by Doug Dollard
Sometime this month your will receive the results of medical tests that will confirm you have a hyperactive parathyroid condition requiring surgery. The surgery is uncomplicated and one of the most frequently performed in north America.
Generally the procedure takes less than thirty minutes to perform and is frequently completed on an out patient basis. Unfortunately you have a rare genetic disorder that is otherwise benign unless aggravated by a narrow spectrum of anesthesia. The anesthesia you may receive for this surgery could induce a coma from which your prognosis is less than favorable.
I implore you to seek the advice of your doctor as regards the information contained in this letter. There are test that may be performed to confirm your condition. I urge you most strongly to avail yourself of one of these tests. You have little to loose as they are simple and painless. You will find there are many alternatives to the anesthetics to which you are allergic, any one of which would provide a satisfactory result.
I have enclosed a favorite book of mine you may find adds credence to the importance of this letter. I hope you will find it as inspirational as I have.
The letter was unsigned.
“Well?” Catherine inquired as I laid the typed pages on the table and looked over at her.
“I don’t know what to say Kate,” I said, completely mystified by what I had just read.
“Here,” she said, handing me a book she had secreted on her lap beneath the table. I looked down at a leather bound special edition of Winston Churchill’s “The Gathering Storm.” The book was sheathed in fine brown leather with intricate hand stitching on the binding. The paper was heavy cotton fiber, gold leafed along the edges. It was expertly bound, hand crafted and obviously quite old.
Inside the cover, printed in bold black letters were the following words: “Reserved for friends of the author and those who have shared his trial and triumphs.” I noted it was Winston Churchill’s first volume of his memoirs entitled “The Second World War.”
Beneath the dedication, in small precise handwritten script it read:
“To a great friend of the British Empire. Beneath this appeared the signature of Winston Churchill.
“I don’t’ understand Catherine,” I said in complete bewilderment. “Where did you get this?”
“It was hand delivered to my office by an attorney from a Washington litigation firm at nine AM this morning. “I have his card,” she said retrieving it from her purse and passing the business card across the table. The name on the card read Jonathan Caruthers, J.D. Brown and Lawson, followed by his firm’s phone number and address here in D.C.
“What did he say?” I asked, studying the card she had handed me.
“He was most concerned about confirming my identity. I had to show him my driver’s license. Once he had that he handed me the package. “
“Did he say anything else?”
“Nothing other than what I have already told you.”
“Well, first,” I said comfortingly. “This book must be worth a fortune so my guess is this is no mean spirited joke. Secondly, the point of such an expensive gift is for you to take the enclosed letter seriously. I would start by taking those medical tests as the letter suggests. It certainly can’t hurt.”
“But who is this person and how would he know about me or my surgery? I haven’t even received my test results. How could he know I have a parathyroid condition let alone a genetic vulnerability to anesthesia?”
“I don’t know the answer to either of these questions Kate. But I do know we are going to have these tests done no matter what your other test results show. We can always figure out the answers to your questions later.
POSTSCRIPT
Present Day Washington, D.C.
We never did find out who sent the package to Catherine. The law firm was a dead end. It appears the firm contracted with the client more than half a century ago. The client proved to be a solicitor in London who had died in the 1970’s. What his connection to Catherine was or whom he represented remained a mystery.
The package had been sitting in the firm’s safety deposit box since 1953. Other than the delivery instructions no records identifying the letter writer exist.
We had the tests done and the mysterious letter writer proved correct. Kate had a genetic condition that made her highly susceptible to most anesthesia. After numerous tests her doctors were able to identify one she could tolerate and the operation was successful. Her surgeon told her she was fortunate not to have gone ahead without the tests, as it was likely the standard anesthesia would have caused her complications. Complications are a euphemism surgeons use when they really mean things went horribly wrong during surgery and the patient did not survive.
Kate and I couldn’t hold it together for the long haul. It was more my fault than hers. I was restless, still looking for adventure. She wanted nothing more than to settle down and raise a family. She met a great guy not long after we broke up and I hear she’s getting married in June. I’m happy for her.
I met with my section chief this morning about a project I’d been working on for some time. He didn’t exactly receive it with open arms but he claimed he was intrigued. I decided to pursue it anyway. I’ve got some vacation time coming so I plan to take a couple of weeks and go to London. There’s a fusion demonstration at the Global Energy Resources facility near there I’m planning to attend. I’m catching a flight out in just a few hours if the weather doesn’t ground us. It’s been snowing pretty consistently these past forty-eight hours.
I decided to apply for fieldwork as soon as I return from London. I was never really happy as an analyst. The work is really dull and I never get to meet anyone interesting.
FINI