Twelve

“HELLO, MS. FRIEDLAND? Lindsey Friedland?”

“Yes. This is Lindsey.” She doesn’t recognize the caller.

“Great, glad I caught you.” The voice on the phone is male, a bit breathless. “This is Damon Perrera from The Weekly Whiplash.”

“Oh. Hello.”

“I’m the editor, I just got your essay. It’s terrific, we want to run it.”

“Oh.” Lindsey stares at the phone, gathering her thoughts, and he beats her to a response.

“No problem, then? We’re pushing a deadline for this Friday’s issue, but we got a big hole with another article not arriving in time, and this is perfect timing what with the community forum Tuesday about the hospital road proposal.”

“Well.” She blinks. “Okay, go ahead and run it.”

“We can only offer you a hundred bucks, but we don’t take any rights, you’re free to submit it elsewhere.” The voice is enthusiastic. “It’s a strong piece, I’d like to talk about some more articles for us if you’re up for it.”

Lindsey smiles. “Yes! I mean… great.”

“Awesome,” he says, and she visualizes him as one of the environmental-studies students at the hospital protests, though surely he must be a little older than that. “Well, hey, we’ll go ahead with it, but just to dot all the i’s, could you stop by the office front desk and sign our little permission form? And you can give us your info to send the check. Soon as we put this baby to bed, I’ll call you and brainstorm some more article ideas. We’ve got lots to cover!”

“All right, I’ll stop by. That’s down on Railroad Avenue, right?”

“You got it. Hey, great talking, Lindsey! See you soon.” Click.

Lindsey’s still standing, holding the phone, as it starts beeping. She slowly hangs it up. Her words made a connection!

Gears start turning. Is this a sign? She can actually make money as a writer? She has to chuckle as she calculates all the hours that went into the essay. At this rate she’s making, what? Less than ten dollars an hour for actual writing time, of course that’s self-employment at a higher tax rate, with no job benefits, and how to factor in all the time pondering and finding inspiration to write? Though the editor did remind her of the option to sell the piece elsewhere as well….

Then Lindsey closes her eyes and blows out a breath. What about the termination agreement with the hospital? Once the essay comes out—if anyone in Administration reads the radical Whiplash—will this affect their “generosity” in not pursuing legal action? Should she sign and get it sealed before Friday?

She takes a deep breath, taps in Rob and Marci’s number again.

It rings five times, then goes into their message, with a long, stacked-up beep behind it, and she almost hangs up, then starts, “Rob, it’s Lindsey. I’m really sorry to bother you guys again, but—”

“Lindsey.” A clunk, something crashing, then Rob comes back on the line, “Damn. Just a sec.” A scuffling, clattering, a chair dragging, then, “Okay. Yeah, Lindsey, I never got back to you. It’s….” His voice raises, “No, Patty, just take it outside to your mom, okay, Hon?” He comes back to Lindsey. “Listen, Lin, I don’t have much time, I’ve got a meeting with the lawyer today, but I want to talk to you. Marci’s real… upset. Well, of course we all are, but she… well, she doesn’t think I should talk to you. Or the lawyer. It’s….” His voice is rough, choked-off.

“Rob, I’m so sorry.” Lindsey takes a deep breath. “Anything new on Kevin?”

He clears his throat. “No. The new doc, Steinberg, he’s great, but it’s just… that infection, and the earlier pressure buildup seems like it caused permanent damage, they aren’t reading much brain function….” Another throat-clearing. “You haven’t heard anything up at the hospital, have you?”

Now it’s Lindsey clearing her throat. “Well, I got fired Monday.”

“What?” A pause. Then, “Those goddamn bastards! This is it! I’m gonna nail their butts so bad—”

“Wait, Rob.” Lindsey gives him a second. “They have grounds. I just wanted to ask you if—”

“Shit. Marci’s heading back inside, I don’t want another big scene here. Listen, Lindsey, you need to talk with my lawyer. Meet me in front of his office before my appointment. Can you be there this afternoon at a quarter to three? It’s on Cornwall, across from the old Newberry building.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Marci’s voice in the background, “Who’s that?”

“No thank you,” Rob’s voice shifts, “and take us off your list.” Clunk.

Rob’s pacing back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the attorneys’ building, smoking again after he’d quit when Kevin was maybe five…. His face looks ten years older in this past couple of weeks. This secret meeting with Lindsey, and lying to Marci…. It’s bad.

Maybe Lindsey should have just kept her mouth shut. It’s looking grim for Kevin, as Rob fills her in:

“The staph infection is really taking him down, Lindsey. Doc Steinberg is doing the best possible, but Kevin’s EEGs are getting worse, no response.” Rob scrubs at his face. “Christ, even if he pulls through, will he just be a vegetable? This is gonna kill Marci.” He stops, struggling for control.

“Hey.” Lindsey moves to give him a hug.

But Rob backs off, shaking his head, wiping his eyes. “Let’s go up.” Stone-faced now, he ushers her into the building, into the elevator.

Lindsey’s trying to keep her own face under control. Maybe her sister Joanie was right, she shouldn’t have interfered. Maybe it would have been better to just let Dr. Bennerton stay on, finish Kevin off faster. Oh, God. If anybody’s out there, don’t make him linger in a coma, stringing the family out forever.

“Lindsey, how do you do?” The attorney Doug Trundall stands to shake hands with her as they’re ushered into his office with a view of Mt. Baker in the distance.

Rob cuts through the niceties. “Clock’s ticking, Doug. When are we gonna get hold of those audit reports?”

“It’s not that easy, Rob.” He sits, runs a hand through his graying hair. “The hospital is lawyering up, of course, and they’ll be putting up plenty of roadblocks before we can—”

“Roadblocks!” Rob loses it then. He’s practically foaming at the mouth, funneling the grief and anger into a crusade to take down Bennerton and the hospital. “I want them to suffer!”

Doug, quietly reasonable, tries to keep him from flying off the handle, but Rob barrels on:

“Lindsey should sue the hospital, too. The way they fired her!”

“Rob, they’re part of a large parent corporation. They have all the big-time attorneys and money and time at their disposal,” Doug points out. “That would be a very tough battle.”

He does take a look at the hospital’s “generous” termination agreement they’re offering Lindsey, and tells her flat out that she’d be crazy to sign it. The hospital’s on shaky PR ground right now with the park access controversy, and the last thing they want is more bad press about Kevin and firing Lindsey. He advises her to ask for four months’ pay in return for signing the “no involvement in legal action” and confidentiality clauses.

And that gets Rob all fired up again, mad at Doug for “stabbing Kevin in the back.” He insists that Lindsey should be a witness in the malpractice case against Bennerton.

Doug keeps explaining that it’s highly unlikely they’ll need to go to court. The hospital and Bennerton’s insurance company will be eager to settle out of court, and they don’t need Lindsey to testify anyway, since the hospital eventually will have to hand over the audit committee reports. They just need to hang in there and give it time, see how Kevin’s going to do….

“Wait and see how Kevin’s going to do!” Rob’s spitting mad by that time, face going purple. “Jesus Christ! You want to go up there to ICU, Doug? Look at how my son’s doing? Watch him shriveling up day by day? He’s gone! There’s nobody home! And I want those bastards to pay!”

He turns on Lindsey then. “Damn it, you started this! You going to chicken out now? Take your four months’ pay and walk away? Well, fuck you, too!” He slams out.

Doug and Lindsey stare at each other.

“Look,” she finally manages, “I’ll testify if you think it will help get Bennerton stopped. Forget the termination agreement.”

He shakes his head. “Lindsey, don’t go there. Rob’s just blowing off steam, it’s his way to grieve. I’ve seen it a lot. He’s not really mad at you, in fact he’s said more than once how they owe you for speaking up. Just give it time. A little space.”

He fiddles with his papers. “You know, preparing a case like this isn’t just about the facts, it’s about how you orchestrate the presentation. Especially if it goes to trial. It’s like a theatrical play in a lot of ways….”

He adjusts his wire-rims, gives her an assessing look. “I’ll repeat, I don’t think this is likely to go to trial. Right now, Ron’s ready to go any distance for what he thinks is justice, and he’s right—you don’t even want to know about all the abuses the medical system gets away with. I’ve been chipping away at efforts toward reform for a long time. Most clients just don’t have the staying power, or they don’t really want the spotlight focused on them, they just want their lives back into some kind of stability. The ones that can hack it, or have the time to put into it, sure, a big splash of a lawsuit can make a difference.”

“Like that Ryan family? The little boy poisoned at the fast-food joint?”

“Right. That mother’s a tiger, she sank her teeth in and wouldn’t let go. But that costs a family, financially and emotionally. A lot.” He shakes his head. “And on top of the original trauma, that’s just too much for most.”

Lindsey knows that Rob wants to set up an action fund with any settlement they get, to use toward reform of physician’s self-policing practices with the audit system. Is he only dreaming?

Doug pulls off his glasses and rubs them on his shirt, squinting across the desk at Lindsey and looking tired. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this.”

“I appreciate it. It helps me understand what’s at stake.”

“You’d be a good witness, if it does come to trial. Which wouldn’t be for a couple years. Even if you sign a non-involvement clause, it would be highly unlikely the hospital would bother to pursue it.”

She nods. “I’ll do whatever would help.”

“Good. If you ask the hospital for new terms, I know another attorney who could look at the agreement. I’d advise it, and she won’t charge much.”

“Thanks, Doug. I appreciate this, and I know Rob does, too.”

“I just wish I never had to see another case like Kevin’s….” He spreads his hands, a good man up against the Goliath.

July 4

Dear Diary,

It’s bad.

How long will Kevin linger? Have we all given up hope too soon? Looks like the handwriting’s on the wall, but it’s only been a couple weeks. Maybe it’s not too late to hope for a miraculous turn-around. All this legal stuff—are we just writing Kevin off like he’s already some inanimate object to be bartered over?

Lindsey closes her eyes, sees his smooth, freckled young face, brown eyes eager even as he ducked his head shyly when she asked to read the science fiction story he’d written. That was last summer, the barbecue at Joanie and Don’s. Kevin sat watching her while she read, hands thrust anxiously between his knees, and they were both so relieved when she really liked the story that they burst out laughing.

Damn it all! He’s such a good kid! Maybe Marci’s right, this legal battle’s pulling Rob away from the real fight—Kevin lying there trying to keep body and soul together.

So, do I hope Rob drops the malpractice lawsuit, after all? What about Bennerton’s next victim? Am I a coward, not walking my talk? When I look at myself in the mirror, I have to admit I was relieved to take the easy out that Doug Trundall offered. I don’t want to be the whistleblower again, like I was with Nick. Don’t want to be the scapegoat, see them turn on me with that rage and scorn and shaming, the way Nick and his family twisted everything to make it all my fault—even his affair—for “emotionally abandoning him.”

Was it my fault? Did I not try hard enough?

Happy Independence Day.

Lindsey has decided to skip Megan’s family Fourth of July barbecue this year. She needs some quiet amid the swirling chaos, save her energy for her own family’s do set for the coming weekend. Arlen’s in one of his manic whirls, laying in all the supplies for charring his trademark venison shish kebabs around the firepit at Friedland’s Folly, calling everyone to inform them they’re coming and what they’re supposed to bring for side dishes.

Lindsey girds her loins for the usual sister skirmishes, Dad rants, Mom martyrdoms, drunken nephews, and overstimulated grandkids. Added to the mix this year will be the specter of Kevin’s coma. She doesn’t know if Joanie will be speaking to her or not.

She sighs and calls Megan to beg off.

“Okay, Lin, we’ll miss you, but everyone will understand. You’ve got your plate full with all this awful stuff up at the hospital. You hanging in there?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, a lot of changes but aside from Kevin, it’s not bad. Let’s go for a walk around Stimson Pond one of these days. Catch up.” Is she ready yet to tell Megan about Newman? What exactly is it that she can say, anyway?

“Okay, do my butt good to get it moving. And, listen, just so you don’t feel too deprived missing out on my mom’s kielbasa and potato salad, Bruce has been asking about you. He’s gonna be there today in all his cologned glory, hot to trot.”

Lindsey laughs, hangs up relieved.

So she hunkers in with the cats to survive the neighborhood onslaught of fireworks and illegal M-80s from the tribal stands. Last year HighJinks and Sombra burrowed under the couch cushions and refused to come out when she got home from the barbecue.

So this Fourth, she closes the windows and gathers them onto her lap to watch a Disney DVD about a boy adopting an orphaned leopard. They shudder at the louder explosions outside, but stay with her, heads following the action onscreen.

The next morning, she calls Allen Dunshire, the hospital’s attorney. She leaves a message with his assistant, and Dunshire surprises her by calling back within the hour.

“Hello, Lindsey. You have a question about the termination agreement?” His voice is neutral.

“Well, not really a question.” She takes a breath, plunges in. “I’ll agree to the terms, if the hospital agrees to give me four months’ severance pay.”

Silence. Then, “I… see.” Another beat. “And you’d like me to present this counter-offer to the hospital?”

“If that’s within your job description.”

“That’s what they retain me for. I make a good buffer zone.” A hint of humor in his voice now?

“Well…. Then you’ll let me know?”

“I will.” Another pause. “You’re a talented writer, Lindsey. Have a good weekend.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She hangs up, staring unfocused out the window. He must have read The Weekly Whiplash essay about the park access. She’d forgotten it was coming out today. Oh, boy. Was that amusement in his voice? Is this some lawyerish setup?

Es la vida. The useful everyday phrase from her sojourn in Honduras rises from the murk. That’s life.

HighJinks, who’s been insistently nudging her legs while she was busy with the phone call, reminds her of priorities by biting her ankle.

“Ouch! All right, all right.” She crouches to stroke his back, behind his silky gray ears, under his chin. “Where’s your mouse?”

He’s instantly alert, eyeing her. She looks in the usual hiding places—under the couch, in the corner of the bathroom counter overhang, the bottom shelf of her nightstand, finally finds it in his food dish. That means he’s pointing out a serious attention deficit.

“Okay, I get the message. Lighten up, Lindsey.” She brings the frayed mini stuffed mouse back to the living room, lobs it across the oak flooring so it gets a good slide going. “Get the mouse!”

HighJinks launches himself over the oriental area rug, gets a push with his back legs, and goes into a controlled skid over the slippery wood flooring. He banks off the bookshelves in a turn, snaps up the little mouse by its tail, and trots back over to Lindsey, dropping it at her feet.

“Good boy!”

He turns his tail to her, cattishly pretending to ignore her praise.

The phone rings again, and her heart gives a lurch as she picks up, hoping it’s Newman. “Hello?”

“Hey, Lin, congratulations.” It’s Nick.

Lindsey closes her eyes, gripping the phone, gears spinning. First survival instinct: hang up. She never did get around to signing up for that caller ID her lawyer recommended during the divorce when Nick was harassing her, threatening her and her friends, accusing her, cursing her…. But somehow her fingers are frozen, like her voice, and she just stands there.

“Lin, you there?” His voice so casual, like they’d just talked that morning. “Lin?”

“Oh.” She clears her throat. “Yes.” Not sure what’s she answering.

“Well, I read your essay. It’s terrific. Just wanted to say….” He trails off, sounding oddly indecisive.

“You mean The Whiplash? I just realized it was coming out today, I need to get a copy.”

“You haven’t seen it yet?” He laughs. “You are one of a kind, I have to give you that. Everyone here’s talking about it. I knew you had it in you!”

Right. Like when he’d talked her out of writing stories because she didn’t have “what it takes.”

He’s still talking. “You could do some environmental pieces for the agency, branch out. So get your butt in gear and pick up a copy.”

“I’m on my way.” Exit line. Take it. “Bye—”

“Wait.” Another pause, then, “Word is, you got fired from the hospital. Those assholes! Something about a friend they messed up on? What’s going on, Lin?”

She can’t trust him. There’s always some catch. She has to remember not to give him any information he can use to pull her into his manipulations. “Nick, it was nice of you to call, but I don’t want to talk about it. You… take care.” She starts to hang up again.

“Wait, Lin! Don’t—” His voice sharpens, then he lets out a gusting breath, lowers the volume. “Just, if you’re in a bind, don’t be afraid to ask. I could front you some money.”

She stares, startled. “Oh. That’s—” She’s started to thank him, but remembers that’s another dangerous hook. He wants her gratitude. Always wanted her dependence.

She steadies her voice. “I appreciate the gesture, Nick, but that won’t be necessary. I have to go now. Goodbye.” She carefully hangs up.

Her ears are ringing, and her gut feels empty, sick. A hot flash gears up, flames licking through her, sweat breaking out on her face and back. “Shit. Shit.” Just his voice is enough to trigger the old panic. “Damn it!”

She rips off her shirt, takes some deep breaths. This is ridiculous, he was trying to be civil—maybe—and she should just be calm and detached and cool. But she’s not there. Yet.

She throws on her bike shorts and sports bra, grabs her helmet, and she’s out the door. Once she’s on her bike, pedaling fast down the creek road, she can remember the essay, let herself feel the excitement again and banish Nick’s voice claiming a piece of it. She’ll do her favorite loop around the harbor and then pick up some copies of The Whiplash on her way back.

She takes her usual route to avoid traffic, over the creek bridge and along a gravel trail that brings her out behind the tech college parking lot. From there, she zips onto Marine Drive so she can drop down steep Salish Street to the harbor loop.

The turnoff onto Salish is still blocked off by a construction detour barrier, she’s been dodging it all week while they fixed potholes. Lindsey gives a quick glance for lurking cop cars, then darts around the barrier onto the cracked sidewalk, bounces over the curb and skirts the patch jobs that look like they should be okay by now, anyway. At the bottom of the drop, she slows just enough to check for rare cars, sees only another mountain bike coming from the trailhead parking lot by the reclaimed industrial beach. She lets her rear wheel go into a controlled slide to carry her around the turn, dropping a foot on the inside in case she needs a pivot, but she’s got the momentum and it carries her on.

She’s cranking along past warehouses and along a spur rail line when the other bicyclist overtakes her, surprising her as he pumps past. He’s panting, covered with mud, really pushing it.

Lindsey blinks, then tightens her grip on the handlebars and pushes harder, too, thinking she could use the aerobic burn, see if she can pace this guy.

She rounds the curve past some parked boxcars and over the tracks, then sees up ahead there’s another road barrier at the stop sign giving onto the main industrial harbor drive. A couple cars also block the way, except for a narrow slot through, and some people are standing around. A cry goes up as the cyclist ahead of her shoots through.

Lindsey frowns, glances behind her to see two more mountain bikers strung out behind her. They’ve both got numbers pinned to their skintight jerseys.

“Oh, boy.” Lindsey barely has time to register the mud-spattered number pinned to the biker ahead of her, too, as she sweeps toward the open slot and arms waving her through.

“Go, go, go!” People are chanting as she zooms past, still cranking along in the wake of the first cyclist.

Now she sees the banners draped along the route, the parked cars, the people cheering. She’s blundered into the second-to-last-leg of the annual Snow-to-Sea relay race.

Looking for a place to pull over, she shoots another glance behind her and sees the other racers aren’t catching up, she’s in the clear, so suddenly she’s just riding the adrenaline rush. What the hell! She grins at the spectators lining the route and waving her on, cranks harder and is about to overtake the first biker as she nears another barrier and people with flags waving her through the slot and a turn toward the handoff to the kayakers for the final leg of the race.

A cop car is parked there, lights flashing to add to the festive color.

People are cheering. “Yeah! Go for it! Go, girl!”

Lindsey sails through, grinning, raising her hand to flash a Peace sign. Then reverses it: V for Victory.