She walked to the edge of the stage and spread her arms wide. “I believe in science. I am a medical doctor. I believe that in the not-too-distant future, genetic manipulation or nanotechnology or some line of inquiry will produce impressive results for mankind of the kind we’ve seen here. But…” She paused dramatically. You could have heard a pin drop in the audience.
“But,” she said, “as much as I respect allopathic medicine, I think all the emphasis on pure scientific research is lopsided. It neglects the mind. It neglects the spirit. If we really want to extend our lives, we can’t afford to overlook these essential elements of our being. We know that the mind has a profound effect on the body. Did you know that a Japanese acupuncturist has created anesthesia in his patients just by setting the needles next to them on the bed? We know that the mind can create disease and dysfunction in the body. Have you heard of hysterical blindness? Does your child get a stomachache before a test? Ever wonder where the term tension headache comes from? I could go on and on. I’m sure we all recognize that our thoughts and emotions can create illness.”
She paced across the stage, caressing her microphone like a country-and-western singer. “What we haven’t focused on is this: If our feelings and thoughts can make us sick, they can certainly cure us as well. They can actually create the chemical reactions in our bodies that support life.” She smiled serenely. “There is a long scientific explanation for how what’s going on in your mind and spirit affects the molecular structures of your body to produce biological signals and affect your well-being,” she said. “But I won’t bore you with it now. Let’s get down-and-dirty. Let’s talk about your body.”
She pointed out into the audience, probably right at me. “Are you slipping slowly out of your prime? Do you hate to drop something because it’s so hard to bend over and pick it up? Have you been laid up with backaches, headaches, stomachaches, and worse? Have you seen the common cold turn into a two-week event? Do you look in the mirror and see the face of a person much older than you think you are?”
Uh-oh.
“All of these things are signs of aging,” she said. “And all of them are avoidable.”
A gigantic blowup of the cover of You Don’t Have to Die flashed onto the screen.
“The Crystol Program, which is outlined in my book, which you see here on the screen”—she pointed at it with a laser, just in case we might have overlooked the billboard-sized mock-up as a result of our slide into senescence—“is three-pronged.
“First, we start with the body. We pamper it, soothe it, rest it, tone it. We give it what it wants. We eliminate toxins from the diet by following a carefully prescribed plan. In some cases we give it natural tonics, based on substances that have been known to heal and enhance physical well-being for thousands of years.”
I liked the part about giving the body what it wanted, but I bet mocha cappuccino cheesecake, my own Platonic ideal of a carnal craving, would not be on the list. Bobbie’s body probably lusted for tofu. Thank God there hadn’t been any advocacy of caloric restriction, at least so far, unlike those dedicated types who hoped to squeeze out a year or two more of life by subsisting entirely on steamed broccoli sprouts and cherry tomatoes.
“Next, we turn to the mind. We focus on various ways to use our brains to change our bodies. We recognize that our emotional and psychological past and present—our ‘baggage,’ if you will—can make us ill and that we will never get well until we can jettison these things from our lives. Learning to let go, to discharge our negatives, is a big part of healing our bodies, and as we heal our bodies, we get rid of the things that make us age.
“Last, we address the spirit. Obviously this is a personal and very complicated thing, but harnessing the spirit, finding your individual path to righteous living, is the key to longevity. We hope you will come out of our program spiritually enlightened as well as physically and mentally refreshed.”
A picture of Casa Alegría, the soon-to-be-opened Crystol spa across the border, flashed up on the screen. Bobbie obviously wasn’t one for subtlety.
She took a sip of water from the glass on the lectern. “I’d like to take a short break, during which time I’ll be answering questions and signing books in the area adjoining this room. When we come back, I’ll talk more specifically about our program. Thank you.”
When the lights came on, Taylor stood up. “Let’s get some coffee,” he said. All about us, well-heeled types reasonably well acquainted with the period known as midlife were milling and mulling. The demographics were fantastic, even I could see that.
Taylor took my arm and steered me up the escalator to the refreshment pavilion. In honor of my body (as well as my desire to sleep) I chose decaf. I wondered if I should ask for green tea, but I’ve always thought it tastes like someplace legions of incontinent water creatures have called home.
Taylor started to take out his wallet, while I agonized momentarily about whether I should let him pay. (It’s not a man-woman thing, it’s a partner-associate thing.) “I’ll get it,” I said finally, preempting him. “It’s my client.”
He smiled.
We took our coffees out on the terrace overlooking the water. The Convention Center occupies one of the most beautiful spots in the city, right on the water’s edge, but it was designed to face inward, and you have to fight the architecture to get any view. It’s worth the effort.
“So what did you think?” I asked him as we stood side by side facing out to sea. It was a little chilly, but I wasn’t about to suggest going in. “She was great, wasn’t she?”
He grinned hugely. “I think,” he said, all but rubbing his hands together with uncharacteristic glee, “that we ought to seriously consider taking a large percentage of our fees in stock.”
I laughed. “That good?”
“I’m serious. I’m going to raise it with the partners next week at the meeting. We’re looking at tremendous potential here. She could be as big as Chopra. Did you see the way she held the crowd?”
I was beginning to think that being unlovely and unloved in school was probably the best thing that ever happened to Barbara Collins. She might never have become Bobbie Crystol if she’d been a Little Sister of Minerva or some other social atrocity that seemed ridiculously important at the time.
I nodded. “She was very impressive.” I cleared my throat. “I’m thinking books, clinics, tapes, seminars, maybe even TV specials.” I hoped I was on the right track.
“Absolutely,” he said. “All of those things.” He ticked them off on the fingers of his hands. “I’m sure she can pull it off.”
“What did you think of her life-extension theories?” I asked him. I was curious to know how he’d reacted.
He looked startled, as if the question was totally unexpected. “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really listening to that part.”
I wondered what part he’d been listening to.
“What did you think?” he asked me.
“Well,” I said, considering. “It seemed pretty harmless.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did you think it wouldn’t be?”
“Maybe harmless isn’t the right word. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward. You take care of your body. You take care of your emotions because they affect your body. I mean, who doesn’t know that? And you take care of your spirit because, well, it’s good for you.” I shrugged. “It reminds me of hearing about one of these incredibly complex and scientific-sounding weight loss programs and then finding out that what it boils down to is diet and exercise.” I looked at him; his eyes were glazing over. Weight control and emotions were obviously not high-priority topics on his list of enthusiasms. “Anyway,” I said, returning to subject matter more likely to excite him, “I’m glad to hear you agree that this will be good business for the firm.”
He smiled. “It’s good business for everybody.” He looked at me. “You know, when you wanted to come on as an associate at RTA, I wondered if it would work out.”
; “So did I,” I told him truthfully. “There are certain difficulties involved in changing roles so completely.”
“Not that you aren’t smart and competent and—though of course I shouldn’t say it—attractive,” he said.
The night, which had previously seemed a little chilly, began to warm up.
“But the law isn’t for everyone,” he continued. “If you’re going to succeed, you have to have a certain toughness. Quite frankly, I didn’t see that toughness in you when you worked at the firm before.”
How tough did you have to be to say “Roth, Tolbert and Anderson” into the telephone and “Where would you like me to put this file?” to the firm’s attorneys? On the other hand, sitting through Torts and Contracts and Civil Procedure, et al, every week for six years after you’ve worked all day was tough. Writing briefs on the weekends and staying up till three in the morning reading case law was tough. Trying to find enough time for your job, your classes, and your children was tough. Taylor didn’t have a clue.
“I’m not surprised,” I told him. “I was the receptionist, Taylor.”
He looked disconcerted, as if he’d momentarily forgotten. He waved a hand dismissively. “Anyway, that’s all forgotten now.” He made it sound like a sordid incident. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve never had an associate bring in a piece of business like this so early in his or her career. It’s quite a coup.”
“Too bad I didn’t go to school with Bill Gates,” I suggested.
“Umm, isn’t he a little bit younger than you are?” he asked.
Okay, so Taylor didn’t have the greatest sense of humor, despite all his other favored-by-fortune attributes. But the night was beautiful and so was all the attention I was getting for being the Friend of Bobbie. It was impossible not to enjoy it.
“A tad,” I conceded good-naturedly. “Plus he dropped out.” Plus he went to Harvard, which I’d never come remotely close to attending. The nearest I’d gotten to the Ivy League was that my alma mater liked to style itself “The Princeton of the West.”
“What was Bobbie like in school?” Taylor asked me.
This was a question I was not eager to answer with tactless truth. “Well,” I temporized, “you remember that I didn’t recognize her at first. I didn’t know her very well, but, um, she was a bit less glamorous than she is now.”
“A bit?”
“The styles were different. You know how it is.”
He folded his arms and smiled. “I think I get the picture.”
I doubted it, but I didn’t want to enlighten him. “Let’s just say that her program has definitely succeeded if she’s any example. In fact, she wants the firm to come for a ‘refurbishment weekend’ or whatever when the spa opens.”
He nodded. “Do it, if you want. It will be great publicity. The firm will pay.”
“She wants you to come too,” I stressed. At least there was safety in numbers.
“We’ll see. We could send all the associates at least. I’ll talk to Jamison Roth about it tomorrow. In fact, you should also come to the meeting with the partners to plan how to make the most of Crystol Enterprises. We might even get to take her public.” Even on the darkened terrace I could see happy thoughts of IPOs dancing through his head.
“Great,” I said. “Thank you.”
“So,” he said, looking out over the water, “was she always ambitious?”
“Apparently. I didn’t know it at the time, though.”
He nodded. “Good. I admire people who are driven to succeed.” He turned to look at me. “Like you and Bobbie.”
I entertained a moment of indecision about whether or not to accept this compliment gracefully. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t too keen on being lumped with Bobbie’s knock-’em-out-of-your-path ruthlessness, but what was I going to say? I’m not driven to succeed? Dr. Lawrence would doubtless have had something acerbically appropriate to say about this dilemma. I drew in a breath. “I—”
The phone rang.
At first I didn’t know where it was coming from, since I myself was still on the low-tech end of the telecommunications technology spectrum.
Taylor made a face. “Sorry,” he said, and pulled the phone out of his pocket, flipping it open. “Taylor Anderson,” he said crisply. He listened. He closed his eyes in weary resignation.
“It’s for you,” he said.
Chapter Thirteen
The intensive care unit nurses’ station was a pool of light and noise in the middle of a circle of darker, quieter patient rooms humming with the comforting sounds of watchful machines. The nurses themselves, not far into the night shift, were frenetically occupied—leafing through papers, conferring with doctors and aides, writing reports, giving directions. A few plants and stuffed animals sat on the edges of the barriers, their softening effect largely lost in the absence of sunlight. As in a bank, the interior architecture was designed to keep you away from the important stuff. I shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for someone to look up, although I was standing only a few inches away from the nearest seated person, a tired-looking gray-haired woman with her reading glasses perched on her nose.
“Excuse me,” I said for the second time.
“Yes?” she said, looking up at last, probably annoyed at the interruption. She studied me and said, more gently, “Can I help you?”
“My mother.” My throat was dry, and I swallowed. “Mary Alice Weston. W-e-s-t-o-n. They said downstairs that she was on this floor, but she’s not in the room number they gave me.”
She consulted the computer. “She was here,” she confirmed. “But she’s been moved. Room two-oh-six. Take the elevator and turn right.” Her eyes slid to her paperwork again. Dismissed.
“Wait, I—”
“Yes?” She indulged me momentarily.
“Can you tell me what’s the matter with her? Why she was brought here? No one told me anything on the phone except that she fell.”
“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with your mother’s doctor,” she said. “Room two-oh-six,” she repeated firmly.
“Could you at least tell me…”
Her eyes were steely, her lips pressed together.
“Is it a good sign that she’s been moved to another floor? I mean, it isn’t bad news, is it?”
Surprisingly, she laughed. “Honey,” she said, “this is Intensive Care. There’s no place to go but up.”
My mother was sleeping. There were no alarming tubes or other paraphernalia attached to her body parts, so I was reassured. Still, as she lay there I felt I was really seeing her for the first time in a long time. She looked thin and old and very tired. It was like seeing a house you’ve lived in all your life suddenly stripped of its furniture and familiar objects. It made me feel forlorn and lost.
There wasn’t a doctor in sight. I wondered how I could get someone to tell me what had happened. My neighbor, Louise Kennedy, had responded to Allie’s frantic phone call and found my mother passed out on the kitchen floor. She’d called 911 and stayed till the paramedics arrived, but she didn’t know much more than that. Bless her, she was waiting at my house with Allie till I got home. The ICU allowed only one family visitor at a time.
“Please,” I said to the woman seated at the nurses’ station, “I need to find out what happened to my mother.”
The nurse looked at me with dark eyes filled with compassion.
Thank God, I thought.
“You’re Mrs. Weston’s daughter? She said you would come.”
Yes. “Yes.”
“Try not to worry. Your mother fell, and they’ve had to run some tests. Right now there’s no indication that it’s anything really serious. They’ll want to keep her here at least overnight for observation. You just missed Dr. Bryan, but she’ll be checking in again in a couple of hours.”
“Is she unconscious?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Just sleeping, I think. She’s probably exhausted. It’s natural.”
“Oh. I should just let her rest,
then.”
She nodded encouragingly. “It’s probably best. While you’re waiting, you might stop by Admissions downstairs and fill in the paperwork. And tomorrow, after they see the test results, the discharge planner and a patient advocate will want to ask you some questions.”
“Some questions?” Even to me the words sounded slow and dull-witted. My brain seemed to be numbed.
“About your mother’s situation at home and what kind of care she’ll receive. It’s routine. Nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about. Routine. Of course they would want to know how I would take care of my mother, now that she was…what? Unable to take care of herself? I still didn’t know if she’d had a stroke or a heart attack or something less on the medical atrocity scale. How was I going to take care of her?
“Becky?”
I turned. “Mark?” I almost said, “Dr. Lawrence,” but I remembered in time.
“How’s your mother?” he asked. “Have you talked to Julie Bryan?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t talked to anyone. How did you know?”
“I happened to be in the ER when they brought her in,” he said. “I didn’t know she was your mother until I saw the chart. I stopped by to see if I could catch you here.”
I felt such an immense rush of gratitude I almost cried, except that I’d already done that a lot in therapy and didn’t want to remind him, or myself, of any of those scenes. “Thank you,” I said. “Can you tell me anything?”
He hesitated.
I had a thought. “What kind of doctor is Julie Bryan?”
“Neurologist,” he said.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
He touched my arm. “Why don’t we go down to the cafeteria and get some coffee?”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”
The coffee was surprisingly good. We sat in a couple of vinyl chairs of the turquoise color favored by institutions determined to manipulate the mood of the inmates. The cafeteria was largely deserted; the food section was closed except for the portion devoted to caffeinated beverages. “It’s a myth, about the bad food in hospitals,” Mark told me. “And the coffee has to be good because if it weren’t, no one would drink it, and if no one drank it, the staff would be going facedown onto the patients. And that’s not good for business.”
Exit Strategies Page 10