“Tell him thank you. And thank you for the flowers.”
“Will do. He wanted to know when they could see some final graphics, so I put Ralph on it. Also, you have the studio scheduled for Tuesday’s Coiffeur shoot. Have you selected a model?”
I ran my fingers through my hair. “No. I scheduled a model search for Thursday.”
“Thursday, as in tomorrow?”
I had no idea what day it was. “Sorry. Can you handle that?”
“I’m always up for a model search.”
I exhaled. “I’m sorry to drop all this on you, Kyle. I just can’t go back to that world.”
“You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’ll take care of everyone. By the way, has Falene called recently?”
“This afternoon.”
He paused. “What did she say?”
“Not much. She just asked how McKale was.”
“Oh?” He sounded surprised. “Good. That’s good. Well, I better let you go. Give McKale my love.”
“Thank you, Kyle.”
“My pleasure.”
CHAPTER
Nine
The more someone assures you that everything is okay, the more you can be assured that it’s not.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The next day McKale was released from the ICU and transferred to the rehabilitation wing of the hospital. I spent the next three weeks at McKale’s side. I stayed until she fell asleep every night. One night I was so exhausted, I started to leave before she was asleep, and she begged me to stay. She was afraid, and she clung to me like a man clings to a limb at the edge of a waterfall. Maybe for the same reason.
I hated rehabilitation. I hated the name of the place. It was false advertising. Nothing was being rehabilitated. I don’t think it was meant to do anything other than get McKale used to a life in a wheelchair, which proved more difficult than we hoped since she lacked the upper body strength to do much of what was required.
In addition to the physical therapy there was “emotional support” as well. A slew of counselors spewed out more promises than a late-night infomercial. You can do anything, mountains just lift us higher, you can live a normal life, your life can be just as full as it was before, rah, rah, rah.
McKale called it a “sorry excuse for a pep rally.”
She wasn’t buying any of it.
Those first weeks after the accident, the only calls I received from the office, outside of those from Kyle and Falene, were repeated calls from two of my clients, Wathen and Coiffeur. Every time they called, I texted Kyle and asked him to take care of them. I just couldn’t live in two worlds. Still, as much as I appreciated Kyle’s covering for me, I knew it couldn’t go on much longer.
By the end of the third week, as I made arrangements to bring McKale home, I began to prepare myself mentally to return to work. I called Kyle for an update on our accounts and was surprised when he didn’t answer his cell phone. This went on for the next three days. By the end of the week, I wondered if he’d lost his phone. Friday afternoon I called Tawna, our receptionist, to find out where he was.
“Madgic, Falene speaking.”
“What are you doing answering the phones?” I asked. “Where’s Tawna?”
“She’s gone.”
“She left early?”
“No, she quit. Everyone’s quit except me.”
She might as well have been speaking Chinese for all the sense it made to me. “Quit? What are you talking about?”
“Kyle and Ralph started their own company. They took everyone with them.”
I was stunned. “Kyle and Ralph left?”
“He and Ralph started their own agency. Craig/Jordan Advertising.”
“What about our clients?”
“They’ve taken them all. Kyle told them Madgic was going under,” she said angrily. “I did the best I could to save them. I convinced Wathen and Claudia at Coiffeur to call you first, but they said you wouldn’t return their calls.”
“We lost them all?”
“Every one.”
I rubbed my face with my hand. “I can’t believe it.”
“I don’t want to believe it. Tell me what to do.”
My head felt as if it would explode. “I don’t know, Falene. Just hang tight. McKale comes home Saturday. We’ll get together Monday morning and strategize. How are we for money?”
“I called Steve about payroll. He said we’re about out.”
“That can’t be. We should have received everyone’s monthly retainers.”
“I just know what he told me.”
“Kyle,” I said, thinking aloud. “He must have had them pay him their retainers.”
“Can’t you sue him?”
“He won’t get away with this.”
Falene sighed. “I’m sorry, Al. I know you didn’t need this on top of everything else.”
“We’ll weather this, Falene. We’ll talk Monday and make a plan.”
Her voice calmed. “Okay. Give McKale my love.”
“Falene.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for not leaving.”
“You’re welcome. Besides, there’s not enough money in the world to make me work for that creep.”
CHAPTER
Ten
What never ceases to amaze me is the human capacity for self-deception when looking after one’s own interest. Self-interest is blind.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I must have called Kyle at least twenty times before he finally answered my call.
“Alan.” He answered cheerfully, but his voice was tinged with anxiety.
“What have you done?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you think I’ve done.”
“You stole my agency.” I had been sitting in an empty patients’ lounge and now rose to my feet and started to pace.
“Not true, buddy. Madgic is still yours. I just followed in your path and struck out on my own.”
“With my clients.”
“No, with my clients. Don’t forget who brought them in.”
“You got them on my time, using my name, my money, my agency, and my creativity.” I tried to keep my voice under control.
“Well, that’s debatable. I’m a partner, so it’s my time, and you’re discounting Ralph and Cory’s creativity. But it doesn’t matter. The clients decide where they go, and they chose to follow me. You abandoned them. I picked up the pieces. How can you fault them for that?”
“I don’t fault them, I fault you. You said that you would cover for me.”
“I did exactly what I said I would. I took care of the clients.”
“No matter how you spin this, you’re a weasel, Kyle. I trusted you, and you stabbed me in the back while I was taking care of my wife. There are special places in hell for people like you.”
“Don’t get all moral on me, pal. This is just business. I’m moving on, and so are my clients.”
“I’m taking you down, Kyle. And that traitor Ralph. You’re not getting away with this.”
For a moment he was speechless. Then he said, “Well, good luck with that.” He hung up.
McKale had been right about him all along.
I struggled over whether or not I should tell McKale and decided to keep it from her until I knew how bad things were. As usual she could tell something was wrong. “Did you ever get hold of Kyle?”
“Yes.” I sat down in the chair next to her hospital bed.
“What’s going on?” Helpless and vulnerable, she gazed at me.
“You know, usual problems. Bottlenecks and deadlines. I need to go back to work Monday.” I reached for her hand and squeezed it.
She looked at me sadly. “I know you do. I’m sorry I’ve taken so much of you.”
“You haven’t taken anything that wasn’t yours,” I said.
A faint smile played on her lips. “So how’s Kyle doing?”
“He’s been busy,” I said, trying to hide my anger.
“I bet. I really misjudged him.” She rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t believe her own stupidity.
I looked at her for a moment, then said, “Yeah. He’s been . . . unbelievable.”
“We should give him a really big Christmas bonus this year.”
I couldn’t stand it anymore. “I’ve got to use the bathroom,” I said. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, locked myself inside, then kicked the plastic garbage can until it broke.
CHAPTER
Eleven
McKale came home today. As joyful as her homecoming is to me, I now fully face the reality that our life will never be the same. It could be worse. I could have come home alone.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Even with my world in shambles, the day McKale came home was like Christmas. At least until I put her to bed. Then reality set in. There were about a hundred phone messages. Some were calls of condolence, but the majority of them were collection calls. I sat with a pen and paper and wrote them all down.
The collection calls came more than once, growing steadily more intense and threatening.
It wasn’t just McKale who was bad with money. Even though my father was an accountant, I never inherited his fiscal discipline. Madgic had taken off like a bottle rocket, and McKale and I wanted everything right away. We purchased the largest home we could get approved for, expensive cars, vacations, and pretty much everything else we wanted. We ate out almost every night. McKale wasn’t much of a cook. She was fond of saying, “The only thing I can make are reservations.”
On top of that, McKale was generous to a fault and gave to about every charity that came along—from the March of Dimes to the Save a Greyhound Society. We had boxes of unopened Girl Scout cookies in our pantry. Whenever we realized we’d run out of money, I’d get upset for a while, then McKale would say, “You’re smart. You’ll make more.”
Even before the accident (and the demise of the agency), we were in trouble. We were late on all of our bills, had a second mortgage on our home, and our credit cards were maxed out. Financially, we had been walking a tightrope. And someone had just cut one end of our rope.
McKale was responsible for paying the bills, and, obviously, she hadn’t done it in a while. In addition to the phone messages, there was a large pile of bills on the ground near the back door. The first time I started through it, I lost my resolve and walked away.
Someone once said, “We can deny reality, but we can’t deny the consequences of denying reality.” The first of the consequences manifested on Sunday afternoon. As I was cleaning up after lunch, the doorbell rang. I opened to two men. The man in front was about my size and build, though balding and a decade or so older. The second man was sandy haired and looked like a linebacker for the Seattle Seahawks. The first man did the talking.
“Are you Alan Christoffersen?”
“Yes.”
“We’re from Avait Leasing. We’re here to repossess a Lexus Sports Coupe and a Cadillac Escalade.”
My eyes darted back and forth between the two. “Look, my wife just got out of the hospital. Is there something we can work out?”
“Sorry, we’re way past that. If you would show us to the cars.”
I looked at him for any sign of mercy, but there was none. He was there to do his job. “They’re in the garage. I’ll open it.” The men stepped aside as I walked out the front door. I opened the garage by the keypad. “Give me a minute to get our things out of the cars.”
“No problem.”
I collected our belongings—sunglasses, CDs, cell phone chargers—the usual stuff. When I was done, I removed the car keys from the key rings, then handed them to the man. He threw the Escalade key to his associate then climbed into my Lexus. “Sorry.”
I watched them drive away in our cars. I shut the garage door and went back inside.
“Who was at the door?” McKale asked.
I frowned. “Leasing company. They just repossessed our cars.”
“Sorry.” She looked away from me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “They’re just cars.” The truth is, I felt like a lowlife.
Things just got worse. That night as I sorted through mail, I came across the first of the medical bills. More than a quarter million dollars. I can handle this, I told myself. Just don’t panic. Don’t panic. McKale needs you.
I panicked.
CHAPTER
Twelve
Something remarkable happened today. McKale’s leg began to move. We’re not breaking out the champagne yet, but could it be that our luck has finally changed?
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Monday morning, I got McKale up at six. I bathed, toileted, and dressed her. I got her into her chair, then made her breakfast. As I went about this routine, I thought of that saying, Today is the first day of the rest of your life. It fit, just not as optimistically as it was intended. This was my new daily routine—something I would do until the two of us were old and gray.
I hated to leave her alone, but I had no choice. It would have to happen someday. “You sure you’ll be all right today?”
“Yes. We need to get used to this,” she said.
I kissed her on the forehead, then went to get myself ready. While I was showering, McKale screamed, “Al! Come here, quick!”
I pulled a towel around myself and rushed dripping wet into the room. McKale was smiling. It was the first time I had seen her smile since the accident.
“What?”
“Look,” she said. To my amazement one of McKale’s legs was moving. “Something’s happening.”
“Do you have feeling in it?”
“No. But it feels like it wants to move.”
My heart leapt. It was the first hope I’d felt in weeks. “Whatever you’re doing,” I said, “just keep doing it.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said. “It just started moving on its own.”
Finally, I thought, something good has happened. Thank you, God.
CHAPTER
Thirteen
Today I went back to the office for the first time since I ran out. It was like returning to the aftermath of a house fire—walking through steaming ruins and charred remains. Falene was the lone survivor of the inferno.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Fortunately our bad credit hadn’t entirely caught up to us before I had leased a handicap van. I had gone from a luxury sports car to a handicap van. It was a fitting symbol of our new reality.
I arrived at the office at ten minutes to nine. The place looked as if it had been deserted during a lunch break. The lights and computers were still on. Pens and papers were still at desks. It was like one of those episodes of Unsolved Mysteries. Unfortunately this was no mystery. It was Kyle. More than half the awards were gone, leaving bare hooks on the conference room wall. In my office, someone had gone through my file cabinet, and there were file folders scattered around my desk. My Rolodex was missing.
I was still in my office when Falene opened the front door. I walked out to meet her. She smiled wryly when she saw me. “Welcome back,” she said. We embraced. “I tried to tell you.”
“I know.” I looked around the office. “Looks like the Grinch struck early.”
“He even took the last can of Who-Hash.” She shook her head. “Speaking of Grinch, did you ever talk to creepy Kyle?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Basically, he said he left because I had abandoned the agency. He only had the clients’ best interests at heart.”
“Wow, what a hero,” she said snidely. “Typical Kyle spin. The only interest Kyle has ever had is his own. You know, he started this before McKale was hurt.”
I looked at her in surprise. “What?”
“The day before you pitched Wathen, he told me what he was doing and asked if I would go with him. I was going to tell you after the Wathen pitch. But then everything went crazy.”
This revelation put everything int
o perspective. “That freaking weasel,” I said. I looked down at my desk and wondered if Kyle himself had ransacked it.
“A weasel he is,” Falene said. She rested her hands on her hips. “So where do we begin, boss?”
“I want you to call our client list and set up meetings with anyone who will meet with me.”
“Do I have permission to use guilt?”
“Absolutely. Do we have any new leads?”
“There have been a few inquiries. No one big, but they can help keep the lights on. I have them written down in my office. I was keeping them from Kyle.”
“Good girl.”
We walked off to our separate offices. I spent the morning following up leads and talking to Steve, our accountant. Financially, things weren’t quite as grim as it had seemed, not good, but not totally catastrophic either. At least not yet. Several large receivables had come in, and we had about twelve thousand dollars in the bank—enough to cover our payables. Around two o’clock, Falene came into my office.
“I’m headed down for a salad. Want something?”
“Thanks, but I need to go home and check on McKale. How are the calls going?”
“Okay. Wathen says he’s very sorry, but they’re just too far along to change course. But he’ll keep us in mind for future projects.”
I shook my head. “It’s only been four weeks.”
“I know. He sounded kind of dodgey. I’m sure Kyle’s been working him over. But Coiffeur, iTex, and DynaTech are willing to meet next week.”
“It’s a start. Good job, Falene.”
“Thanks. And how is McKale?”
I smiled. “Her leg was moving this morning.”
“That’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“It makes everything else seem manageable.” I stood and began gathering a few files to take with me.
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