hospital is pulling for that young man. He’s getting the best care available.” He glances at Alicia, who is sitting rigid behind her desk, then turns back to Lindsey. “I’m a churchgoer, myself, but sometimes I have to admit it’s hard to see God’s plan in these things. So I can understand how upsetting it must have been to have to type up that accident report on your friend.”

Lindsey’s gripping the armrests of the chair, another hot flash blazing through her, and she can hardly hear over the roaring in her ears. She wants to jump to her feet, tell the man to shut up, but she’s the one in the monkey lineup with the gag over her mouth.

No, she realizes then, that’s the old program. She’s here because she did find her voice. And now more words are boiling up in her, angry ones—the effrontery of this oily jerk, trying to push her buttons about Kevin! She opens her mouth, ready to spew her hot contempt, but then realizes she has a choice here. She can wait to see what they’ll reveal.

“…but here’s the thing,” he’s continuing, and she lost something there but it doesn’t matter. “That’s where you should have stepped back, talked to your supervisor, ah….”

“Olivia,” Alicia supplies tersely. “Lindsey, you do remember signing the confidentiality agreement? It’s here in your file.”

Again the attorney makes a movement, but checks it.

“Now, Alicia, of course Lindsey remembers. She’s a very bright woman.”

Lindsey, despite her distaste, meets his eyes. She recoils from their hard shrewdness. How much do they know? She left a message for Rob over the weekend, but he never called back to tell her what actions his attorney has taken, if they’re pursuing a malpractice case.

“Believe me, Lindsey,” Roger’s going on, “we’ve agonized over this, Alicia and I and all the Board members. It’s a hard one. I’m sure, like us, you’d like to move on.”

Alicia pulls out another paper, pushes it over the desk toward Lindsey. “We’re giving you layoff status, Lindsey, effective immediately. It won’t look bad on your record. You should have no trouble getting another position, with your skills.”

When Lindsey doesn’t move to take the paper, Roger leans forward and takes it, lays it in her lap. “We agreed—the Board talked it over with Allen here—not to pursue legal action against you. Go ahead, read it, it’s straightforward. You’ll see we’re being generous, giving you through this pay period’s salary to tide you over.”

On her left, Allen Dunshire clears his throat, finally speaks. “There are two main clauses. The hospital agrees not to pursue legal action for violation of your agreement in revealing confidential information about audit reports, and you agree not to be part of any legal action against the hospital.” He’s still not looking at Lindsey.

She tries to read the paper, but her focus is blurred by a red mist of rage at their manipulation. She resists a startling urge to jump up and throttle smug Roger Stone, playing on the suffering of real people as if they’re only counters in some chess game. Her face is burning, throat swelling with the choked-down rage—where has all her anger gone, these past years? Into more cancer?

She drops the paper unread, looks up at Roger again, and asks, “What planet are you from, anyway?”

He stares at her, nonplussed, as the lawyer makes a little choked-off sound that might have been laughter. Lindsey darts a look at him to see his lips twitch, but then he’s holding a blank, neutral expression.

Roger stands, shaking his head, and hands her a pen. “Take your time, Lindsey,” he says, back into his script. “Sign it, and you can put this mistake behind you.” He wanders over to the other side of the desk to confer in a muted voice with Alicia.

Lindsey glances again at the agreement, folds it, and puts it in her purse. She stands. “I’ll take it home, and get back to you.”

Roger swings around toward her, starts to protest, but the lawyer cuts him off, telling Lindsey, “That’s fine. Call me if you have any questions.”

“Thank you.” Lindsey meets Allen’s gaze.

He nods quickly, then looks away, and she thinks, How odd. He’s the lawyer, and he’s the one feeling ashamed.

She picks up her jacket, turns to go.

Roger straightens on the other side of the desk, starts to say something, moves toward her. Allen holds up a hand, and Lindsey’s out the door.

“Excuse me, Ms. Friedland?”

She blinks at the man blocking her way past the receptionist. He’s an earnest-looking young Latino she doesn’t recognize, wearing a white uniform shirt and a Security badge.

“I’ll just take your ID badge and escort you to Medical Records to retrieve your things, Ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” She stares at him. “Oh, God! Ma’am!” And that does it. Lindsey’s hysterical laughter trails them like a banner down the hall to Medical Records.

She celebrates her liberation from the ranks of the gainfully employed by pushing the protesting Subaru past its comfort speed zone on the way to the Fern Lake trailhead. Might as well take advantage of weekday solitude, and she can’t bear to spend another day pacing the bungalow walls. She pushes herself past her own comfort zone, making the lake in record time, legs and lungs burning. The aerobic flush and a brisk, cold swim finally push her Reset button on the brain-whirl, and she can go slow on the way down, notice a big pileated woodpecker tearing into a pockmarked snag, feel the dappled lights sliding over her face, breathe in the cool moisture of the mossy creek ravines. On the overlook cliff above the rocky river canyon, she catches sight of a great blue heron, gliding past her on motionless extended wings, riding the air down the winding path of the waters.

That evening, she leaves another message for Rob, hating to intrude but needing to know where she stands before she signs the termination agreement. Maybe she should talk to an attorney, too.

The summer light finally fades after 10 pm, and she tries to settle on the couch with Sombra and HighJinks and the Rumi book, reading about spirit and wings, seeing the heron spread its wings to glide effortlessly down the winding course of the river and past sight. She closes her eyes, feels that deep blue serenity of last night’s… dream? Feeling that heart—soul?—connection. Then she’s over the edge again, vibrating with the urgency of wanting Newman. She sends out an incoherent prayer a la Joni Mitchell, wondering who’s there to hear as she asks for a man who’s “somewhat sincere.” She gets up and does her yoga stretches. Makes a cup of chamomile tea.

Finally, at midnight, she crawls into bed, goes through the deep-breathing chakra-opening relaxation drill, and manages to drop off into sleep. She dreams of flying, feeling her chest expanding with the rhythm of her wingbeats, a smooth undulation carrying her into cobalt-blue skies.

The phone rings, jarring her out of her wingspread glide down the heron’s river course.

“Uhn!” She gropes for solidity, pushes the sheets down, blinks at the lighted clock: 1:08 am. The phone rings again, goes into answer mode, and she can hear her own voice, “This is Lindsey. Please leave a message.”

Then Newman’s voice, blurred by static, “Lindsey, it’s probably some godawful hour, but this is the first I could get to a phone and I wanted to—”

Lindsey, fumbling in the dark for the phone, finally clicks it on. “Hroa.” All that comes out is a heron croak. She clears her throat. “Hello.”

A chuckle, sounding far away. Well, yeah. “Lindsey, I’m sorry, I woke you up.”

“No. Yes.” She clears her throat again, takes the phone back to bed with her and gets under the covers. “I mean, I was dreaming. I was flying.”

“That’s good.” A crackle of static breaks up the connection for a few seconds. “…my cell phone, or maybe it got stolen. Then the village elders invited me on a retreat with them, we went up to the mountain temple I helped them build back in…. Man, how long ago was that?” He laughs. “Then a monsoon hit, it’s early in the season for that, everything got flooded out, I finally got back to town but I don’t know how long this connection’s gonna hold….” More static.

“Newman?” Lindsey grips the phone, wants to shout into it. “Newman, are you still there?”

“There?” her own voice echoes.

“…but anyway,” Newman comes back on the line. There’s some kind of strange delay effect going on, so she’s not sure what she missed. “It’s been a wild ride!” He sounds exhilarated. “I wanted to tell you about the bird sanctuary. It’s a white heron rookery, on the river. They’re beautiful. Like angels, when they fly.” A pause. “Lindsey, did I lose you?”

“Herons?” she croaks. She clears her throat one more time. “Newman, that’s—”

But with the delay he’s started talking already. “...be quick, before I lose you. I—” He stops, waits, then, “What?”

“Newman, I just saw a great blue heron up at the river. I was dreaming about flying with it.”

More static. Then, “You’re okay, then? I got some worried vibes about you.”

“You got my message?”

“…phone message? Can’t retrieve them here yet, but—”

“No never mind!” She’s flooded with embarrassment over the neediness of that message she left. “Just delete it.”

He chuckles. “Now I’ll have to listen to it.”

“No, please don’t—”

“…kidding.” He continues hastily, “Listen, Lindsey, this may not hold. Are you okay?”

“Well, it’s been kind of awful… but I’m okay. It’s Kevin. A family friend, a terrible accident, he’s in a coma…. It’s complicated, but I told his parents some confidential info about his surgeon’s incompetence. They fired me.”

“What? Fired?” More static. “No wonder I felt your—”

Static.

“Newman? Newman?” Lindsey’s straining to hear, gripping the phone, but the connection’s gone.

Not quite. As she gives up and crawls back into bed, she can hear something like a whisper. She closes her eyes and lies quietly, and then she feels it—lips gently brushing her forehead. She sighs and flows like the river emptying into blue ocean.