by Claire Adams
“Yeah,” I respond. “I would tell you to be careful, but I think it might be a little late for that.”
“Probably,” she says, and snickers.
“Still, though, I don’t want to see you get hurt. I’m probably going to be pissed off at you for a while, and I don’t know if we’re going to be able to be friends or not, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.”
“You know,” she says, “I think this is the most civil, open conversation we’ve had with each other for a very long time. How’s that for irony?”
“Maybe it’s because neither of us feels like we have to pretend that everything’s been just fine between us. I don’t know about you, but I feel like a huge load has been lifted from my shoulders.”
“Yeah,” she says, “me, too. Jace?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think, someday down the line that we actually could go back to being friends?”
“Honestly,” I tell her, “I don’t know. Even though we’re having this refreshingly pleasant conversation, there’s still a big part of me that wants to start yelling and throwing shit. I don’t know if it’s just instinct or what, but I think it’s going to take me a while to really forgive you for everything.”
“That’s fair, I guess,” she says. “To tell you the truth, there’s still a big part of me that wants to go back in the living room and start tossing your shit out the window just so I can lock you out when you go down to try to salvage what doesn’t get picked up by people on the street.”
“I think we’ve been holding each other emotionally hostage for a while, and I don’t know if we’re ever really going to be able to get past that,” I tell her. “If it helps, though, I hope we can.”
“Yeah,” she says and smiles, “me, too.”
I finish making her breakfast and we eat one last meal together. We don’t talk much while we’re eating and even less while we’re waiting for the moving guys to show up, but all things considered, I think things went pretty well.
The movers load everything up faster than I would have expected, so when it’s time for us to say goodbye, it comes and goes very quickly.
I don’t bother lecturing her, but I do tell her not to let her heart get broken by someone who’s never going to make himself completely hers. We both know what that’s like.
Now, as I’m closing the door behind her, I can’t help but think of what she said about Grace.
How much have I been idealizing Grace, and how much of what I feel toward her is based on who she actually is?
Maybe there’s no easy answer to that problem, but Melissa was right: that’s exactly what we were doing with each other before we got together. “Look where we’re at now,” she said.
As I look out the window of the apartment, it’s easy enough to see exactly where we are now.
I wasn’t lying when I said that I don’t hate her, but after all we’ve been through, despite what wonderful friends we used to be, I can’t look at her, even now from four stories up, without feeling a mixture of anger and this sick feeling that I can’t quite put into words.
Is that what’s going to happen to Grace, or are we ever going to get even that far?
I guess there’s no use speculating about it. The only thing I can do is see what happens and try to keep my eyes open.
Still, there’s a sour taste in my mouth that was never there before, even when I first found the video.
I don’t know if I’m going to be able to really trust anyone right now, even Grace.
It’s not her fault, and really, it’s not entirely Melissa’s fault, either. It’s the result of the simple truth that I don’t know how to be happy with the person I’m with.
It could be that that’s just the way I am, that it’s never going to change. It could be that that’s the result of a multitude of past failed relationships.
Either way, it’s there, and I don’t see it going away anytime soon.
Chapter Eleven
Dr. Marcum
Grace
When Jace told me he’d set up a time for me and his doctor friend, I was expecting something in a back alley or a darkened parking lot. I wasn’t expecting to discuss perpetrating a fraud involving a clinical trial over seafood on the bank of the river.
I haven’t talked to Jace in a couple of days. Really, I don’t know what to say to the man.
A man comes over to my table and sits down.
“Dr. Marcum?” I ask, but the man doesn’t look up.
The waiter comes over and asks if me and my friend are ready to order, but I tell him we’re going to need a few more minutes.
“Excuse me, are you Dr. Marcum?” I ask the man across from me after the waiter leaves.
The man is reading a newspaper and completely ignoring everything I have to say. Maybe I’m just not saying the right thing.
“We’ve already got the scans,” I tell him. “I don’t know what more you thought we should discuss, but I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say.”
The man looks up at me for a moment, but then turns back to his paper.
“I get that this is supposed to be a covert op kind of thing,” I tell him, “but I really would appreciate some guidance as to what to do next.”
“Excuse me, miss?” a man behind me says, tapping my shoulder.
I turn around. “Yes?”
“Are you Grace Miller?” the man asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “And you are…”
“I’m Dr. Marcum,” he says. “I was under the impression Dr. Churchill had told you who I was.”
I look across the table at the man sitting there with his newspaper. He’s still ignoring me completely.
“Excuse me, sir?” I ask the man sitting across the table.
The man looks up, cocks his head to one side, and, with a loud burst, he says, “What?”
“We’re going to need that chair if you don’t mind,” I tell him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the man says, but doesn’t get up. He just returns to his paper like I hadn’t said anything of consequence at all.
I look up at Dr. Marcum, saying, “Maybe we should find another table.”
“Let’s take a walk,” the doctor says.
“You know, I was really looking forward to the sushi,” I protest as I rise to my feet. “I’ve heard that it’s spectacular here.”
“Well, it appears that man is more than willing to hold your table for you,” Dr. Marcum says. “I’d really prefer discussing this in a more private venue.”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask as we walk back through the restaurant.
“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he asks.
“I guess so,” I answer. “Where would you like to talk?”
“You know,” he says, “you ask a lot of questions for someone planning what you’re planning.”
“Do I?” Okay, now I’m just screwing with him.
He scoffs and we exit through the front of the restaurant.
We continue along the sidewalk until we’re walking on grass, no more than 30 feet from the river.
“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?” he asks.
“Dr. Churchill gave me a pretty good idea.”
“Well, I don’t think a general idea is going to cut it,” he says. “Now that you’ve involved me, I hope you’re aware my license is at risk, as well.”
“I do realize you’re putting yourself in quite a position, and-”
“Oh, I’m happy to do a favor for one of my star pupils,” he says. “What I’m more concerned about is you and whether you actually possess the ability to apply discretion when needed.”
“Dr. Marcum, I can assure you-”
“You were halfway to telling a deaf stranger sitting across the table from you what you and Churchill have been planning,” the man says, and I’m really starting to feel like a British secret agent, circa 1941.
“I thought he was you,” I tell him.
“Yes, b
ut you didn’t confirm that, did you?” he asks. “I assume Churchill gave you my general description, did he not?”
“He did not,” I answer. “What does that-”
“The man at the table is a friend of mine,” Dr. Marcum says. “He was put there to see if you’d bother trying to verify that you were talking to the right person or not and how much information you would be willing to let slip in a crowded place. Needless to say, you didn’t inspire much confidence, my dear.”
“I’m not your dear,” I tell him. “And, I really don’t appreciate the spy games or whatever this is that you’re doing.”
Dr. Marcum laughs. “Oh, I think you’ll find that with certain things, it’s best to know exactly what you’re doing,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
He stops walking, and in a hushed voice, he says, “Look, you don’t know what these people are like. They’re all about power,” he says. “That’s what gets them up in the morning and that’s what lulls them to sleep at night. They dream about it, they fantasize about it. Power is everything to them.”
“Who exactly are ‘them?’”
“Administrators,” he says in his quietened tone. “Administrators and doctors involved in clinical trials. Did you know that less than a quarter of drugs that are tested in clinical trials are actually safe to introduce into the human body?”
“No,” I answer. “Is that true?”
“No,” he says. “With a few exceptions, there’s usually pretty good evidence to suggest that a drug is at least some degree of safe before they’ll start testing it out on people.”
“Then why did you-”
He grabs my arms, giving me a slight shake in the process. “Don’t you get it?” he asks. “We’re talking about getting you into a trial where you don’t belong. You don’t have the history of the illness required, and Churchill says he’s not sure yet whether chemotherapy is going to be effective for you. What you’re proposing — what you’re both proposing is hitting these people where they make their money, and you know what they say about money…”
“Money is power?”
“No,” Dr. Marcum says. “Knowledge is power. You young people really need to learn your platitudes.”
“Dr. Marcum, I’m not sure where you’re going with — well, any of this,” I tell him, “but if you’re having second thoughts about-”
“No,” Marcum interrupts, releasing my arms and turning to face the river. “I’ll do it,” he says, looking out over the horizon. “I feel it is my duty to help those whom I’ve taught help people.”
“Dr. Marcum?”
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Here’s what I need you to do,” he says. He turns to look at me, but he doesn’t finish the thought.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask.
“That’s exactly the kind of question you should be asking,” he says.
Okay, I think I can safely say this guy’s a few kernels short of a cob.
“What I need you to do,” he says, “is I need you to give me your scans — they have the altered dates, do they not?”
“They do,” I tell him. “They’re back in my car.”
“Not now,” the doctor says. “You can’t be too careful.”
“All right,” I say, wondering if this guy is actually a doctor or just another plant like the guy at the table.
“Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I really don’t think that you’re the kind of person I want to have involved in something like this. I appreciate your time, but it’s just not going to work out.”
I start walking away, but before I’ve made it 10 feet, behind me I hear the doctor giving the slow clap.
I turn around, and he’s standing there with a smile on his face.
“Very good,” he says.
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him.
“No,” he objects. “I was just having some fun with you. Churchill told me that you were expecting some big subterfuge, and I thought I’d make it happen.”
“You can’t be serious,” I say, searching his face for any sign that this is just another ruse.
“In all seriousness, if you just get me the scans, I think we’re good to go.”
“Who was the man at the table?”
“I just paid a guy in the restaurant 20 bucks to sit at your table and ignore everything you said,” he answers. “I thought it was a nice touch, don’t you?”
“This whole thing was seriously just an act? You’re an ass,” I tell the doctor, but I’m laughing all the same.
“Churchill told me that he gave you both the films and a flash drive with the digital files. Is that correct?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “He also said that you and I should get to know each other a little bit so if anyone asked one of us about the other, we wouldn’t-”
“Sounds like Churchill’s the one who’s getting paranoid,” Dr. Marcum says. “Do me a favor and tell me how much you know about the doctors you’ve met throughout your life — Dr. Churchill notwithstanding, of course.”
I think for a minute.
“Not that much,” I tell him. “The conversation’s never really been that personal.”
“Exactly,” he says. “The only one in a doctor-patient relationship that has any substantial knowledge about the other in any given situation is the doctor, and the information he has is almost exclusively regarding the patient’s symptoms or their diagnosis. Churchill gave me his notes on your file, and once I get those scans, I’ll have just about all I need to know.”
“If this is just a big waste of time, why’d you come?” I ask.
“I needed the scans,” he says. “I’m sure I could have gotten them from Churchill, but I did think it would be in both of our interests to be able to describe one another should such an unlikely question arise during your clinical trial.”
This whole morning has been one big mindfuck of wasted time.
“Is there anything else, then?” I ask.
“Not really. I do want to tell you to just not give too much information. Only answer the questions they ask you, don’t elaborate unless you need to, and stick to your story. I really don’t think I’m ever going to be contacted, but in case I am, Churchill gave me a rundown of your faked history, so there shouldn’t be any problem.”
“All right,” I say, and we start walking back toward the parking lot.
“Do me a favor and try to make sure Jace doesn’t lose perspective on what he’s doing,” Dr. Marcum says.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s always had a soft spot for people he finds interesting, probably because they’re so few and far between. Whatever it is about you, he thinks of you that way,” he says. “Unless he’s changed drastically since I knew him in college, he will be willing to throw away his livelihood just to make sure you get your chance at a better prognosis.”
“Isn’t that what he’s already doing?”
“In a way,” Dr. Marcum agrees, following me through the parking lot toward my car. “But if it comes down to a choice between you leaving the trial early and him losing his license, he’s more than likely going to choose the latter. He’s a gifted doctor,” Dr. Marcum says. “It would be a shame to see something like that happen to him.”
“Do you think that’s really going to happen?” I ask.
“I don’t know, but Jace has always loved being the hero to his friends, and especially the women in his life.”
We get to my car and I pop the trunk.
“You know,” I tell the doctor, “it did seem a little weird that he had me put everything in a black briefcase, but given the fact that the two of you wanted to pull your little spy crap on me, it makes a little more sense now.”
I pull the briefcase out of the trunk and hand it to the doctor.
“All right,” he says. “It’s been nice meeting
you.”
“Dr. Marcum?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“What’s the worst that could really happen to Jace and me if someone finds out what’s going on?”
“I think you already know what your friend is looking at,” he says. “I suspect the question you’re really trying to ask is what could happen to you if you go through with this.”
“I guess,” I say. “Jace and I never really went over that.”
“I’d say worst case scenario, they’d kick you out of the trial and disregard any of your results as you don’t fit the trial criteria,” he says. “You’re really not the one taking the big risk here.”
I don’t know if he meant for that to sting, but it does.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you for helping us.”
“It’s always nice to have someone owe you a favor,” Dr. Marcum says. “I only wish I could have gotten a video of your reaction when you thought I was a paranoid loon. Really, it was quite spectacular.”
“Well, thanks again,” I tell the doctor, and give him a smile.
“Before you go,” Dr. Marcum says, “could I ask one thing of you?”
“What’s that?”
“Never mind,” he says and starts walking away. “It’s really none of my business.”
“What?” I ask.
He stops and turns back to face me. “Remember what I said about his soft spot. Churchill’s always been an idealist, and that extends to the people in his life — the ones he finds interesting, anyway. People like you, that is. He’s not an easy one to really know, but once he lets you in, he has a tendency to leave himself open to all kinds of disappointment.”
“I don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
“Just do me a favor and don’t lead him on,” he says. “If you don’t feel about him the way he feels about you, don’t pretend like you do. I’ve seen the poor young man hurt more by the people he admires than by anything else. If it weren’t for his idealism, I’d dare say he’d be bulletproof.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I tell the doctor. “Thanks again for all your help.”
“Really,” he says, “it’s nothing. Just uploading a few things here and slipping a file with some notes and scans there and my part in this is over. Just remember, don’t let them know what you’re doing or all will be lost!”