Never Too Late (Brier Hospital)

by Larence Gold

  “As I stand at the threshold of,” she showed double quotes, “the world’s greatest race, I’ve prepared myself mentally and physically. How well will I do? Who knows? The variables are too numerous and many are beyond my control. If my ailing legs hold out, I may have a chance. If I do well—great. If I fail, I’ll still know that I tried my best. If all of us, especially our students, tried their best, what more can we ask of them?”

  The room exploded in applause.

  When Izzy reddened with more embarrassment, the applause increased further.

  Izzy leaned over and whispered into Ross’s ear. “I just can’t win, can I?”

  “You just did.”

  When Izzy, Ross, and Jennifer drove into the departure lanes at the San Francisco International Airport, the cars were bumper to bumper even at 5:30 a.m. When they finally arrive at the United Airlines area, Ross parked only long enough to offload his passengers and their baggage.

  “I’ll park and meet you at the check-in area,” he said.

  As they approached the check-in line, Mitch waived them down. “Don’t be upset, Izzy, but the media is here in full force.”

  “You’re kidding,” she said.

  “Wish I were.”

  “Let’s hold back until Ross gets here, and then we’ll face the gauntlet together. Is Hunter here?”

  “Yes. She and her mother slipped through with little attention,” Mitch said. “They’re saving their best for you, old lady.”

  “Can we do anything?” Izzy asked.

  “I notified the airport police,” Mitch said, “they’re sending reinforcements.” He paused.

  “What?” Izzy asked.

  “Your fans are here, too. You can’t disappoint them. They won’t be a problem. A few waves, handshakes, and autographs are all they need. They love you, Izzy. Let them have their moment.”

  “Of course,” she said, “I love them, too.”

  When Ross arrived, Izzy filled him in.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get going.”

  As they approached the security counter with conveyer belts and scanners, the rope line tapered inward. The lines held back fans and the press. Flashes increased dramatically as they approached and continued as Izzy stopped to visit with her fans. After about ten minutes, an airport security cop approached, and said, “Let’s move it on. It’s taking up too much of my resources.”

  The cop escorted Izzy’s group to the check-in area where a well-dressed man stood to greet her. “This is the Airport Director, Ellis Clarke.”

  Ellis extended his hand to Izzy. “It’s our privilege to have you flying with us today. You make us all proud. Good luck in Boston.”

  As Izzy shook his hand, reflex cameras clicked and flashed. “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  “Have a great trip.”

  Izzy turned from the airport director and moved to the conveyer belt and scanner on the right.

  Suddenly a large man carrying a black cylinder in his right hand burst through the rope barrier and raced towards Izzy. He flipped his wrist and a three-foot steel baton extended. He pulled the baton back and yelled, “You’re one cheater who will never win!”

  As he swung the baton at Izzy’s legs, Mitch launched his body into the air and crashed into the man, sending him to the ground. Suddenly the police were all over the man as he struggled to get free. Finally, they cuffed and dragged him away.

  Ross held Izzy as she trembled. “It’s okay. He’s gone. It’s all over.”

  When Mitch walked over, Izzy took a deep breath, hugged him, and said, “My God, where did you learn to do that?”

  “Before I slimmed down to become a runner, I was an inside linebacker—a good one, too. Some skills you never forget.”

  Ross shook Mitch’s hand. “Somehow, we’re always thanking you for one thing or another.”

  “Not to worry, my payoff’s coming.”

  They both gave brief statements to the police and then boarded the plane.

  Once they were seated, Izzy turned to Ross, still trembling. “Can you imagine what could have happened to me, if that madman had succeeded?”

  “But, he didn’t,” Ross said.

  “I can only imagine what was in his head,” she said. “So much anger and violence in our culture. It’s dispiriting.”

  “The flight attendant may have the remedy,” Ross said.

  Tell her that I’ll have a double,” Izzy said.

  “A double what?”

  “Anything alcoholic. I need it.”

  “Me, too,” Ross said, followed by, “me three, and me four, by Jennifer and Mitch.”

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  When they arrived at Logan International Airport, police and security personnel of all types were milling around carrying automatic weapons and studying the crowd.

  “After the Boston bombing,” Ross said, “this is the new normal.”

  “It makes me feel better,” Jennifer said.

  When the exited the concourse, signs appeared bearing the names, Dr. Isabel Kramer and Hunter Blake. Izzy and Hunter walked up to two men in chauffeur’s uniforms and introduced themselves.

  “We have two limousines waiting, courtesy of the Boston Athletic Club,” one chauffeur said.

  Ross moved before Izzy, and faced the men. “I want some ID.”

  Ross checked the ID and nodded.

  “Isn’t one limousine enough?” Izzy asked. “There’s the three of us, plus Hunter and her mother.”

  “It’s already paid for,” one chauffeur said.

  Izzy shrugged her shoulders and turned to Hunter. “Mitch get’s his own limo—there will be no dealing with his ego, now. I guess we’ll be meeting him later.”

  They were heading for the baggage section when the chauffeur said, “Just follow me. Hand me your baggage claim numbers and we’ll get them for you.”

  Ross smiled. “I could get used to this.”

  As they approached the exit, fans waived and carried signs saying, “Welcome Izzy”, “Boston Welcomes You”, and “Senior Power”. Izzy stopped several times to shake hands and give autographs.

  As they sat in the limo waiting for their luggage, Ross checked the built-in wet bar. “Great, we can continue our relaxation program.”

  “I’ve had enough,” Izzy said as Ross and Jennifer popped a small bottle of champagne.

  The Courtyard Marriott on Copley Square was a madhouse as they arrived to fans, reporters, and armed security. The media crowded around them taking photos and shouting questions.

  “I don’t believe this, Mother,” Jennifer said.

  “Mitch warned us,” Izzy said.

  When they reached the reception desk, a well-dressed man in his late thirties, moved the reception clerk away. “I’m the hotel manager, Dr. Kramer. I’m here to be of assistance at any time. Just sign here. We’ve taken care of everything.” He snapped his fingers, and a bellhop appeared. “Robert will show you to your suite.”

  “Suite,” Ross said. “This gets better and better.”

  When they entered the three-bedroom suite, Izzy gasped. “This must be a mistake. It’s too much.”

  May I assist you with your luggage?” the bellhop asked.

  “No,” Ross said. “We’ll handle that ourselves.”

  When Ross handed the bellhop a twenty, the man refused it. “It’s not necessary. Your patron has taken excellent care of us.”

  The bellhop handed Izzy a shiny folder. “All of our services are available to you as our guest. We’re particularly proud of our day spa and our massages.”

  Izzy smiled wanly. “I think I’ll skip the massage.”

  Thirty minutes after he left, the doorbell sounded and Hunter and Mitch entered.

  “I see you’re getting comfortable,” Mitch said.

  “This whole thing is nuts,” Izzy said.

  “You ain’t seen noth’n yet,” Mitch said. “This place gets so crazy that it’s a marvel that they can manage the marathon.” He paused. “Since the bo
mbing, security is well over the top.”

  “We noticed—sure can’t blame them,” Ross said.

  Mitch brought Izzy and Hunter to the table. “Here are your schedules for the week. Hunter will be running more and Izzy, you’ll run less and rest more.”

  Izzy smiled. “I trust you, Mitch. You’re saving me for the marathon.”

  “You’re as well-conditioned as you can get. We need to give those ageless legs as much time as possible.”

  “Should I work out today? Sitting around all day has me climbing the wall.”

  “Okay, but take it easy,” Mitch said.

  “I’ll do two miles on the treadmill and get in some cross training. I’ll bring Ross to the workout—he’ll keep me honest.”

  “No problem,” Ross said, “as long as I have a good book to read.”

  They had dinner in the Courtyard Café, but despite the best efforts of the staff, they couldn’t avoid the press and well-wishers.

  After the eighth interruption of their meal, Ross said, “Can’t you people let us eat in peace?”

  Izzy grasped his arm. “It’s okay. I hate to turn fans away. You never know when you might need them again.” She paused. “Anyway, we have only one week left. We can put up with virtually anything for one week.”

  When they arrived back to their suite, a long rectangular box with several flowers protruding was sitting before the door.

  “Another fan’s tribute,” Ross said, as he handed Izzy the box.

  When they entered the suite, Izzy placed the box on the table, pulled off the top, screamed, and backed away.

  “What…?” Ross said, as he rushed over.

  Ross and Jennifer stared into the box containing a grey-haired Barbie Doll with Izzy’s running number attached. It had a bloody arrow protruding from its chest. The card next to it read, “Have a good race, Izzy. We’ll be there, watching.”

  The Boston Police and the local director of homeland security were at the suite in minutes. Their crime scene people dusted the door, the box, and the doll for prints, but found none.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Kramer,” the Police Inspector said. “This isn’t Boston, it’s some sicko. One way or the other, we’ll get him, her, or them.”

  Izzy was sitting on the sofa with Jennifer, her head down. “Them? You said, them?”

  “I’m sorry. I just want to be complete. After all, the world’s watching.”

  The DHS said, “You’ll be under our wing for as long as you’re in Boston.”

  Izzy looked up at the men. “That’s not necessary. You have more important things to do with your men.”

  Ross moved next to Izzy and grasped her hands. “Thank you, gentlemen, we appreciate your efforts.”

  After they left, Izzy remained on the sofa. Her hands trembled as she fought off tears. “It only gets worse, doesn’t it?”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Izzy tossed and turned all night, worrying about the latest threat. She turned to face Ross. “I just can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “I understand,” Ross replied, “it upsets me, too, but I don’t think that it’s a credible threat, and neither do the authorities.”

  “You really can’t know,” she said.

  “Whatever it takes, you can’t let it interfere with your race prep or the marathon itself—look how hard you’ve worked.”

  “I’ll do the best I can.”

  Izzy followed Mitch’s preparation schedule. As it was but a fraction of what she was used to, she was able to relax and enjoy the runs and the cross training. Her legs ached only slightly and, after the first mile, they were pain free.

  She worked out as much as possible with Hunter, but said, “Don’t let me slow you down. Follow Mitch’s schedule to a T. He knows what’s best for you.”

  Hunter hugged Izzy. “I can never thank you enough.”

  Ross was sitting in the stands at the track reading a book and glancing up at Izzy as she ran. “Looking good,” he said when she finished.

  “Feel good, too.”

  “How’s Hunter doing?” Ross asked.

  “She’s blooming now that her sicko father is out of the picture. Mitch thinks that she’s peaking just at the right time.”

  “You were right about her,” Ross said.

  “There are times when I think that the most useful attribute of a therapist is their ability to tolerate emotional pain and frustration.”

  “It’s that, and more,” Ross said. “It’s the ability to see beyond the obvious, beyond the affectations, beyond the sophisticated defense mechanisms and into the heart of the person. That’s your gift, Izzy.”

  “When this is all over, I’m not sure what I want to do.”

  Ross held her hands. “You’ll decide, but remember that you love teaching and counseling, and the running…many potential milestones remain. The way you’re going, you might get to be the oldest woman to complete a marathon.”

  “I should live so long.”

  “Remember Gladys Burrell?”

  “Your senior porn girl? How old was she when she ran in Hawaii?”

  “Ninety-two, Izzy, and she didn’t start running until she was eighty-six.”

  “Call me nuts, but I don’t aspire to that record. By that time, I’ll be well-settled in my rocking chair.”

  “Then run as much as necessary to teach and coach with Mitch.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Ross stood. “We better get going. You’re due at the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel for the elite runners introduction.”

  “I’m not looking forward to that,” Izzy said.

  “Everyone will be there.”

  “Yes,” Izzy said. “That’s the problem.”

  When they arrived at the hotel, it, like everywhere else, was jammed. They entered the lobby and followed the signs to John Hancock Elite Runners meeting. A large guard stood at the doorway, and when they tried to enter, the guard said, “Sorry, grandma, this is for elite runners only.”

  Ross reddened with anger. “This is Dr. Kramer, and she’s expected.”

  “Right, grandpa. Just move along.”

  Izzy grasped Ross’s arm and started away. “Thank God,” she said. “It’s an omen.”

  Suddenly, Jeffrey Black, the John Hancock director of the elite runners program appeared. “Where are you going, Dr. Kramer?”

  “Home,” Ross said. “We couldn’t get past your security.”

  “Give me a moment,” Jeffrey said. He walked up to the security guard and spoke in muted tones, pointing at Izzy. He returned to Izzy and Ross. “You have my apology, but, understandably, security has gone over the top.”

  When they approached the door, the guard said, “Please accept my apology. I must have been living in the dark ages not to recognize you.”

  “No apology needed,” Izzy said. “I only wish more people did their jobs as well as you do yours.”

  The room was a madhouse with runners and a multitude of simultaneous impromptu interviews. The favored runners had the most press while many waited expectantly for interviews that would never come.

  “We have a spot for you, Dr. Kramer,” Jeffrey said.

  “Please, it’s Izzy.”

  A large crowd had gathered in a corner of the hall where Jeffrey had arranged for the wall-sign announcing Dr. Isabel Kramer. Izzy passed through the crowd to an elevated table with a single chair. After she sat, Jeffrey turned to the crowd. “If this is going to work, you all can’t ask questions at the same time. Izzy, I mean Dr. Kramer, will take all your questions, so be patient, don’t interrupt, and try not to be repetitive.” He turned to Izzy. “They’re yours.”

  Dozens of hands rose at once and as Izzy scanned the crowd, one familiar face stood out. She pointed. “Lynda Levy, you deserve to go first.”

  “Thanks, Izzy,” Lynda said. “You’ve already answered most of my questions in past interviews, so I’ll ask the question that everyone wants answered. How are you feeling, how are your legs, and how do you ra
te your chances?”

  Izzy smiled. “Thank, Lynda. As everyone knows, I owe you a debt of gratitude, not only for introducing me to the world, a mixed blessing as you well know, but for sticking with me through my ordeal.” She paused. “The first question is easy, I feel great. The second and third questions are more complicated. Mitch and I have pulled out all the stops, doing everything to promote healing of my legs. I have many people to thank for those efforts, but, truth be told, I won’t really know how they are until I put them to the test—26 miles and 385 yards is one hell of a test.”

  “What do your doctors say?” a reporter interrupted.

  “They say that they have no objective test or measurement to determine if they’re healed. The test will be the race itself.”

  Hands rose again from the crowd.

  “Give me a moment, please,” Izzy said, “and let me finish answering Lynda’s question. We’re together for an hour—be patient.”

  Izzy pointed to Ross, Mitch, and Jennifer who stood to the side. “I don’t want this to sound like an Academy Award winner thanking everybody for their success, but this may be my only chance, as after the race, it’s likely that I’ll be yesterday’s news. My husband, Ross and my daughter Jennifer are responsible for my being here today. Without their love and support, this would have been impossible.” She paused. “What can I say about Mitch Silverman? He did what no other coach would even contemplate, he took a chance on a senior citizen—true he needed some convincing, but he’s singularly responsible for making this possible.”

  Izzy pointed out another reporter.

  “Much has been made of your age and your unlikely success. How do you feel about that?”

  “In utopia, we’d judge people only by their accomplishments. We don’t live in such a world. Today, we layer expectation upon expectation with relevant and totally irrelevant factors. The gorilla in the room is age, and while nobody, especially myself, denies the potential for diminution of performance over time, that generally does not apply to all. I’m a prime example, an outlier, but not the only one.”