by Tim Downs
“Nice chair you’ve got there,” Kemp said. “Is that an Interstuhl?”
“Not many people recognize that,” Wes said.
Kemp shrugged. “I have a taste for nice things.”
“I understand you’re a writer, Mr. McAvoy.”
“Me? No. Actually, I’m a nurse. I work over at UCLA Medical Center.”
“You’ve got a story concept, then?”
“Not really. You could say I have a concept, but not for a story.”
“Then why are you here?”
Kemp reached into his back pocket and pulled out a mass-market paperback edition of Lattes with God. “I actually spent good money for this,” he said. “I can’t believe I shelled out seven ninety-nine for this drivel, but I thought I should become familiar with it.” He flipped through a few pages. “Listen to this: ‘No one in the bustling Starbucks could see that the Creator himself was seated across from me, smiling with satisfaction as I delighted in one of his finest creations.’ Tell me, does God like those little biscotti?”
Wes frowned. “Mr. McAvoy, Lattes with God was the best-selling book in the world last year—it outsold everything except the Bible.”
“How ironic,” Kemp said. “I wonder where Lattes with God will be a few millennia from now?”
“Mr. McAvoy, may I be blunt?”
“It’s your office.”
“I’m a busy man. Any fool can find a few things wrong with a book—”
“Especially a book like this one.”
“—so I’m not interested in your critique of Lattes unless you’ve got something better. Do you? If not, get your legs off my Italian leather and let me get back to work.”
Kemp smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do have something better—a lot better.”
“Well?”
“The way I see it, there’s one problem with this book that outweighs all the others.”
“And that is?”
“It’s last year’s book—and as I understand it, you’re looking for next year’s book. Does that pretty well summarize your present dilemma?”
“That’s every publisher’s dilemma. So?”
Kemp swung his legs around and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “What if I told you that Liv Hayden is about to have a near-death experience—a series of conversations with an angelic being. Would you be interested in publishing a story like that?”
“Liv Hayden the movie star?”
“That’s right.”
“I heard about her on the news. Wasn’t she in some kind of accident? Isn’t she in a coma right now over at UCLA?”
“Right again.”
“And you say she’s had a near-death experience?”
“Not yet—but she’s about to.”
Wes just stared.
Kemp leaned back and smiled. “I work in the Neuro Trauma Intensive Care Unit at UCLA. I’m a nurse—Liv Hayden is my patient. As a precautionary measure, Ms. Hayden will be kept in a medically induced coma for the next several days. Her injuries are minor; this is only a precaution. Her coma is being induced by a drug called propofol, injected into her veins at a constant rate. It would be a very simple matter to reduce the amount of propofol she’s receiving and bring her to a semiconscious state—a suggestive state, you might say, where she could see and hear and would remember very clearly everything told to her during that period of time.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the next Lattes with God, Mr. Kalamar. Liv Hayden is a world-famous celebrity. Her face, her name, they’re everywhere—she’s got her own line of cosmetics with Estée Lauder. Imagine it—one week from today she awakens from her coma and suddenly remembers something: While she was at death’s door an angel appeared to her and gave her a series of messages from God that must be shared with the entire world. She wants to write a book about her experience; she needs a publisher, so she signs an exclusive agreement with none other than Vision Press. Think of the publicity—Liv Hayden’s famous name plastered across the cover, Liv Hayden’s perfect face gracing the back of the book, Liv Hayden herself on Regis & Kelly and The View. It would be like Lattes with God on steroids.”
“Wait a minute,” Wes said. “Am I understanding you correctly? Are we talking about manufacturing a near-death experience?”
“It would be technically simple to do. Propofol is a short-acting drug—it’s rapidly distributed into peripheral tissues. I could bring her from a deep coma to a semiconscious state in less than an hour, and return her there just as quickly. No one would ever know.”
“This is insane.”
“Is it? I work nights at UCLA; there are fewer doctors on duty, fewer procedures, fewer interruptions. Ms. Hayden is a famous celebrity, so she has a private room—a room with a solid door so no one can see in. Ms. Hayden is my patient—my only patient—and I spend hours alone with her every night. I could easily adjust her medication without anyone ever knowing.”
“But—what about the near-death experience itself? The message from God? Where would that come from?”
“I told you—from an angel.”
“What angel?”
Kemp grinned. “Ta daa!”
“You? You’re the angel?”
“I hate typecasting, don’t you? It’s simple—when Ms. Hayden reaches her semiconscious state, I simply slip on a white lab coat and set up a bright examination light behind me. Instant halo! Her vision should be a little blurry, so the effect will be perfect.”
Wes began to slowly walk around the room. “Is this really possible?”
“It’s not only possible, it’s doable. Trust me—I have considerable technical expertise in this area.”
“But what if something went wrong? What if we injured her?”
“She’s injured now. She’s only in a coma to keep her from moving and to give her time to rest. She’s wearing a device that allows us to monitor her precise level of consciousness; I’ll simply bring her to a level where she can see and hear but still not move. What’s the danger?”
Now Wes was pacing back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery.
“What do you think, Mr. Kalamar?”
“I don’t know. I need time to think about this.”
“Unfortunately, time is the one thing we don’t have. Ms. Hayden will only be kept in a coma for the next few days. Once they bring her out of it, the opportunity will be gone forever. If you want in, you have to decide now. If you don’t want in, believe me—I’ll find a publisher who does.”
Wes stopped and looked at him. “This ‘message from God’—what would it be?”
“Who cares?” Kemp said, tossing his copy of Lattes with God on the desk. “How hard can it be to come up with nonsense like this?”
Wes just stood there, blinking.
“Who wrote Lattes with God, anyway?” Kemp asked. “I don’t know and I don’t care. But imagine this on the cover: by Liv Hayden.”
Wes gazed at his Interstuhl Silver . . . it was starting to look like a bargain.
“Twelve million copies would just be the first printing,” Kemp said. “With Hayden on the cover you’d sell twenty million for sure.”
Twenty million copies, Wes thought. Now that’s what I call a big book.
“Well, Mr. Kalamar? Are you in or not?”
Wes suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute—what’s in this for you? What’s your fee for manufacturing this near-death experience?”
“I’m not interested in a fee,” Kemp said. “What exactly is the publisher’s cut, anyway—about eighty percent of the net profit? Let’s see . . . a twenty-five-dollar hardcover, twenty million copies, eighty percent after discounts and expenses . . . That’s a lot of money, Mr. Kalamar—plenty for all three of us.”
“Three?”
“There’s one small problem with my plan,” Kemp said. “When Ms. Hayden wakes up from her coma, who will make sure that she writes a book about her experience? And how can we guarantee that she’ll ch
oose Vision Press as her publisher?”
Wes had no answer.
“I happen to know Ms. Hayden’s agent,” Kemp said. “Morton Biederman—he’s just the man for the job.”
“Is he in on this?”
“Not yet, but he soon will be. I want a three-way split, Mr. Kalamar—you, me, and Biederman—one-third each of Vision Press’s profits.”
“Thirds! That’s unheard of.”
“It’s only fair. If you think about it, I’m bearing all the risk here. No one but me even has to know that you and Biederman are involved. Let’s not get greedy here, Kalamar—like I said, there’s plenty for all three of us.”
Wes barely heard him—he was too busy doing the math.
Kemp smiled. “So what’s it going to be, Mr. Kalamar? Lattes Part Two, Three, and Four—or by Liv Hayden? A cold cup of coffee with God, or a movie star’s date with an angel? Just how much vision does Vision Press have, anyway? Take your time; think it over; and while you’re thinking, I’ll be looking up the phone number for Random House.”
10
Natalie sat in the counselor’s office with Leah seated in the chair beside her. She wriggled a little, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it was no use; the institutional chairs were wooden with rigid backs, the kind that force you to sit with correct posture—the kind you can sit in for an hour and never feel relaxed. Leah’s legs didn’t quite reach the floor, and she swung them back and forth like a silent metronome. Natalie reached over without a word and laid one hand on her thigh.
For fifteen minutes they had waited in silence while St. Stephen’s counselor studied a manila file folder containing Leah’s school records. With every passing minute Natalie became more frustrated. She’s only six, she thought. How long can her record be? Maybe he’s just a slow reader. She glanced over at Leah and saw a familiar dark scowl on her face. Natalie flashed a quick smile at her daughter, hoping she might take the hint and brighten her demeanor. It didn’t work.
By now Natalie had studied every inch of the tiny office’s walls; they were covered with neatly framed diplomas and certificates, all testifying to the knowledge and expertise of one Charles Armantrout. Only one of the documents represented any true accomplishment—a diploma from Chico State conveying a BS in psychology. The rest seemed to be mostly certificates of attendance for different seminars and workshops; Natalie couldn’t imagine why anyone would think they were worth framing.
Armantrout finally closed the folder and looked up. He was a thin man with a long and angular face that seemed perfectly suited for looks of boredom and disdain. He was completely bald on top, though the hair on the sides of his head bushed out in tight curls of gray. The shape of his skull was almost conical, and Natalie couldn’t help thinking that his head looked like a rocket lifting off through clouds of smoke. A pair of black half-frames rested on the tip of his nose and accentuated a pair of tedious eyes.
Armantrout suddenly flashed a smile at Leah, causing Natalie to blink. The smile didn’t seem to fit his face; it looked practiced and artificial, like the smiles politicians wear when they’re tired of posing for pictures. “So you’re Leah,” he said.
Leah made a roll of her eyes that said, “Are you just figuring that out?”
“I’d like to ask a few questions if you don’t mind,” Armantrout said.
Leah replied with a bored shrug, and Natalie wished she could kick her without being spotted.
“How long have you been seeing angels?”
“I only saw one,” Leah said. “It’s not like they’re everywhere.”
“Do you see any now?”
“Do you?”
“Why just the other day, Leah? Why do you suppose you saw the angel then?”
Leah glared at him. “’Cause that’s when he was there.”
Armantrout nodded and scribbled something on a legal pad. He looked up again and asked, “Leah, what is it like for you at home?”
“Excuse me,” Natalie said. “What exactly are you asking?”
Armantrout ignored her. “Leah, do you feel loved? Accepted? Would you say that you feel—safe?”
“Hold it a minute,” Natalie said. “Leah, would you mind stepping out in the hallway for a moment? I’d like a chance to speak to Mr. Armantrout alone.”
When Leah left the room Natalie turned to the counselor. “What are you doing?”
“I’m just trying to understand Leah better.”
“You ask my daughter if she feels loved in front of me? Don’t you think that’s putting her on the spot a little? What’s she supposed to tell you?”
“Are you afraid of what she might say?”
Natalie narrowed her eyes. “Look—my daughter feels loved, okay? Nobody loves her daughter more than I do.”
“And your husband?”
“I’m not married.”
“Divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Was the divorce amicable?”
Natalie glared at him. “Do you know what a divorce is?”
“What was the experience like for your daughter?”
Natalie paused. She didn’t mind the questions as much as his manner of asking them; he casually tossed them off as though he were reading from a grocery list. “It was difficult for her, okay?”
“Tell me, had Leah formed an attachment bond with her father?”
An “attachment bond”? “As much as he would let her.”
“And after the divorce, did she experience a sense of loss? Of upheaval?”
“Her parents split up. We moved. He disappeared. What do you think?”
“And what about now? Do you live alone?”
Natalie gritted her teeth. “Would you mind telling me where you’re going with all this?”
“I’m simply trying to understand Leah’s home environment, that’s all.”
“I have a boyfriend,” she said. “We live together.”
“And how long has this relationship been going on? How long have you shared a household?”
“We met at work not long after the divorce. We’ve been living together for almost a year.”
“Would you say Leah has bonded with this man?”
Natalie stopped. “Look, these are very personal questions—too personal. I don’t see why you need to know all this.”
“Ms. Pelton, your daughter claims to have seen an angel. Doesn’t that concern you?”
“My daughter has a very vivid imagination.”
“But this is more than just an imaginative story. Leah insists that she has actually seen an angel. She seems quite convinced.”
“I just don’t see the harm,” Natalie said.
“Your daughter has apparently suffered a psychotic episode.”
“Whoa,” she said. “A psychotic episode? What in the world are you talking about?”
Armantrout turned and took a dictionary from his bookshelf. “Let me read you something: ‘Psychosis: A severe mental disorder, with or without organic damage, characterized by derangement of personality and loss of contact with reality and causing deterioration of normal social functioning.’”
“Derangement of personality?” Natalie said incredulously. “You have to be joking.”
“Let me draw your attention to the phrase ‘loss of contact with reality.’ That’s what concerns me here. I’m also concerned by the phrase ‘causing deterioration of normal social functioning.’ Leah is possibly in the early stages of psychosis; we need to determine whether her condition is likely to deteriorate, and whether she could become a danger to others.”
“A danger? I don’t understand you people. It’s not like she saw the devil or something. Leah thinks she saw an angel—one of the good guys, remember? Isn’t this an Episcopal school?”
Armantrout smiled. “We’re not all so medieval around here, Ms. Pelton. Some of us are trained in the sciences. There has to be a naturalistic explanation for what your daughter saw, and that explanation is probably psychological or emotional in nature. I don�
�t mean to pry into your personal life, but it’s quite possible that Leah’s home environment has triggered this episode.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Leah has suffered a trauma: the breakup of her family; the absence of her father; the loss of the safe and secure world of her early childhood. She suddenly finds herself living in a new place with a man she doesn’t even know. Tell me, Ms. Pelton, does Leah feel safe around your boyfriend?”
“What? Of course she does!”
“It’s quite possible that Leah is projecting an angelic being as a kind of defense mechanism. An angel is a powerful mythical being—strong, protective, someone that Leah hopes can watch over her and keep her safe from harm.”
Natalie stood up. “I’ve had enough of this.”
“Ms. Pelton, please—”
“Tell me something, Mr. Armantrout. Are you actually a licensed psychologist, or is this just an armchair diagnosis? Because I don’t appreciate your making accusations about Leah’s ‘home environment’ or suggesting that she doesn’t feel safe. My daughter is safe and secure—and loved. I don’t know what she saw or why she thinks it was an angel, but if you think this is a psychotic episode then I think you’re psychotic.”
Armantrout held up both hands. “We’re all simply trying to understand Leah.”
“No, that’s what you’re trying to do. I’m just trying to satisfy this school’s ridiculous requirements so my daughter can go back to class where she belongs.”
Armantrout picked up his pen. “I’m recommending that Leah have a full psychiatric evaluation.”
“What? Are you out of your mind?”
“And possibly an MRI.”
“An MRI? What in the world for?”
Armantrout referred again to the open dictionary. “‘Psychosis: A severe mental disorder, with or without organic damage . . .’ There are abnormalities in the brain that have been known to produce hallucinations, Ms. Pelton. An MRI would rule out the possibility of any organic damage. I think it would be a good precaution.”
Natalie was so furious that her hands were trembling, but she did her best to control her rage. “Okay,” she said evenly. “First I talked to the teacher and now I’ve seen the school counselor—I’ve done what everyone’s asked of me. Thank you for your suggestions, Mr. Armantrout; I’ll consider them. Is there anything else, or can Leah go back to class now?”