I embraced each event, each sensation, basking in each delightful memory, clutching each one, and refusing to relinquish them even as a distant voice called my name.
“Arnie…Arnie, come back to me,” Lois cried as she sat by his side holding his hands. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
The hallmarks of being human weren’t strictly anatomical, for the best renderings of Madam Tussaud’s Museum, although perfect in every detail, remained inanimate, and lacked life’s force. The shallow respirations and the occasional blink of wide-open unseeing eyes said that Arnie lived, but in truth, he had begun to look more like a wax figure.
Ross Cohen sat with Arnie’s chart writing admission orders. “I’m not sure that he hears you, Lois.”
Lois and Jack had laid the whole thing out for Ross.
“We were a wreck during Arnie’s prolonged coma from the encephalitis, and were overjoyed when he awakened,” Lois said. “In spite of mild residual damage, Arnie seemed to appreciate and celebrate life more than ever.”
“He had muscular weakness,” Jack said, “as you might expect after lying in bed for so long, but he had coordination problems as well, that suggested brain injury. We carefully tested him for intellectual and memory deficits, but found none.”
Lois continued. “Within weeks after awakening, Arnie said that all his senses seemed more acute than normal, but soon it was clear that this was limited to his nose. We had a grand time with it. His sniffer was amazing. He sensed things only animals could appreciate, an entire world unknown to humans, but gradually it overwhelmed him. Arnie was a rock, but soon he became easily upset, distracted by the torrents of smells, and plagued by the memories elicited by each one.”
“I arranged for Arnie’s evaluation at the University of Utah’s sensory perception program,” Jack said. “They had never seen anything like Arnie’s ability. They wanted to study him, but had no suggestions regarding therapy.”
Lois looked at Ross. “He struggled at home and at work. We were helpless as we watched Arnie’s gift degenerate into an overwhelming burden.”
“It’s going to take a while to sort this out,” Ross said. “At first blush, it looks like an acute depressive breakdown. Did either of you note a psychotic component to Arnie’s complaints?”
Jack shook his head. “No, no overt hallucinations, but there’s no way we could evaluate any of the sensory data that only Arnie could appreciate.”
“None of this is in the textbooks,” Ross said. “I’ll pick the brains of my best colleagues, but meanwhile, we should start Arnie on antidepressants.”
“How long does it take to see the effect of this medication?” Lois asked.
“Two to three weeks.”
“That’s too long for him to remain this way. You must do something.”
“We’re out of alternatives right now. It’s still early. Maybe he’ll snap out of this himself. If we need to, we’ll feed Arnie by tube.”
Jack held Lois’s hands. “We need to give this time.”
Lois looked into Ross’s eyes. “What if the medication doesn’t work?”
“We’ll deal with that if we must. If all else fails, we can consider shock therapy.”
“Oh, my God,” Lois shouted. “Oh, my God!”
When Lois arrived home after another day with Arnie, her sister Sally and the girls were watching television.
Sally rose to embrace Lois. “How is he?”
“The same.”
“How long can this go on?”
“I don’t know. It takes time for antidepressants to work.”
When the program hit a commercial break, Amy ran to Lois and hugged her waist. “Hi Mommy. I missed you.”
“Hi, sweetie. Did you have a good time with Aunt Sally?”
“She’s fun.” She paused and then looked into her mother’s eyes. “Where’s Daddy?”
“Daddy’s in the hospital. He’s sick.”
“Can I see him? I drew him a picture.”
“Not now, honey, but soon.”
Rebecca’s gaze remained fixed on the television. She was determined to ignore Lois. Lois walked to the sofa and sat beside her older daughter. “Can you give me a kiss hello?”
Rebecca stared ahead, refusing to meet her mother’s eyes.
Lois caressed Rebecca’s hair. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
Rebecca recoiled at the touch and turned her head further away from her mother.
Lois was tired and emotionally drained. “I’m upset too, Rebecca. I love Daddy and miss him so I understand what you’re feeling.”
“No, you don’t. He’s going to die, isn’t he? He promised me he’d never leave me again…he promised.”
Rebecca burst into tears.
“Daddy’s sick, but he’s not going to die. Don’t think that.”
“I’m so scared.”
“Me too, baby. It’s going to take a while, but the doctors think he’ll be fine.”
Rebecca grabbed a tissue, blew her nose. “Why can’t I see Daddy? I’ll stay only for a minute. I won’t disturb anything. I need to see him…to know he’s okay.”
My God, thought Lois. I can’t let them see him this way—catatonic—unresponsive. They’ll never understand and they’ll never forget.
“Daddy’s in a special hospital where he can’t have visitors, but when he’s a little better, you can see him.”
Rebecca held Lois as tears again streamed from her eyes. Amy, equally upset cried, “I want my Daddy.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
Henry Fischer sat on the sofa in Teddy’s living room. He looked down to avoid his father’s disappointment and his sister Joanie’s contempt.
How did I get myself into this?
“How could you do this to our family?” asked a distraught Theodore Fischer.
“Dad, he manages to pull the wool over your eyes,” said Joanie. “Henry could do no wrong. Look at him now.”
His father shook his head. “I don’t understand how you could have done this. All those patients. They depended on that medication; depended on us, our integrity…a trust we nurtured over a lifetime.”
“We faced bankruptcy,” Henry said. “We were going to lose everything. All our investors, all our employees…I couldn’t let that happen. Brian convinced me that we could dilute the medication without harming anyone.”
“Now, it’s all Brian’s fault,” Joanie said. “Even you must have had a hard time swallowing that. You disgust me.”
Henry stared at his father. “I’m going to need your help, Teddy.”
“Help! Go to hell,” Joanie screamed as she jumped up and left the room.
The old man paled. “How can we help when we’re about to lose everything we have?”
Henry tried repeatedly to reach Monica Kelly in Reno. He left messages at her work and on her answering machine at home. She never returned his calls.
Finally, using a false name to her secretary, he got her on the phone. “Why aren’t you answering my calls, Monica?”
“Don’t you get it? I knew you could be ruthless, but this, Henry, this is beyond the pale. Don’t call again. I don’t want anything to do with you,” she said as the phone clicked.
Henry shed the last vestige of his dignity when he picked up the phone, and called Ruth. “It’s me,” he said, expecting the worst.
“What is it, Henry?”
“I want to talk with you.”
“You sure made a mess of everything.”
“Can I come over? We need to talk.”
“Not here. I’ll meet you at the Claremont Hotel bar.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”
Ruth watched Henry drive his new Lexis through the gates of the Claremont Spa and Hotel, a landmark of the San Francisco Bay area. She waited for him to park, and then enter the lobby before she drove in.
When Ruth stepped into the bar, they had seated Henry at one of the many tables facing southeast. The spectacular view encompassed a panorama of
the bay and the city skyline.
As she approached, Henry placed his drink on the table and stood. He looked like he intended to offer her a kiss, so she sat immediately to avoid an uncomfortable moment.
“It’s so good to see you, Ruth. You’re looking well.”
He looks dreadful, she thought. Pale, thinner than I remember, but where’s the remorse? Does he give a damn about all those he harmed?
“What can I get you?” the cocktail waitress asked.
“A Cosmopolitan, please,” Ruth said.
Lois turned to Henry. “You don’t look well. I suppose with your heart problems, and everything else, it’s what we might expect.”
“I need your help, Ruth,” he said in a near whisper. “If I can’t mount a proper defense, I’m going to jail.”
“From what I hear, Henry, you are going to jail. I doubt if O.J. Simpson’s lawyers could get you out of this.”
“I know. After all I’ve done to you and the family, I don’t have the right to ask for help, but I don’t have a choice. I have to raise enough money to retain a first class attorney. Can you help?”
“At one time, that request would have had me laughing and enjoying your downfall, but now, in truth, I don’t feel anything.”
“Please, Ruth, I’m begging.”
“Don’t,” she said, stiffening. “I’m willing to help by giving you your fair share of what we have left, but my accountant, and my attorneys have advised me that the expected flood of civil litigation could leave us with little or nothing. I must protect myself and our children first.”
“Please, Ruth. I need your help.”
“Maybe Monica Kelly can help you,” she said, getting up to leave. “Ask her.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Henry Fischer’s criminal attorney, Harrison Pollard, was a senior partner at Greenly, Baxter, and Pollard, one of the premier law firms in the east bay. As Henry sat in their Emeryville offices at the foot of the San Francisco Bay Bridge, Harrison said, “Don’t be naive, Henry, Brian Shands is going to fuck you over at the first opportunity.”
“I have no illusions about Brian, but don’t we have a mutuality of interests here?”
“Yes, Henry, but only if he thinks he can’t get away with blaming the whole thing on you. I’m betting, and so should you, that’s exactly what he has in mind.”
“I’m not saying that I’m not responsible, but this was Brian’s idea from start to finish. He assured me that we could do this without hurting anyone.”
“Oh please, Henry, that’s a load of shit. I’m your attorney and I’d choke trying to put that to a jury. I don’t buy it, and neither will they.”
“What can we do?”
“Brian’s attorney is Karl Hirsch. I’ve worked with Karl. He’s tough, but reasonable. If I can convince him that we’re all better off sticking together, maybe we can help each other in court.”
Henry hesitated. Keeping things from his attorney was plain stupid—I’ve been stupid enough, he thought.
“When Ruth tossed me out, and I knew we were due for a contentious divorce, I told Brian I wanted to stop the whole damned thing. He wouldn’t hear of it and threatened me.”
“Threatened you. What did he say?”
“He said that this was all my idea, that I’d fire him if he didn’t go along. He said that I coerced him and that I made a lion’s share of the profits. Finally, he said that if I fucked with him, I’d wind up in jail.”
“That’s great,” Pollard said, “just great.”
Across town, in downtown Berkeley, Brian Shands was meeting with Karl Hirsch, the former Berkeley DA, and now a criminal defense attorney.
“If you try to blame this all on Henry Fischer, it will only damage your credibility with the jury.”
Brian shook his head. “Any other approach will only make things worse.”
“I can’t see any way of defending you, Brian. You did it. Henry Fischer and Tino Ruiz will testify to this, and then they have the diluted drugs as evidence. In addition, it’s doubtful that we can get any of this evidence excluded on technical grounds.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think we should make the best deal we can.”
“Deal. You want me to agree to a prison sentence?”
“Brian, get real will you. True or not, the jury is going to believe that giving cancer patients inadequate chemotherapy is equivalent to murder or manslaughter. They’re going to call both of you monsters in white coats. Trust me, you don’t want your future in their hands.”
No way am I’m going to jail, Brian thought.
Brian drove to three banks, each time withdrawing several thousand dollars. He looked repeatedly at his rear view mirror to see if anyone was trailing him, but he failed to notice the 1992 Toyota Corolla following several cars behind.
Brian’s wife and daughter wouldn’t be back for several hours, so he rushed home, packed an overnight bag, and departed for the airport. He left the car in short-term parking, knowing he need not concern himself with the steep fees, and walked to the American Airlines counter where he bought a round-trip coach ticket to New York (a one way ticket drew too much attention in the post 9/11 world). As he waited to board, he looked around continuously. He took no notice of the elderly man standing on the other side of the concourse.
Irving Hodges watched. He’d anticipated Brian’s action and had been following him for several days. He tried repeatedly to reach the DA’s office, but each time they put him on hold listening to elevator music. By the time the irate Irving Hodges reached Kevin Walters, the plane had departed.
“That bastard, Brian Shands is on a plane to New York. Don’t let him get away.”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Irving Hodges. He killed my wife. Get him.”
“Do you know the flight number?”
“Yes, American 417.”
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Hodges. Don’t worry.”
Brian slept soundly for most of his flight. He felt relaxed as he finished a third martini and the captain announced their arrival at New York’s JFK. He had enough cash for several days in the city and contacts to obtain a new identity and a passport. Then he’d fly to Grand Cayman Island to claim the bulk of his estate.
As he walked down the arrival ramp, he was shocked to see a large dark-suited man with heavy black shoes holding a sign with big letters reading, ‘Welcome, Brian Shands’. He turned immediately to his right and ran into another large man who snapped handcuffs on him in one swift movement.
“Welcome to New York, Mr. Shands. You arrived in time for your flight back to San Francisco.”
Standing between the two officers, Brian heard one laughing to the other. “Who said cops ain’t got no sense of humor?”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Lois visited Arnie every day, but saw no change. Arnie, whether in bed or in a chair, stared ahead through vacant eyes that rarely blinked.
Merely entering the locked psychiatric ward was more than she could bear. She walked into the day room with the TV blaring and scanned the otherworldly inhabitants. Something about mental illness made people uncomfortable. In spite of her intelligence, Lois, like others, felt a strong desire to escape, as if psychiatric problems were contagious.
“Why can’t we see Daddy?” Rebecca had asked that morning.
“We’ve been over this. Daddy’s too sick now. The doctors said you can visit soon.”
Jack had inserted a feeding tube for fluids, nutrition, and for the administration of antidepressants.
“Jack, I can’t go on,” Lois said. “I can’t stand to see him this way.”
“There’s nothing else we can do for now. He’s only been on antidepressants for ten days. It’s too soon to expect any therapeutic effect.”
“I think he turned to me this morning when I gave him a hug, but his eyes were blank. He said nothing, but he’s in there somewhere, I know it.”
Jack placed his hand on her shoulder. “I won
’t lie to you, Lois. Ross is concerned, and so am I. This much withdrawal, this much catatonia, sometimes requires more drastic action.”
“You mean shock therapy?”
“Yes.”
“Shocking the brain feels wrong, Jack. It feels like a barbaric act of our dark medical past. Arnie had several patients who did remarkably well with their treatments, but frying his brain with electricity?”
“Lois, that’s all wrong. They only use a tiny amount of current, only enough to provoke the brain into convulsions. Often, the results are miraculous.”
“Please, Jack, you know the procedure has its problems afterward, especially memory loss.”
“That depends on the number of convulsions it takes, but you’re right. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but it’s a small price to pay to get him back.”
When Lois arrived the next day, Arnie was in bed with his legs elevated, wearing white compression stockings.
Lois turned to his nurse. “What’s happening?”
“Dr. Byrnes became concerned with swelling in Dr. Roth’s legs, so we’re using TEDS stockings to prevent clotting in his veins.”
“Does he have any clotting?”
“Not that we know.”
Lois sat by Arnie’s side, reading. She looked over from time to time, but his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. Lois must have nodded off, because when she startled herself awake, Arnie’s was panting heavily and his lips were blue. She pushed the call button, and after two minutes without an answer, she rushed to the nursing station where she saw only the ward clerk.
The Sixth Sense (Brier Hospital Series Book 3) Page 25