Gideon

by Grant Rosenberg

  Nathan perched on the edge of his chair, profusely apologized for leaving early the previous week, and explained that he missed the funeral because he’d been out of town. He hadn’t called or emailed because he felt it was only appropriate to express his deepest sympathies in person.

  Nathan had an on-again-off-again relationship with the truth. Kelly had never known him to maliciously lie, but he’d earned a well-deserved reputation for obfuscating the facts.

  A spoiled boy from a wealthy family with an overbearing father, Nathan always put Nathan first, which was not an admirable trait for a doctor. He should’ve gone the route of his father and become an investment banker instead of a doctor, but then any failure on his part would have been far too easy to quantify. Nathan was determined to become successful in his own right. However, there was one major problem with his career plan: he simply didn’t care enough to put in the time or the energy it took to become a great doctor. He wanted success handed to him, like everything else in his life.

  After Nathan finished his litany of excuses and his pandering effusive remarks regarding David, he finally got around to the purpose of his visit.

  “What’s going to happen to the clinic now?”

  “It’ll continue on as it did before,” Kelly said with as little emotion as possible. She wanted this over and him out of the office.

  “So you’re retaining the entire staff?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Nathan buried a smile. He’d dodge a major bullet if Kelly wasn’t aware of her father’s ultimatum. “With everything that’s happened, I didn’t know if you were planning on keeping things status quo. I really enjoy working here.”

  “But not enough to put in a full shift,” Kelly retorted, trying to tamp down her growing ire.

  “I screwed up. My father organized this big dinner with some important clients and I was obliged to attend. I should’ve told your dad earlier, but I forgot all about it until the last minute.” He stopped to assess Kelly’s reaction. Her stony demeanor made it clear she wasn’t sympathetic to his excuses.

  As much as Kelly found some small satisfaction in Nathan’s discomfort, she was tired of his smarmy bullshit. She stood up, signaling the meeting was over. “I’m not going to make any changes right now. I’ll continue to honor your position, but if I find I can’t depend on you, I’ll bring in someone else.”

  Nathan stood, now allowing the smile to come out. “You can count on me. I promise.” He started to extend his hand, then thought better of it. No one liked a clammy handshake.

  When Nathan got to the door, he turned back. “By the way, and this is none of my business, but if things get tight financially, I’d be happy to introduce you to my father. He runs a hedge fund called Vantage, and one of his clients is the Wallace Medical Group. They’re rapidly expanding in the Bay Area and there might be some common ground.”

  Kelly was taken aback by Nathan’s sheer brazenness. The dirt was still fresh on her father’s grave and Nathan was making a play for the clinic? When she spoke, she didn’t bother to hide her disdain. “Don’t concern yourself about the finances of the clinic. Focus on putting in your hours.”

  Nathan was either too thick or too callous to take umbrage. He nodded. “Just thought I’d throw it out there. Can I get you anything from Starbucks?”

  Kelly shook her head.

  Nathan nodded, smiling. “Okay, boss. See you in an hour.”

  He closed the door behind him and Kelly sank back into the chair, wondering if she had the patience and fortitude to deal with the daily challenges of keeping the clinic afloat.

  She also wondered what other hidden landmines she’d stumble across in the coming days.

  When the clinic opened its doors, the flood of patients threatened to inundate the staff. Being one doctor short was bad enough, but the loss of David’s medical expertise and ability to perform triage under the most intense pressure was glaring. There was an unspoken air of sadness and feeling of emptiness that permeated the clinic. The staff knew this sentiment was going to linger with them for a long, long time.

  Given the workload and the frenetic pace of treating patients, time passed quickly. No one took a break. Kelly was invigorated by the work, and successfully compartmentalized thoughts of her father. She knew the pain would come crashing down once she had a moment to herself, so she kept busy, seeing one patient after another without a respite.

  It had grown dark outside, the day was almost over and yet the waiting room was still filled to capacity. Kelly was in the midst of treating an overweight middle-aged man who’d sliced his foot on a broken beer bottle when Ramona ducked her head into the curtained medical bay. “Diego Sanchez is back. He’s got a fever.”

  “Get him in now!”

  “All the beds are full.”

  “Put him on a gurney and park him in the hallway. See if Annie can finish here with Mr Gattuso.”

  A few minutes later, Kelly rounded the corner to find Vik examining a flushed Diego as Alma Sanchez anxiously looked on. Kelly nodded to Vik. “How’s the patient?”

  “He’s running hot and the wound is tender to the touch. There might be some foreign matter still in there. A bullet fragment we missed, maybe some threads from his pants.”

  “Let’s reflush the wound and get a new set of pictures.”

  “Our x-ray machine’s not working right now, Doctor,” said Sonita, with a pained expression on her face. She hated to be the bearer of bad news.

  Kelly snapped, “How long’s it been down?”

  “I don’t know. It was working earlier today.”

  Kelly’s face betrayed her rising frustration, but there was no time for that. Vik was speaking to her and she needed to calm down and refocus.

  “Sorry, Doctor,” she said to Vik. “What were you saying?”

  “I’m worried about compartment syndrome.”

  Mrs Sanchez was alarmed by the doctor’s level of concern. “What is that?”

  Vik explained that pressure could be building up inside an enclosed space in Diego’s leg. Kelly took Alma’s hand in hers. “You’ve got to get Diego to the hospital. Now.”

  Diego protested, “No! You can fix me here.”

  Kelly turned to Diego, her compassion running high but her patience wearing thin. “Unfortunately we can’t. You’ve got to get to a hospital.”

  Diego vehemently shook his head. He was only ten years old, but he already rivaled his mother’s level of obstinacy. There was clearly something else at play here.

  Kelly turned to Vik. “Dr Danabalan, escort Mrs Sanchez to the waiting room.”

  Vik moved toward Mrs Sanchez, who took a defensive posture. “I have to stay with him. He’s only a child!”

  Diego was embarrassed by his mother’s outburst. “Estoy bien, mama. Vete!”

  As Vik led Mrs Sanchez away, Kelly leaned over Diego. “Tell me the truth. Are you covering for someone?”

  “No,” he responded too quickly.

  “Does this have anything to do with Oscar?”

  “No, I told you already.”

  “Diego, do you want to lose your leg?”

  Fear flashed across Diego’s face. “You playing me?”

  Kelly shook her head. “This is some serious shit.”

  Diego’s eyes welled with tears. Kelly let him cry.

  Back in her father’s office, Kelly’s frustration reached previously uncharted levels as she spoke to the medical equipment leasing company. She explained the obvious: they couldn’t run a clinic without a working x-ray machine and needed someone out there immediately to repair it. That’s when she was informed their service agreement had elapsed.

  Kelly was dumbfounded. “How’s that possible?”

  The unsympathetic sales rep on the other end of the phone explained their bill was ninety days overdue. Did she want to talk to someone in billing?

  “No,” Kelly said, sounding like she was about to reach through the phone and strangle the rep on the other end of the
line. “I want someone out here to fix it or replace it! People are dying!” She hoped a little melodrama might prod him into a sense of urgency.

  She was wrong.

  Kelly was put on hold, and after five minutes of soft jazz that sounded like it was recorded on an eight-track tape that had been left in the sun, and a repeated sales pitch hyping the advantages of medical equipment leasing, Kelly was ready to take a sledgehammer to the x-ray machine. She finally got a human on the line, and after agreeing to have a cashier’s check ready for the repairman in the morning, she slammed down the phone.

  Kelly sat quietly for a moment, taking measured breaths, trying to control her temper. She couldn’t make any sense of what her father had been going through before he died. Not paying the bills for Jessica’s care; not keeping current on service agreements for the machines that were critical to the clinic. Were they in such dire financial straits that they couldn’t afford to keep the place running effectively? If so, why wouldn’t he tell her that? Or was the answer darker? Had her father somehow dug himself into a deep hole? Did he have a gambling problem? A drug problem?

  First and foremost, Kelly had to figure out a way to pay the bills. Then there was the question of those landmines. What other secrets did her father have?

  The enormity of the burden that he’d left behind suddenly overwhelmed her. She let out a roar and swept everything off his desk, sending it crashing to the floor.

  She collapsed back in his chair and felt like having a good old-fashioned cleansing cry, but she knew there were patients out there who needed help. She’d cry later.

  As Kelly rose, she surveyed the damage she’d done. She’d be here late tonight cleaning up the mess. On her way out of the office, she noticed a photo of her and her father, taken at her medical school graduation ceremony. His arm was around her shoulder, his face beaming with pride. She picked up the framed photo and noticed that the glass had cracked… one jagged line going right down the middle.

  Kelly held back her tears as she gently set the photo back on the desk.

  She’d definitely cry later.

  Nine o’clock finally rolled around. The waiting room was empty and the onslaught was over. Nathan departed right at the stroke of nine without a shred of guilt. Just slipped out the back, Jack. He’d put in his hours and had places to go and people to see.

  The rest of the medical staff gathered in the treatment area, where Kelly was thanking everyone for the amazing job they did under less than ideal conditions.

  “If my father was here today, he’d be damn proud of you all. I can’t thank you enough for the incredible…”

  She was interrupted by someone rattling the front doors, followed by incessant banging. Ramona looked over at Kelly. Did she want to open the doors to another patient at this hour?

  Kelly took a deep breath. “Go see what it is.”

  Moments later, Ramona hurried back in. “Looks like a teenage boy, bleeding. Someone propped him up against the door, then drove off.”

  Everyone was working on fumes, their eyes glazed over with fatigue, but Kelly wasn’t the least bit surprised when Vik spoke up. “I’m good to keep going, Doctor.”

  The others chimed in. They’d stay as long as Kelly wanted them to.

  A tear formed at the corner of her eye. This is why she needed to keep the clinic going. There were still questions of whether it was practical, or even possible. She’d deal with those questions tomorrow.

  To Ramona, “Get him in here.”

  She later found out his name was Ruben “Joker” Garcia, aged 17. His tats revealed he was a member (or former member) of the 19th Street Sureños. He’d been shot three times in the stomach, and had been bleeding profusely when he was dropped off.

  The doctors did everything possible to stem the bleeding, but Joker was too far gone. Had the Sureños delivered him to the clinic in hopes that the staff could perform a miracle, or did they dump him there to die?

  The answer was inconsequential. Either way, Joker was just one more boy from the streets who met a violent end. There’d be one more grief-stricken family, and one more gallon of fuel tossed onto the growing pyre of hatred and revenge between the warring factions.

  It would have been a tragic way to end the day, but unfortunately, the day wasn’t over yet.

  11

  Nathan pulled his Porsche 911 Cabriolet into the circular driveway of his parents’ magnificent home in the posh Pacific Heights area. Despite the late hour, the house was ablaze with light. Since turning sixty, Nathan’s mother seemed to develop a new phobia every few months. She was already “suffering” from severe taphephobia (fear of being buried alive), pediculophobia (fear of lice) and Nathan’s favorite, lyssophobia, the fear of going insane, which was one thing she should be concerned about.

  In the past week, she’d suddenly come down with a case of severe scotophobia, the fear of darkness. The moment the sun started to disappear behind the horizon, ornate cut-crystal chandeliers throughout the house were fired up. Fortunately, Nathan’s father could afford the exorbitant electric bills, but hoped that his wife’s next phobia was something that didn’t carry a greater financial impact; he was loath to spend money if it didn’t result in a fiscal return.

  The Curtis home (or “estate”, as they preferred to call it) originally belonged to a distant heir of Charles Crocker, one of San Francisco’s “Big Four” who made millions during the gold rush. The last Crocker to own the house was tragically addicted to opium (a habit acquired in the “pleasure dens” secreted in Chinatown backrooms) and sold off everything of value to slake his unquenchable thirst. This included artwork, furniture and even fixtures (a claw-foot bathtub, four pedestal sinks and six toilets). When he died seven years ago, the house was in a state of epic disrepair.

  Randall Curtis had swooped in and purchased the home for well under market value. Unlike his son, Randall had the appearance of a wolf on the prowl, always looking for juicy prey, preferably something succulent that didn’t put up much of a fight. He considered the purchase of the Crocker estate one of his greatest hunting trophies.

  Two years and three million dollars later, the house had been transformed into an ostentatious mansion that quintessentially reflected its new owner. And because Randall never encountered a pretention he didn’t embrace, he gave the home a name: “Golden View Manor” (you could see the Golden Gate in the distance on a clear day).

  Everything about the house reeked of Randall’s daily mantra: ‘success at any cost’. In his world there were only two types of people: winners and losers. To be a winner you had to rise above the pack, even if it meant standing on the backs of the people you trampled to get there. There was no middle ground; you were either the top dog or a mongrel. Randall had no use for mongrels.

  He suffered from “short man syndrome”, an inferiority complex brought on by his below-average stature. Randall had maxxed out at five foot six (“and a half,” he insisted) and every whispered leprechaun joke, every overheard Napoleon barb, every quietly muttered jockey comparison only served to exacerbate his drive to amass greater fortune at the expense of others.

  He graduated at the top of his class at Stanford, and again at the Haas School of Business across the bay at Berkeley. Despite nagging accusations of scholastic improprieties and three claims of sexual assault, upon graduation Randall was heavily recruited by financial institutions. He joined a brokerage firm in San Francisco and it wasn’t long before he was running his own division specializing in creative financing for start-ups, of which there were literally hundreds. While most died on the vine, a few developed into gold mines, and the bounty generated by the successful companies paid for the losers many, many times over.

  Within a few years, the money was pouring in and Randall had a well-deserved (and heavily self-promoted) reputation as a corporate visionary. There were issues with him being untrustworthy, abusive and an all-round asshole, but his portfolio made him bulletproof. Or so he thought, until he drunkenly molested the
seventeen-year-old daughter of the company’s Chief Legal Counsel at the Christmas party. This triggered a closer look at his almost mythical funding formula and it turned out that Randall was running a Ponzi scheme. Shortly after the New Year, Randall was ousted, and one month later opened up his own firm.

  Like his father, Nathan was a well-above-average student, but he lacked the drive and killer instinct to claw his way to the top. Even with Randall’s alumni connections, Nathan couldn’t get into Stanford (nor did he want to), so Randall insisted he “at least” go to an Ivy to save face for the family. Nathan ended up at Princeton, which provided him with a three thousand-mile buffer from his family. Randall was happy because of all the schools in the Ivy League, Princeton was the least expensive.

  Nathan never wanted to go into business with his father because he couldn’t bear the thought of having to face Randall’s tyrannical wrath on a professional basis. Nathan could see what others saw, that his father was a pompous prick who was intolerable if he didn’t get his way. If Randall was to suddenly lose his money, San Francisco socialites would line up to buy tickets to see him drawn and quartered, and they’d giddily shell out extra for the souvenir t-shirts.

  Nathan wanted to be a doctor. Specifically, a General Practitioner. It was a noble profession, he could make decent money and take pride in what he did.

  When he told mother and father of his plans, Randall scoffed. If his son was going to be a doctor, then he should become a neurosurgeon. They made the most money and were held in the highest esteem in the medical pecking order. In Randall’s mind, a GP was no better than a proctologist. “You might as well spend your days with your head shoved up someone’s ass.” Nathan didn’t waste his breath setting his father straight on proctologic methodology.

  Nathan had hoped to receive a modicum of support from his mother, but he wasn’t at all surprised when that wasn’t forthcoming. The once stunning and now matronly Catherine Curtis was a non-participant in this battle. Her days consisted of deciding on her next plastic surgery as she chased a youthful beauty that would forever tempt and elude her. In the meantime, she turned a blind eye to Randall’s philandering and pretended she didn’t hear the nasty murmuring of her catty acquaintances who all seemed to know about her husband’s latest conquest.