Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  “The last thing you should do, Father, is count Izzy out. She’s a determined woman, and, in fact, Father, so am I.”

  “Do you want to win in Boston?”

  “Of course. I’m working my ass off.”

  “Please don’t use such crude expressions with your father.”

  “Hypocrite. I’ve heard you on the phone.” She paused. “I know you, Father. You’ll do anything to get your own way.”

  I have something in mind which might go a long way in helping you.”

  “I’m not interested,” Hunter said.

  “It’s not just for you, my girl—I owe Mr. Silverman a lesson.”

  “Whatever you have in your sick mind, Father, forget it.”

  Cedric stood, grabbed his coat from the sofa, smiled and leaned over to give Hunter a kiss. “Your mother asked to see you. Don’t disappoint her.”

  Izzy was preparing dinner when her father, Lewis, knocked at the door.

  “You don’t have to knock, Daddy. Just come in.”

  He carried a large tureen and placed it on the kitchen table. “Your mother made this for you.”

  They hugged.

  “What is it?” Izzy asked.

  “Chicken soup—good for what ails you, and for the soul, too.”

  “Daddy?”

  “It’s as close she can get to an apology. Just accept it and say thanks.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank her.”

  “I will, but it means nothing.”

  “My God, Izzy. You’re as bad as she is.”

  “Harold Carter came to see me.”

  “The name sounds familiar.”

  “Don’t, Daddy. Except for Ross, you’re the last person I can hold on to…to trust.”

  “Yes, I remember Coach Carter. A good man. How is he?”

  Izzy grabbed the tureen and placed it in the refrigerator, and then turned back to her father. “He’s well. He tracked me down based on my new founded celebrity, and, he was quite informative.”

  “Please, Izzy. Let it go.”

  “Let it go? Not on your life. I can’t believe you’re still defending her.”

  “I can’t believe that a brilliant psychiatrist like you can be so blind and so heartlessly intolerant of her own mother.”

  “It’s only a mother that can generate such hostility.”

  “I know Miriam. Her intentions were honorable.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Lewis remained silent.

  “Just like you, Izzy, Miriam is a product of her own generation and upbringing. She thought that a sports scholarship would drive you in the wrong direction, and,” he paused, “look how great you turned out. I’m—we’re so proud of you.”

  Izzy hugged her father. “Thanks, Daddy. I love you. I only wish I could hear it from her.”

  “You think at her age, she going to change.”

  “I don’t want her to change—well, maybe I do, but she made my life difficult and probably deprived me of opportunities I earned.”

  “Adversity builds character, Izzy.”

  Izzy smiled again. “Right, I should thank her.” She paused, and squeezed his hand. “You’re fantastic, Daddy. You define the glass-half-full philosophy. I’m so lucky to have you as my father.”

  “Terrific,” he said smiling. “Now will you talk with your mother?”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Izzy was at home with her legs up and the heating pad applied to both shins. She had her iPad out reading Runner’s World magazine.

  Ross was preparing to leave. “How do they feel?”

  “Fine, just lying here.”

  “You’re not going to work out today, are you?”

  “That doesn’t sound like a question, Ross.”

  “It is a question, but take it anyway you like, Izzy.” He paused. “And, by-the-way, I hate being second-guessed about a simple statement.”

  She sat up and grasped his hand. “I’m sorry, but you must understand how difficult this is for me.”

  “I do, but don’t make me the enemy, I’m anything, but.” He bent over and kissed her. “I’ll be home early tonight.”

  When the phone rang after dinner, Ross rushed to answer. “If this is another damned telemarketer, I’m going to lose it.”

  “What the hell is it,” Ross shouted into the handset.

  After a moment of silence, Ross heard, “Give me a chance to screw up first, will you, Ross.”

  Ross reddened with embarrassment. “Oh, Rick, I’m so sorry. I thought it was another robocall.” He turned to Izzy and handed her the phone. “It’s your brother, Richard.”

  Izzy held the handset and said, “Sorry, Rick. Ross is having a bad day.”

  “So, now’s not the best time to hit him up for a loan, is it?”

  “A Park Avenue psychiatrist—I don’t think you need a loan.”

  “Well, that’s not why I called, Izzy.”

  “It’s Miriam—it’s always Miriam. I’m getting sick of playing these games with her.”

  “If you weren’t such a self-centered and mean-spirited daughter, you’d understand your mother,” Rick said.

  Izzy laughed. “I can just hear her—opening up to her one successful child.”

  “You’re kidding,” Rick said. “All I ever hear about is her wonderful daughter—how she can do no wrong, and,” he paused, “why can’t I be more like her wonderful Izzy.”

  “You checked her ID?”

  “It’s all a manipulation, Izzy, and she gets to you every time. She’s been playing us against each other for years.”

  “You’re right, and it shouldn’t, but the woman bugs me.”

  “Has she made any overtures? Rick asked.

  “She had Daddy bring over some chicken soup.”

  “Stop the presses,” Rick shouted.

  “Oh, give me a break,” Izzy said.

  “I’ll bet you anything that your father put her up to it.”

  “No. It was your father, Rick.

  “Okay, our father. In any case, please make peace with the woman or else I’m entering the witness protection program.”

  “I’ll try,” Izzy said.

  “How’s your training going?”

  “It’s not. Some people think shin splints are trivial, but to a marathoner, they’re deadly.”

  “Excuse my ignorance, Izzy, and I don’t know a damned thing about marathons, but is it possible that you’re overdoing it? Pushing too hard—you have that tendency, you know.”

  “Yes, you’re right about me, but not about this problem. Shin splints are totally unpredictable, and can occur even in amateur athletes.” Izzy felt her eyes filling. “And, it couldn’t be happening at a worse time.”

  “Let me talk to my friends at Columbia and NYU. Maybe one of their sports medicine people will have suggestions.”

  “Thanks, Rick. I appreciate your concern.” She paused. “If Miriam asks, don’t tell her anything. The last thing I need is faux sympathy.”

  “I won’t say a word, Izzy, but trust your older brother; being right about Miriam isn’t an excuse for the way you’re handling her. Give it some thought.”

  “I will. Thanks for calling. I love and miss you. If I don’t see you in Boston, we’ll be coming to New York to visit you, and Katz’s Deli.”

  As the morning sun streaked into the bedroom, Izzy was still asleep when the phone suddenly awakened her. She threw off the heating pads and made it to the kitchen phone.

  “Izzy, it’s Mitch. Can you get over here?”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “See you in a while.”

  Mitch’s refusal to say what this was about annoyed Izzy. She hated the unknown and always thought the worst. When she entered Mitch’s office a young man and woman sat before his desk. Izzy recognized them at once as agents from the USAPA, the anti-doping agency. She suddenly trembled. Her abdomen cramped.

  “You’ve met before.” Mitch said.


  Izzy took a deep breath and smiled. “Yes, we had an intimate experience.”

  Nobody was smiling.

  “What’s this about?” Izzy asked.

  The woman turned to Izzy. “Your urine test was positive for anabolic steroids.”

  Izzy paled. “You’re out of your mind. I have never used any performance-enhancing drug in my life. It’s totally against my character. Tell them. Mitch.”

  “Of course I know that you’d never take such drugs, but, Izzy, is it possible you took something by mistake?”

  “No way. I still have your ‘blessed list’ of approved medication, and those banned, highlighted in red. Both lists I’ve posted on my refrigerator. I never took a one on the banned list.” She paused. “Were both specimens positive?”

  “Yes,” said the man, “strongly positive.”

  Izzy’s pulse raced. “Do I look like a woman on androgenic steroids?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” the woman said. “It takes quite a while to become masculinized.”

  Izzy turned to Mitch. “My God! What does this mean?”

  Mitch looked down. “As of now, they’re banning you from further competition.”

  Izzy looked into Mitch’s eyes. “Boston?”

  He nodded, yes.

  “Something’s very wrong here, Mitch. This must be a false positive or someone’s screwing me over. Don’t I have a right to appeal?”

  “Yes,” said the woman. “We have an adjudication program, but these results are considered completely reliable. You had steroids in your body. How they got there is mostly irrelevant. You have a big problem here, Doctor. We’ll arrange a hearing as soon as possible, but you’d better be ready with an acceptable explanation, or you’re done.”

  After they left, Izzy remained in the chair opposite Mitch. She blotted the tears from her eyes. “Mitch, what’s going to happen?”

  He stared at Izzy.

  “What?”

  “Do you have something to tell me, Izzy?” Mitch asked.

  Izzy’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? You can’t believe…”

  Mitch reddened with anger. “I can’t believe what, Izzy. You’re the one who suggested using performance enhancing drugs.”

  “I was frustrated—distraught, but I’d never use drugs of any kind. All you were hearing from me was my desperation.”

  “Desperate people do desperate things, Izzy,” Mitch said.

  “My God! You, too! You, of all people, should know better…”

  “I thought I did, but, if we don’t clear these charges, I’m through as a running coach. No runner will come near me. No marathon will accept my runners.” He paused, staring daggers at Izzy. “I spent a lifetime creating my reputation and protecting its integrity. It seems that, in a moment of weakness, you managed to destroy everything. They wouldn’t even allow me to train greyhounds at the dog track.”

  Izzy moved to approach Mitch, but he gently pushed her away. “Don’t Izzy—don’t.”

  She burst into tears and collapsed into a chair.

  Mitch scowled and tossed Izzy a box of tissues.

  “This is nearly as bad as if Ross questioned my integrity—my honor, but he doesn’t—he wouldn’t. He knows and trusts me—you don’t. I naïvely expected more of you, Mitch, but I misjudged.” Izzy rose, walked to the door, and left.

  The next morning, Mitch called at 10:50 a.m.

  “Come down to my office,” Mitch said. “I’m waiting for you.”

  “Like hell, I will.” Izzy paused. “Why do you want me there? Haven’t you said enough?”

  “Ross, Jennifer, and Jodie waylaid me this morning,” he said. “Now please get over here.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  When Izzy tapped softly on Mitch’s door, he said, “Come in.” He pointed to a chair and said, “Sit.”

  Izzy sat with her arm across her chest. She stared daggers at Mitch. “What now?”

  Mitch stood and paced the room as he talked. “I’m counting on your goodness, and your experience as a psychiatrist to understand me when I say that I’m sorry. Technically speaking, my head was up my ass. I should have known better, but I didn’t. I felt too much pressure, thought only of myself, and I made a big mistake. Please forgive me.”

  “You hurt me, Mitch.”

  “I know.” He paused. “I can’t feel any worse than I do now.”

  Izzy smiled, grasped Mitch’s hand, and said, “Good, now buy me lunch, and then I’ll forgive you.”

  Izzy remained in the chair opposite Mitch. “What’s going to happen?”

  “If we can’t discover an explanation for these test results, we’re going to lose the appeal. You’ll need to relive every second of the last month to see how steroids got into your body, and who was involved.”

  “Who would do this? What would anyone have to gain? Who hates me so much that they’re willing to ruin my life? Destroy all my/our work? I just don’t get it.”

  “I don’t know,” Mitch said as he thought back to Hunter and Daddy. As he turned away, he said to himself, “Could it be possible, and, if so, how?”

  When Ross came home, he gave his cheery and somewhat facetious, “Honey, I’m home.” With no response he searched the house finding Izzy in the darkened den. He turned the light on to find Izzy curled up on the sofa. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were sleeping.”

  “I’m not. I wish I could sleep to get me away from all of this.”

  Ross sat beside her. “All of what? Has something happened?”

  “You might say so.” She looked into his eyes. “This running thing—it’s not so really important, is it?”

  He grasped her hand. “What happened?”

  Izzy told him about the positive urine tests for steroids and the appeal.

  “They’re nuts if they think you took any performance enhancing drug. It just isn’t in your character.”

  “Character doesn’t mean a damn thing. The two tests were positive. I had steroids in my body. How am I going to explain that?”

  “Maybe something happened with your medication?” he suggested.

  “All I take is hormone replacement therapy with estradiol and occasional non-steroidal. Those pills look the same as they always did.”

  “I’ll talk with our attorney. We can’t let them screw you over this way.”

  “Sure. Let’s hire a team of attorneys and publicists, like Lance Armstrong.”

  “Maybe you should talk with Abbie? She can help you through this.”

  Izzy thought for a moment, and then stood. “No, I should call Michael. He lives at the forefront of criminal activity and the law. He’s seen most everything. Maybe he can help.”

  The next morning, she talked with Michael and explained the whole situation.

  “Dammit, Izzy, that sucks. I don’t know what I can do, but, I promise you this, I’ll do something. Let me give Al Russo a call. He’s the DA’s investigator, and he owes me big.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  When Ross arrived at home after work, he collapsed into his La-Z-Boy chair. “I’m beat.”

  “Let me put your legs up, Izzy said as she pulled up on the footrest. “I’ll pour us some chardonnay.”

  While standing in the kitchen pouring the wine, Izzy asked, “Tough day?”

  “Not particularly. I had a lot of belching after lunch and just felt tired, as if I ran miles.” He took the wine, and coughed as he sat across on the sofa. “How’s your training going?”

  “My legs are still sore, but the water exercise has been a big help.”

  “Mitch must be…” Ross stopped and gasped. He reached tilted the wine glass, and lost his grasp. It spilled and crashed to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then collapsed on the floor.

  “Ross—Ross,” she screamed, grabbed his shirt and shook him. When he didn’t respond, Izzy bent over and placed her ear against his chest. Ross’s heart raced—two hundred beats/minute, she thought.

  She raised her hea
d and stared into Ross’s dead eyes. His mouth had opened in an agonal last gasp. “No—no, “Izzy screamed and screamed again. She raised her fist two feet above his chest and smashed it against the mid-point of his sternum with all her strength. She did it twice more and suddenly, Ross shuddered. When Izzy felt for his carotids, the pulse was strong at 110 beats/minute. At last, he took a deep breath and coughed, she reached for the phone and dialed 911.

  “This is Dr. Kramer,” she said and gave her address. “My husband had a cardiac arrest, send an ambulance stat.”

  When they reached Brier emergency, Izzy told the ER physician exactly what happened.

  “We don’t recommend the precordial thump anymore,” he said.

  “What do I know,” Izzy said, “I’m just a psychiatrist. My husband was dying and now he’s alive. That’s enough for me.”

  Suddenly, Sharon Brickman, the chief of cardiology rushed into the room. She was in her late forties with short hair and a bulldog appearance. She looked at Ross, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “Having a heart attack, Sharon.”

  “You’re not qualified to make that diagnosis, Ross. Remember, you’re a shrink.”

  She turned to the ER doc, and said, “You give me the scoop.”

  “An anterior wall myocardial infarction,” the ER doc said. “His cardiogram is consistent with that diagnosis as are his enzymes.”

  She grasped Ross’s hand. “Lucky guess.”

  “There’s nothing lucky about having a heart attack.”

  “How wrong you are, Ross. You’re here and still squawking.” Sharon turned to Izzy. “He’s had a heart attack, Izzy. I’m taking him to the cath lab ASAP. We need to see what he has and what we can do about it.”

  “Is it absolutely…?” Izzy asked.

  Sharon nodded. “Have a seat in the CCU family waiting room. I’ll be there as soon as I’m done.”

  When Sharon came in smiling an hour later, Izzy felt immediate relief.

  “You guys have had more than your fair share of grief, but this one, I fixed. The left anterior descending was 95 percent blocked. I ballooned it open and left a stent in place. The rest of his vessels showed only minor changes. He was lucky, Izzy. Very lucky.”