Exit Strategies

by Catherine Todd

  “I am?”

  “Sure. If Taylor had done it, he wouldn’t have screwed it up. Ryan might have handed you the way to get the entire trust reviewed. You should get down on your knees and thank him for his incompetence.”

  I felt more like socking him in the nose, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Of course, it does present us with something of a dilemma,” she said.

  My life was so full of dilemmas lately I didn’t know which one to focus on. “What?” I asked.

  She looked amused. “Well, ethically speaking, I’m sure you can see that if we’ve identified a potential problem in some other RTA associate’s work, we might be obliged to divulge it. On the other hand, if we do, our friend Carole might try to scramble around and alter the trust in such a way that it doesn’t violate the Rule Against Perpetuities, and then you’ll have a harder time getting a court to review it. So what do you think we should do, Becky?”

  Let’s see, my loyalty to the firm versus my loyalty to my kids. “Technically speaking, we don’t know there’s any problem, right?” I said. “Not till we get someone expert to confirm it.” I looked at her. “I think we should hurry up and talk to your father,” I said.

  She smiled. “You’re thinking like a lawyer, Becky. I hope that pleases you.”

  “I’m sure that will be very useful in my next job,” I told her.

  “I’m a genius,” Isabel proclaimed when I picked up the phone late that afternoon.

  “Undoubtedly,” I told her, “but it’s customary to let other people point it out first.”

  “I don’t have time for that sort of phony modesty,” she said. “Wait till you hear what I’ve done.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “While you were gone, I posted a note on HumbugWatch inviting people to share problems they’ve had with Dr. Crystol’s program,” she said. I’d called her when I got home the night before, so she knew about the incident at the spa.

  “What’s HumbugWatch?” I asked her.

  “It’s a website devoted to alleged medical quackery. There’s quite a bit about anti-aging on it. People can post their comments on the site. So now you might find out more about people’s experiences with Dr. Crystol.”

  She sounded so excited I didn’t want to tell her that whatever Bobbie did or didn’t do was now largely irrelevant to my future. Besides, I did have an obligation—one that I would honor—not to say anything about my suspicions concerning Bobbie’s offshore accounts.

  “That is brilliant,” I said admiringly. “Do you think anyone will respond?”

  She laughed. “Check your E-mail,” she said.

  I gasped. “You didn’t post my address?”

  “I told you I was a genius. Of course not. I just forwarded the first of the comments to you. I threw out the obscene suggestions and the obvious cranks, but I included the who-do-you-think-you-are-to-invite-criticism-of-such-a-fine-humanitarian messages. There are a lot of those. In the future you can check them yourself.”

  “So most of the response was positive?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that. There are a number of people who think they got sick from the therapies.” She paused. “There is also one from someone who claims she used to work next door to Bobbie’s office and heard a lot of things from her employees.”

  “Don’t torture me, Isabel. What kinds of things?”

  “That she cut corners and invented data while running drug tests for pharmaceutical companies. Kept blood and urine samples in the office fridge so she could fake the results if necessary and give the companies the answers they wanted.”

  “That’s possible. Mark said he heard rumors about her clinical trials. I’m afraid Bobbie’s scruples are suspect, to say the least.”

  “You sound down,” she said. “Is there something else?”

  “It’s just been a bad day.” I told her about my mother. “And just when I’m going to need the money, I have to face the fact that realistically I’ll be out of a job soon. Very soon, probably. And I absolutely won’t be taking Bobbie with me, for reasons I can’t explain right now, so I’m going to have to do it on my own. The only bright spot is this thing with the trust. It might work out. But there are consequences you don’t know about.”

  “Don’t borrow trouble,” she said. “One thing at a time. It’s a great job market—if you get fired or have to quit, you’ll find something else.”

  “I know. I might even have a lead on a job in a high-tech company. But you know what those guys are like, Isabel. They regard sleep deprivation as a stimulus to creativity, and they’ve all got this singular and ruthless devotion to work, uncluttered by inconvenient attachments. That’s okay for Melissa Peters—she’d probably thrive on it—but I don’t think it’s really me.”

  “I don’t think it’s really you either. What does Mark say?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to sound needy and dependent. He’s already helping with my mother. I have to take care of this one myself.”

  “I think you’re too hung up on the fact that he used to be your therapist. You don’t have to keep proving to him that you’re tough. He knows you.”

  “Thanks, I think. Want to get together this week over a bottle of wine?”

  “Okay,” she said. “But I can’t do it until after I correct a hundred and fifty-two math tests and check out the bona fides of some guy claiming to own a sixty-thousand-acre spread in Montana.” She sighed. “So what’s he doing selling cars in National City? I mean, some people will believe anything.”

  “Love may be blind, but at least she’s checking him out. Does that count as one eye open?”

  “Just a squint, I’d say.” She hesitated. “Do you want to hear my latest Texas quote?”

  “Isabel, where are you getting these things?”

  “You type in Texas, and up they come,” she said. “Do you want to hear it or not?”

  “Shoot.”

  “That’s not funny, Becky. Do you know what J.B. Priestly said? He said that Texas was a world so contemptuous and destructive of feminine values that women had to be heavily bribed to stay there.”

  “Bribed with what? Spareribs?”

  “Shops. Like Neiman Marcus.”

  “That’s totally ridiculous. You can find Neiman Marcus lots of places, including here. Why are you tormenting yourself trying to find bad things about Texas?”

  “You know why,” she said.

  “But Daniel doesn’t even live there,” I pointed out. “He lives here.”

  “He might want to go back. It’s where his roots are.”

  “Isabel, will you listen to yourself? You can’t get an impression of someplace by amassing a collection of quotes from a bunch of dead guys. If you want to know what it’s like, you should go there and see for yourself. And besides, aren’t you just looking for reasons not to get involved with Daniel?”

  She laughed. “Becky, it is so tacky to throw my own advice back in my face. What is this, the zeal of the convert?”

  “I guess so,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

  “I guess so,” I told her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I SAW YOUR INVITATION ON HUMBUGWATCH. YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE REST OF THE BUREAUCRATIC, SO-CALLED MEDICAL PROFESSION, TRYING TO KEEP GENUINE REVOLUTIONARIES LIKE DR. CRYSTOL OUT OF THE LIME-LIGHT BECAUSE YOU’RE AFRAID OF BEING SHOWN UP AS NARROW-MINDED HACKS. YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF SOLICITING NEGATIVE INFORMATION ABOUT DR. CRYSTOL, WHOSE RESEARCH WILL LIBERATE US FROM THE LIMITATIONS OF OUR AGING BODIES. SHE IS THE TRUE HUMANITARIAN, MISUNDERSTOOD IN HER OWN TIME, LIKE FREUD AND ELVIS. I HOPE YOU GET CHIN HAIRS THE SIZE OF TOOTHPICKS AND HAVE TO GET UP FIFTEEN TIMES A NIGHT TO PEE. THEN WE’LL SEE WHO HAS THE LAST LAUGH…

  Dr. Jackson, Mark’s orthopedic whiz, was elated. She waved the X rays in front of my nose as triumphantly as if they were da Vinci drawings authenticated on A
ntiques Roadshow.

  “I knew it,” she said happily. “I knew as soon as I examined you, Mrs. Weston, there had to be a break there somewhere.”

  “My leg is broken?” asked my mother from her wheelchair.

  “Not your leg,” said Dr. Jackson, sobering up. “Your hip. I’m sure you fractured it when you fell. It’s been getting worse all this time. No wonder you’ve been feeling pain.”

  I thought my mother herself would feel a temptation to gloat at having been proved right after all, but she looked worried.

  “This is good news, right?” I said encouragingly. “If something is broken, you can fix it. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, yes,” said the doctor. “I’d recommend hip replacement surgery. And if you’re not on something for your osteoporosis, I’d recommend that you start.”

  “Hip replacement,” said my mother in a leaden tone.

  “It’s not so bad,” said the doctor brightly. “After some rehabilitation, you’ll be back to walking just about normally again, with much less pain. Won’t that be an improvement?”

  “I have to go into the hospital,” said my mother. “And a nursing home.”

  “Well, yes, Mrs. Weston. It’s not the sort of surgery you can do on an outpatient basis.”

  I knelt beside her chair. “It’ll be okay, Mother. You’ll see. It’s only temporary.”

  She looked at me skeptically and then turned her face away. “I don’t have any choice, do I?” she said to the wall.

  “Of course you do,” said Dr. Jackson. “But if you don’t have the surgery, the pain will get worse and you’ll end up unable to walk at all. In fact, I’m surprised you’ve been able to get around as well as you have been. It must have taken a lot of willpower.”

  “They said I had to,” said my mother.

  I put an arm around her shoulders. The thought of my mother bravely making her way down the corridors on a broken hip in order to meet some arbitrary fitness standard just about unhinged me. “I am so sorry,” I said. “I should have listened to you sooner. You told me you were in pain, and I thought because the tests hadn’t shown anything, there was nothing physically wrong.” I looked at Dr. Jackson. “Why didn’t the earlier tests show anything?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “It was probably a hairline fracture, and now it’s been made worse by your mother’s efforts at getting herself around. We try, but we don’t always catch everything.”

  “How soon would you want to operate?” I asked.

  She did some mental calculations. “Hmm. Today’s Thursday. I’ll have to check my schedule, but I would imagine we could do it on Monday or Tuesday.” She turned to my mother. “You’ll need a special hip prosthesis, Mrs. Weston, because of the break. It will take a day or two to get here. I’d like to get you admitted today, however, so we can get the hip immobilized and run some tests,” she said. “Because of your history, we want to be extra careful.” She bent over my mother. “Is early next week all right with you, Mrs. Weston?”

  My mother clutched at my hand.

  “Don’t be scared, Mom,” I whispered, though I was scared too.

  “I just want to say…” my mother began.

  “Yes?”

  “I told you so,” she said.

  Mark caught up with us in the hospital lobby. “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t get away. How are you doing, Mrs. Weston?”

  “I have a broken hip,” my mother said proudly.

  “Ah, they found something,” Mark said. “Dr. Jackson’s the best.” He looked at me. “Surgery?”

  I nodded.

  “Feeling scared?” he asked my mother.

  “What are you, a shrink?” she asked.

  “This is Dr. Lawrence, mother. He came to visit you after you fell, remember?”

  “No, I don’t. Did you bring flowers?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Mark said.

  “Candy? Balloons? A card?”

  “Mother—” I said.

  “Cheapskate,” she muttered.

  Mark laughed.

  “Mother,” I said, horrified. “Mark got you this appointment.”

  My mother shrugged.

  “I’ll bring flowers and a card next time, Mrs. Weston. I promise,” Mark said. He consulted his watch. “You need to go get her checked in,” he said. “Can I meet you in my office or somewhere afterward? We need to talk.”

  “I could stop by your office in an hour,” I said.

  “Nobody has the decency even to wait till I’m gone,” said my mother.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with her,” I said to him when we met an hour later. “One minute she has me feeling horribly contrite because she’s been bravely soldiering on with a broken hip, and the next minute she’s acting like a cranky two-year-old. I don’t know how to treat her. I’m sorry she was so rude to you.”

  He laughed. “I’d say she was pretty smart. You can bet I’ll show up with an armload of goodies next time. Anyway, don’t worry about it. She’s scared, and she’s lost control of her life. That can make anybody cranky.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said.

  He smiled.

  It was strange being in Mark’s office after such a long time, especially as a visitor and not a patient. The furniture was all a newer version of what had been there before—generic, comfortable, tasteful but not extraordinary. In fact, it conveyed absolutely nothing about its owner—a blank slate each patient could fill in for himself. It had to be intentional.

  “I never noticed before,” I told him.

  “Noticed what?”

  “That there’s nothing personal here in your office. It’s very nice, but nobody could ever guess anything about you from seeing this.”

  He looked embarrassed. “I try to keep my personal life at home, at my house. Especially since…Well, it helps you keep your professional life separate. You need to, in this business.”

  I thought he’d been going to say “since my wife died.” I said, “Like Dorian Gray, in reverse,” striving for a lighter tone. “This place gets the bland exterior and your house gets all the telling knickknacks.”

  He laughed. “My house is not full of knickknacks,” he said, “telling or otherwise.”

  There was an awkward pause, during which I wondered if he thought I’d been hinting to see his house. To cover it, I said quickly, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  He stopped smiling. “I have a friend who’s a top consultant in the biomedical industry. I asked him to do some checking into drug companies that might be running clinical trials on something that fit your description of Bobbie’s supplements.”

  “That’s great. Did he find out anything?”

  “He says a company called SINALMA Pharmaceuticals is testing an anti-aging product with a formulation that doesn’t exist in any product currently on the market, possibly just for distribution outside the United States. He doesn’t know who’s doing the clinical trial—SINALMA’s not his client.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “The exact ingredients are secret, naturally, but the scuttlebutt is that it’s an ephedrine-related alkaloid and caffeine,” he said. “Along with some less significant things.”

  “Explain,” I told him.

  “Ephedrine and related alkaloids are structurally similar to amphetamines,” he said. “They rev up the metabolism—the blood pressure and the heart. They’re usually found in weight loss products and ‘energy boosters.’ If you’ve got cardiac arrhythmia or high blood pressure or diabetes, they can be very dangerous.”

  “Is it illegal?”

  “Not really. A version of an alkaloid, pseudoephedrine, is found in just about every cold product on the market. This could be a more dangerous cousin, but ephedrine is still approved as a bronchodilator for people with asthma. The FDA is trying to remove oral ephedrine drug products from the OTC market, but you can find these products on the Internet right now.”

  “So if that was what was in the pill, do
you think it might have caused that woman’s problems?”

  “It certainly could have. Particularly if she exercised excessively and she didn’t eat. Did you ever drink way too many cups of coffee and make your heart pound?”

  “That much coffee doesn’t exist,” I told him.

  He smiled.

  “So what’s the point?” I asked him. “Of the pill, I mean.”

  “Oh, well, if you don’t get hypertension, coronary spasm, respiratory depression, or convulsions, you feel incredibly energetic.”

  “What do you think Bobbie’s up to?” I asked.

  He sighed. “What she says, I imagine. It’s not a magic pill, but you could argue that it does make people feel younger, at least temporarily.”

  “If they survive it.”

  “The only sure way to avoid growing old is to die young,” he said. He touched my arm. “You saw how people were clamoring for these treatments, Becky. They don’t care if they’re dangerous or not.”

  I remembered the group at Opening Weekend and knew he was right. Still, I hated to leave it like that. “My leverage with Bobbie Crystol has gone from low to nonexistent,” I told him. “I don’t think there’s much I can do if she is the one doing the clinical trials, particularly if she confines her treatments to Mexico.”

  “I know that,” he said. “I didn’t tell you because of that. I told you for you.”

  “Because I said I wanted to know no matter what.” I smiled. “I wonder how many people regret it after they say something like that.”

  “Lots of them,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m on my way out with Bobbie anyway. I’ve been supplanted in her legal affections.”

  “How does that make you feel?” he asked, in his therapist’s voice.