Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  Izzy looked toward Hunter and then smiled at Mitch. “Hunter’s back—I see the Blake charm got to you.” She shook her head. “I thought that you were better than that. Men are hopeless.”

  “If I used such a cliché on you, you’d bite my head off.” He paused. “You disappoint me.”

  Izzy laughed. “I disappoint myself, often.”

  “It was Daddy Blake. I’m giving her another chance just to spite the obnoxious patrician son-of-a-bitch. The prick actually made me feel sorry for Hunter, but before you say it, I, too, have grave reservations about taking her back.”

  “In my practice, I have to deal with patients, so obnoxious that it’s painful just to step into the room with them. If I were religious, perhaps I could focus on the beauty of their souls, but I’m not, so I can’t.”

  Mitch signaled for Hunter to join them.

  Hunter looked from Izzy to Mitch and then sat on the bench in silence.

  Izzy extended her hand to Hunter. “I’m glad you’re here. Welcome back.”

  Hunter managed a small smile. “I’m glad to be back, too.”

  “We trained well together,” Izzy said. “I consider you a big contributor to my success. You’re a tough competitor. You pushed me further than I’d push myself. I respect that.”

  Mitch opened a folder and handed them three pages. “We have seven weeks until the Boston Marathon. This is our schedule. I’ve made some innovative changes that, if they don’t kill you, will give you the best chance to do well in Boston.”

  Mitch faced Izzy. “Are you up to it—I mean your legs?”

  “They’ll be fine once I get started.”

  Three hours later, they were sitting back on the bench. Izzy and Hunter were flushed and sweating profusely. Izzy had wrapped her legs in ice. She took a deep swig of cold water, and poured the rest over her head and neck. “God, that feels so good.”

  After a few minutes, Hunter moved closer to Izzy. “Can we talk?”

  “Why, of course.”

  Hunter looked up at Mitch. He nodded.

  “I’m not as soulless as I seem. If I were that bad, I wouldn’t even recognize what I’ve been doing. I love my father, but I hate his behavior, what he is, and I’m disgusted with myself for becoming like him.”

  Izzy smiled. “Psychiatrists say that the first step in dealing with those emotions is to recognize that they exist.”

  “When Mitch defied my father, I saw both in a new light. I’ve never seen anyone talk to my father that way before and when Mitch did, it revealed Cedric Blake as a bully, and Mitch as a…what’s the Jewish word for a wonderful human being?”

  Izzy smiled. “A mensch. Literally a man, but you’re right, Mitch is a mensch, a stand up kinda guy.”

  Hunter took Izzy’s hand. “I hope you can forgive me. Can we start anew?”

  “Not a problem. Do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Learn from Mitch—that’ll be more than enough.”

  After Hunter drove away, Izzy sat with Mitch. “That woman who accosted me after the Napa Valley Marathon, I just can’t get her out of my head—so vicious and vile.”

  “That’s just the beginning,” Mitch said. “Competition brings out the best in some, and the worst in others. You must have dealt with all types in practice.”

  “Yes, but in treatment, I’m always in control. I understand personal attacks by my patients as part of their psychiatric problems. I can’t say that I like it, but I never take it personally.”

  Mitch stared into Izzy’s eyes. “And, this is personal?”

  “You bet. I don’t like anyone questioning my motives.”

  “Better grow a thick skin. Success comes at a price. You’ve become an elite runner and that title comes with benefits and burdens. For instance, the USADA, the anti-doping group, can test you for performance enhancing drugs any time it comes into their pointy little heads.”

  “They already have, but I resent the implications. In the future, I may not comply.”

  Mitch stared at Izzy. “Refusing is dumb. Moreover, they’ll ban you from long distance running, and that includes the Boston Marathon.” He paused. “You don’t have a reason to refuse, do you?”

  “Of course not, but I don’t like it. This is guilt by insinuation and you’re obliged to prove yourself innocent. That’s ass backwards.”

  “You’re right,” Mitch said, “but let’s not forget that performance enhancing drugs are a problem. Think what it will mean if we can’t trust our winners.”

  “Trust our winners? Mitch, you must be confused. Look at all professional sports and a good percentage of amateur ones. Steroids, growth hormone, blood doping by transfusion or drugs, and worse of all, local anesthetics to block the pain of injury. I shudder to think of an athlete destroying his or her joint or tendon because they can’t feel pain.” She paused. “It’s difficult to trust anyone.”

  “You trust me, your husband, daughter, and close friends—that’ll have to do.”

  “Okay, skipper.”

  “And, Izzy…”

  “Yes.”

  “Twenty minutes with the icepacks and repeat twice more before turning in tonight.”

  “Got it.”

  Mitch slipped on his warm-up jacket. “Please don’t hold back on your sore legs. If I don’t know, I can’t help you.”

  She smiled. “I won’t—promise.”

  Izzy drove up Ashby Avenue and pulled into the Claremont Hotel for her 3 p.m. massage. As she sat in the waiting room, a young woman approached. “Dr. Kramer?”

  Yes.”

  “I’m Kelly Potter. Heather called in sick and asked me to replace her today, if that’s okay with you.”

  Izzy studied Kelly. She had the look of a blonde valley girl with a pretty smile and bright blue eyes. “Nothing personal, Kelly, but I’m used to Heather.”

  “I understand. Heather gives great massages and she left me notes about what you like.”

  “Where are you from?” Izzy asked.

  “I grew up in Las Vegas. I worked in the spa at the Wynn Hotel.”

  “I wish that I could afford that,” Izzy said.

  “Have your husband buy $2000 in chips, and they’ll comp you for the spa.”

  “What kind of massage oil will you use?”

  “Bubalina Gel Oil, just like Heather uses. Relax, I’m pretty good myself.”

  And, she was, Izzy thought as she awakened on the massage table.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  When Izzy headed to the door at 11:30 a.m., Connie said, “Remember your 2 p.m. meeting.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “Meeting again with Jodie?”

  Izzy turned and studied Connie. “It’s…”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Izzy.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m getting paranoid in my old age.”

  Connie remained silent.

  “I’ve been going to Jodie’s virtual reality lab. They’re studying my physiological performance and I’ve learned some useful tips.”

  “Mostly, it’s about relaxation both before running, during, and afterward. I do better, and most athletes do better when they’re relaxed.”

  “Nothing that could compromise you in the running world?” He asked.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then why hide it?” Connie asked. “If there’s no crime, why the cover-up?”

  “It’s not a cover-up,” Izzy said. “I just chose not to place raw meat before the pit-bull press.”

  Connie shook his head. “Those things never work out. As Nixon discovered, the cover-up is always worse than the crime.”

  “But, there’s no crime here, Connie.”

  “It doesn’t take a crime—only an accusation.”

  “Okay. If anyone asks where I’m going, tell them I’ve left this world for a virtual one. Most people can relate to that.”

  “Be careful, Izzy,” Connie said, “Modesty works—glibness doesn’t.”

 
; When Izzy stepped from the locker room, the virtual reality lab staff applauded her. She reddened with embarrassment and said, “C’mon, cut it out.”

  Jodie was sitting at a table with David Rice. He was jotting notes on experimental data sheets.

  Jodie moved to Izzy and hugged her. “We’re so proud of you, Izzy.”

  David extended his hand. “I only wish we could claim some degree of responsibility for your success.”

  Izzy smiled. “I’m convinced that the VR training has helped. I can’t be specific, but I do enter race preparation in a much more relaxed state. I used to be climbing the walls or running to the toilet.”

  “At an appropriate time,” David said, I’m going to ask you to write a detailed narrative of your experience for our next grant application.”

  “Only if you make it worth my while.”

  “Right,” Jodie said. “Don’t pay attention to her. She lives to push people’s buttons.”

  After they strapped Izzy into her VR running equipment, she stepped onto the belt and turned to David. “Go ahead, push your own buttons.”

  They ran Izzy through increasing speed and inclines to, she thought, almost her maximal capacity. She was sweating profusely afterward. “No VR games for me today, David, I’m beat.”

  After Izzy showered and changed, she left the locker room and sat beside Jodie and David. “How did I do?”

  David held up the computer printout. “You’re a phenom, Izzy. Although you were already near the top of our performance scales, you’ve improved. Your oxygen consumption is better and your running economy is fantastic. Everything about your physiology makes you perfect for the marathon or maybe an ultra-marathon.”

  “Slow down there for a minute Doc. Running economy? Put that in English.”

  “It means that you’re doing more with less. For any given effort, you use less oxygen and produce less metabolic products, in our case, lactate. Running economy may be the single best criteria for success in the marathon. When we go into business, I can see your photo with the slogan, Izzy Kramer, the Mean, Lean, Running Machine.”

  Izzy paled. “Why don’t you use, ‘Izzy Kramer, running for her life’”

  They stared at Izzy with curiosity.

  “I’d keep that other one to yourself for a while.” Izzy paused. “What’s next?”

  “We’ll continue your schedule and just before you leave for Boston, we’ll repeat the study. Stay well. Boston’s in for some excitement.”

  When Izzy arrived home, Ross and Jennifer were having coffee. Ross lifted his cup. “There’s more if you like.”

  “Yes, I could use some energy.”

  Ross poured the coffee and placed it before Izzy. “How did it go in the VR lab today?

  “If I ever get depressed, forget about the psych ward and send me to the VR lab. I hate to call them friends since they’re dedicated researchers, but I’ve rarely felt so appreciated.”

  Ross turned to Jennifer. “Tell your mother how much we appreciate her.”

  Jennifer ignored Ross. She smiled. “I guess you did well.”

  “More than well. They think I’m going to set another record in the Boston Marathon. I love that, of course, but I think they’re nuts. Moreover, I’m having a little difficulty getting my head around those well-meaning expectations.”

  Ross laughed. “Keep this up and they’re going to name a running shoe after you.”

  “Right. That’s always been my fantasy.”

  “Get used to it, Mother. You’re famous.”

  “I won’t confuse fame with success. I love success, but fame…”

  Ross grasped Izzy’s hand. “You have control of success, but fame’s in the hands of others.” Ross smiled broadly. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. The producer of The Today Show on NBC called. They want you on the program later this week.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m not dropping my life for a TV program.”

  “They’ll provide a first class ticket to New York and a limousine.” He paused. “And, you’ll have time to shop.”

  Izzy smiled. “It’s a deal.” She paused. “See how easy I am.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Izzy and Jennifer flew into JFK arriving at 6:40 p.m. They took a taxi to the Ritz-Carlton in New York City, where the Today Show had made reservations for them. After they checked in, Izzy turned to Jennifer. “Let’s workout.”

  “You better than me, Mother. I’m tired and need a bath.”

  “I should have brought Ross along. He has more energy than his daughter.”

  “Daddy had to work. I’m just a fill-in.”

  Izzy changed into her running gear. “When I get back, let’s pig out. I’ll be starving.”

  After Izzy got back, she showered and dressed casually for dinner.

  “Is uncle Rick joining us?”

  “No,” Izzy said, “he’s in Atlantic City presenting a paper.”

  “Atlantic City…a paper…,” Jennifer said. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Not Rick. He’s a straight arrow.”

  They took a cab to Katz’s Delicatessen. “All New Yorkers know Katz’s for the best hand-sliced corned beef and pastrami,” Izzy said, “and the world knows it from the famous deli scene in When Harry Met Sally where Meg Ryan feigned that spectacular orgasm.”

  “I loved that movie,” Jennifer said. “Can we get that table?”

  “I’m guessing that you’d need a reservation.”

  When they stepped through the door, Izzy inhaled. “Oh, my! Smell that!”

  “That’s two years off our lives,” Jennifer said.

  Izzy smiled. “It’s worth it.”

  When the waitress placed the three-inch thick corned beef sandwiches before them, Jennifer’s eyes widened. “My God. Think of the fat, the calories, and the nitrites—I won’t be eating for a week.”

  “You’re not spoiling this for me, Jen, and, by-the-way, no nitrites in fresh corned beef.”

  “And that makes it healthy?”

  “No, that makes it fun, satisfying, and indulgent. I, we, deserve to indulge ourselves.”

  Afterward, Izzy looked down at her distended abdomen, patted it, and said, “Once a year or so can’t be bad.”

  “I hate to say this,” Jennifer said, “but that was fantastic—totally satisfying.”

  Izzy smiled. “Despite your protestations, you are, after all, your father’s daughter.”

  At 5:30 the next morning, the phone rang. Izzy stretched her arm for the phone. “Dr. Kramer?” asked the desk clerk.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your limousine will be here at 6:15.”

  “Thanks. We’ll try to be ready.”

  Izzy dragged Jennifer out of bed and they were in the lobby by 7:20 a.m.

  The chauffeur approached. “Dr. Kramer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me. Your carriage is waiting.”

  They drove to Rock Center and the attendant guided them to the Today Show’s green room awaiting the call.

  At 9:15, the producer rushed in. “You’re on in five.”

  Matt Lauer and Savannah Guthrie were sitting on set when Savannah faced the camera and said, “We’re so pleased to have with us today, Dr. Isabel Kramer, Izzy to all who know and love her, and her daughter, Jennifer.”

  The audience applauded on cue as Izzy and Jennifer entered and sat.

  Matt stared into the camera, and said, “The running world is all agog with the performance of Izzy Kramer, who came out of nowhere to set records in the marathon. That, in and of itself, would be surprising, but, pardon the revelation of a woman’s age, Izzy is over sixty.”

  Izzy smiled. “The world’s worst kept secret. To women out there, if you want to hide your age, don’t venture into the public eye.”

  Savannah turned to Jennifer. “We hear that this is your fault.”

  “Mea culpa,” Jennifer said. “I simply wanted to run the Bay to Breakers, and I coerced my mother to join me. Boy, did that change thin
gs.”

  “You had no idea that Izzy might have a talent for it?” Matt asked.

  “Not a clue, Matt. Mother was fit through Zumba and tennis, but I hadn’t a clue that she could run.” She paused. “And, boy could she run!”

  Savannah faced Izzy. “Tell us about your experience at the Bay to Breakers.”

  “Sure, but first a bit about preparation. Both Jennifer and my husband, Ross were concerned about a sixty-year-old woman running, so I first got a complete physical—I advise that for all runners, but especially those over forty. Before the race I trained for about a month, and, like learning anything new, it was awful, painful, and frustrating. I tried to back out, but Jennifer wouldn’t have it.”

  “That’s the problem with promises,” Savannah said. “They’re easy to make and hard to keep.”

  “Exactly,” Izzy said.

  “Tell us about the race,” Jennifer.

  “To be perfectly honest, I was worried. Mother doesn’t do anything half way, so I was concerned that she’d overdo it. I couldn’t have been more wrong. She nearly beat me to the finish line and when she got there, she looked as if she’d taken a stroll in the park.”

  “A stroll in the park, Izzy?”

  “Looking back on it, I never took the race seriously. If you’ve been to, or seen the Bay to Breakers, you’d understand. Imagine running dragons, princesses, kings, animals of all sorts, and many who were more interested in public exposure than sport.”

  “But, now, the marathon is serious business,” Matt said.

  “You bet,” Izzy said. “Nobody should prepare for the marathon until they have a good understanding of its difficulty. Running is one thing—racing a marathon is another. I’m more like the Tarahumara Indians of Copper Canyon, Mexico. Like them, I can run long distances without a time objective.”

  “Tell us what it was like to do so well in the Napa Valley Marathon,” Savannah asked.

  “It’s difficult to describe. After a while, you go on automatic pilot, a state of altered consciousness, like hypnosis. I remained in that state for a good part of the race, only noting casually that other runners had fallen behind. When I crossed the finish line, it was only in retrospect that I realized that I’d left the women behind. When I crossed the finish line and saw the time, I thought the time was a mistake.”