by Alton Gansky
Early this year things began to change. I had come close to losing everything including my life. I was flailing in circumstances far out of my control. Standing there to catch me was Dr. Jerry Thomas.
Something inside me began to thaw.
We see each other on a regular basis and the bond continues to grow. I don’t know what the future holds, but I’ve allowed for new possibilities.
We walked to the nurse’s station. A semicircular bench marked off the area. Several men and women dressed in white smocks moved throughout the ICU, ducking in and out of small rooms with glass partitions that separated the work area from the patients’ rooms. A doctor in the same style of smock sat at a desk, filling out a form.
“Do you have any information on Doug Turner?” I asked Jerry.
He shook his head. “No. I didn’t even know he was here until I heard your voice over the intercom. But I know who does. Dr. Tucker, do you have a moment?”
The man in the white coat who had been filling out the form turned, then rose. “That’s about all I have.”
“Dr. Tucker,” Jerry said, “this is Mayor Madison Glenn. She’s a friend of Doug Turner.”
He looked me over, then gave a nod.
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” I offered my hand. He gave it a brief shake.
“I’m afraid Mr. Turner isn’t up for visitors yet.”
“Is there anything you can tell me, Doctor?”
He looked at Jerry, who said nothing. Physicians are reluctant to talk about their patients with anyone other than family members. “First, the good news,” Tucker said. “His spinal cord shows no damage, and there’s no indication of paralysis. He was wearing a seat belt, which kept him from being ejected when the vehicle rolled. Mr. Turner has, however, received several head injuries, a broken clavicle, a broken forearm, and a fractured ankle. There are some internal injuries, but those should heal normally. Our greatest fear is damage to the brain. That’s still being assessed. We have him heavily sedated to limit his movements.”
“May I see him?” Everything inside me was twisting into a knot.
“I’ll walk you to his cubicle, but I must insist you stay outside. He’s unconscious.” Without waiting for a response, he crossed the distance from the nurse’s station to one of the cubicles. The number above the door read 4003.
Once at the door, he stepped aside. I felt Jerry close to my left, his hand on my elbow. I looked in.
Doug was motionless on the bed. A thin white sheet covered him from his stomach to midthigh. One arm was in a fiberglass cast, as was one foot. His bare chest was blotched with blue bruises. His face was swollen twice its normal size. I could not recognize the man on the bed. I had to take Dr. Tucker’s word for it that the swollen, battered, and bruised body belonged to the Register’s ace reporter.
The temperature around me rose at an alarming rate. My face began to burn, and the normally unconscious act of breathing now required my full attention. Something was happening to my legs: the knee joints were morphing into Jell-O. I felt Jerry’s hand tighten on my elbow. A hand seized my other arm.
“Okay,” Jerry said. “That’s enough for now.”
I was turned and led from Doug’s ICU cubicle. As I walked away, the heat that came upon me as if from an oven door dissipated, and my breathing returned to normal.
“Do you need to sit down?” Tucker asked.
I shook my head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” I caught Tucker exchanging a glance with Jerry.
“I’ll take her for a walk,” Jerry said. “Thank you, Dr. Tucker.”
Tucker grunted and returned to his files.
Jerry walked me from the ICU, his hand still clamped like a vise on my elbow. I felt like a little old lady. We passed through the doors and into the waiting room. Thankfully, it was still empty. He directed me to a chair and made me sit. I started to protest, but before I could open my mouth, my fanny met one of the well-worn chairs.
“Stuff like that is always hard to see.”
“He didn’t even look like the Doug I know.”
“The swelling does that. I’ve sent patients in for brain or face surgery and when they come out, I wonder who they are. In a few days, Doug will look like Doug.”
“How did you ever get used to seeing such trauma?” I took a deep breath.
“No one gets used to it.” Jerry took the seat next to mine. “Doctors just learn to expect it and deal with it. Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with such things very often. Pediatrics is vastly different than emergency medicine. Still, we have our own set of challenges.”
I forced my attention from myself to Jerry. I was just now putting together the fact that my pediatrician friend was inside ICU. Jerry is like fancy ice cream, uniformly sweet, and filled with little surprises. He was quick with a joke, self-deprecating, sacrificial, and willing to invest himself in those he loves and admires. But the thing that has most impressed me about Jerry is his commitment to his work. Pediatrics was not the glamour discipline of medicine, nor was it the cash machine of other specialties. Dealing with children—sick children—day in and day out required a sturdier soul than most possessed. Jerry had once told me that most of his day was spent with runny noses, hurting tummies, and sore throats; but there were those days when he wanted to “burn his license.” Those days included telling parents that little Johnny had leukemia, or bone cancer, or some disease that would keep the child from having anything close to a normal life. I had a feeling that this was one of those days.
“Why were you there?” I nodded to the double doors that kept the heartrending sights on the other side.
“Doing follow-up on a surgery. A six-year-old boy, one of my patients, was hit by a car this morning. ER did a great job, and the surgical team did the impossible. There’s nothing for me to do but monitor his condition and, I hope, guide the recovery.”
“You hope?”
His eyes shifted from me. That was all the answer I needed. Jerry didn’t think the little boy would live.
“How are you doing? You okay?” I took his hand.
He shrugged. “I’m thinking of taking up cabinetmaking.”
“The world of medicine would be sorely wounded if you did.”
“I’m not so sure. At times I love my job, but days like this make me wonder if I’m the man to do it.”
“You’ve been doing it wonderfully for years.”
“Some doctors can flip a switch and leave all the misery in the hospital rooms, but I’ve never been able to do that. I take it home with me. Images come to me in my dreams.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples. I could tell he was beat, and it wasn’t even two o’clock.
“Did you know that more and more doctors are leaving the profession? Seventy- to eighty-hour workweeks, malpractice insurance premiums that can top a hundred thousand, less respect, and more paperwork.”
“You’re not seriously thinking of leaving,” I said.
“Actually, I’m tired of thinking.” He sat up, raised my hand, and kissed it. “Not to worry, just the weariness speaking. You know, this may be the first time a politician paid a visit on a reporter.”
The famous male change-of-subject defense. “You know what you need? You need to have pie with a famous Hollywood star.”
“What did you do? Land a movie deal?”
“Not me. Catherine Anderson. She’s staying with me tonight.”
“So you’ve started taking in homeless movie stars. I recognize the name.”
“She’s my cousin, and she’s in town for a few weeks—”
“Wait a second. Catherine Anderson is your cousin?”
“That’s right. On my father’s side.”
He wrinkled his brow. I figured he had heard about the murder at her home.
“I guess you heard about the murder,” I said.
“Murder? What murder?”
“There was an article in this morning’s paper and the late news ran a short piece on the television. I didn’t wa
tch television this morning, but I imagine it got more play there.”
“I was here until nearly two this morning. I went home, grabbed a bite to eat and a few hours’ sleep, then came back. I haven’t seen the paper or watched the news. Who was murdered?”
I filled him in. His face darkened with concern, but I assured him both Catherine and I were fine. “So how about it. You want to come over for dessert? Say eight o’clock?”
“I should be able to break away for a bit and a bite.”
I rose and said, “I’ll see you then.” I gave him a brief hug and left.
He walked me to the elevator. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Yeah, right.”
I waved as the elevator doors shut. Jerry looked worried. I wondered if I should be worried too.
Chapter 11
My meeting with the Community Development Department was short and sweet. We discussed the level of new construction along the coast and in the southern part of the city. New housing meant an increase in revenue, but it also meant a greater burden on schools and city infrastructure. They presented two reports, which I listened to with interest, then took printed reports back to my office. I had fifteen minutes to spare before plunging into the next meeting. I used the time to freshen up.
At two minutes before three, I entered the conference room and found it full. I stepped to the head of the table and took my seat. The table was long and wide and covered in a worn simulated maple veneer that showed its age. The conference room is where the council held its closed-door meetings, but it had little to commend it. The walls were a dull white and adorned with a few easy-on-the-eyes prints of serene landscapes. A sand-colored, low-pile carpet covered the floor. Overhead, fluorescent fixtures oozed their peculiar shade of light. I was thankful for the windows behind me. Natural light was always better.
At just twenty-by-twenty, the square room was too small for the table, five council members, the city attorney, city manager, and city clerk. There had been several heartfelt discussions about enlarging the room, but I had managed to keep the reins pulled back on city spending. I’d lost a lot of friends in city government because of it.
Seated at the table to my right was Tess Lawrence. Prior to becoming deputy mayor, she always sat as far from me as possible. Next to her was Jon Adler. My mother taught me to find the good in people and praise it. Jon was my greatest challenge. He was as warm as an ice cube and possessed an extraordinarily powerful gift of getting under my skin. He was more irritating than a blister and just as welcome.
Maybe it was his career as defense attorney that made him so argumentative. Maybe it was because he was so insecure and needed constant attention. Maybe he was just a selfish jerk. Whatever the reason, he would argue with anyone, at any time, about anything. I had yet to hear him offer an original idea. Instead, he would wait to hear what others said, then take the opposite side. I’m convinced the pinch-faced man would argue with his mother about who gave birth to him.
On the opposite side of the table sat Larry Wu. Larry was the anti-Jon. A middle-aged man with an Asian face and subtle Texas accent, Larry brought heart to the council. He was a dogged campaigner. I know; he was one of the mayoral candidates I beat out for the seat. So was Jon. With Larry, however, I felt guilty about winning. He was gracious in defeat and has been one of my greatest supporters. He’s even done some work in my congressional campaign. I could use a few more Larrys around city hall.
To his left sat Titus Overstreet. Titus was one of my favorite people. He seemed to stand taller than his six-foot-two frame, and his ebony face was quick with a smile. A former high school basketball star, he knew he didn’t have the height or talent to make the team of any major university, so he pursued the best education he could get. He took an MBA and ran a public relations business when not wrestling with city business. He is a clothes horse, always dapper. It was hard to look good standing next to him.
However, Titus was thinner these days and a little less active. The beginning of this year brought news of colon cancer, surgery, and chemotherapy. Now, with over three-quarters of the year gone, he was doing well, but he had lost a step.
Sharing the end of the table were City Manager Russell Elliot and City Attorney Fred Markham. To one side of Fred was City Clerk Dana Thayer. As usual, she had her gray-kissed dark hair pulled back into a bun and wore a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She could be the poster child for 1950s librarians.
“Hello, everyone.” I took my seat and spread out my notes. “It’s good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back,” Larry said. Titus nodded. Tess sat motionless, and Jon smirked. I felt loved.
“I called this meeting to share with you some of the more interesting items of this year’s governor’s meeting with California mayors. Initially, that is all I had planned to discuss, but we should address something that may or may not become an issue.”
“I hope it was more exciting than last year,” Jon said. “I’m still trying to overcome the terminal case of boredom it caused.”
“Now you know how we feel when we listen to you,” Tess snapped. Tess and Jon had been political pals for years. Jon looked at the relationship as an advantage; Tess saw it as something to endure to balance the council. For years, she was afraid I’d somehow cement constant agreement and turn the council into a rubberstamp committee. It was a wasted fear. Titus and Larry are consistent supporters, but both have no compunction about disagreeing with me or voting against something I support. I respected them for their integrity.
“Ease up, Tess,” Jon said. “I was just joking.”
I decided to ignore Jon and press on. “Much of the discussion centered on the problems created by Proposition 65. As you know, that 2004 proposition changed the way money flows from city to state and state to city.”
“To our benefit,” Jon said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but there were some unforeseen hitches.”
Over the next twenty minutes, I filled them in on the lively discussion in Sacramento and what the other mayors were saying. When I was done and everyone had their say, I moved on to the next issue.
“I imagine each of you has heard about Doug Turner’s accident.”
“If a reporter crashes in the woods and there’s no one there to hear, does he make a sound?” Jon laughed at his joke. He was the only one who did.
Titus closed his eyes and I could see he was struggling to keep back hot and barbed words. Larry just shook his head.
“Oh, come on, guys,” Jon said. “We’ve de-evolved into a bunch of old fuddy-duddies. It’s not like Turner was a friend. I don’t think he ever wrote anything positive about me.”
The room went silent. I weighed the price of shooting off my mouth. Be quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger. It was a Bible passage I had committed to memory. James 1:19. It was becoming a life verse for me. I repeated the words again in my mind. I noticed that many of the verses I committed to memory had to do with holding my tongue.
“Do you know what, Jon?” Titus leaned over the table. “Every time you open your mouth, you make an argument for the return of prefrontal lobotomy surgery.”
Apparently, Titus didn’t know the Bible verse. I scolded myself for finding his comment funny—and accurate.
“Did you think of that all by yourself, or did you have help?” Jon shot back.
Jon has never been witty.
To his credit, Titus didn’t take the bait. I glanced around the room and saw four members of the council who could not be more different. They each had their agendas, policies they thought important. If I won the congressional seat, I’d be just one of four hundred and thirty-five such personalities.
“Mr. Turner’s accident has brought another problem to the forefront,” I said. “Mr. Turner’s car went off the road and over the embankment because the guardrail had been removed. I met Tess and Fred and Russell earlier today. They have begun an investigation of
the problem. Tess?”
Tess gave me a nod and said, “After our initial meeting with the mayor, Fred, Russ, and I put our heads together and divvied up the work. Why don’t you start, Russ?”
The city manager took a deep breath. “I took a stroll over to public works and met with the director. I learned that over the last three months, close to twenty road signs have been stolen, many of them stop signs.”
“Twenty?” Larry said. “That’s a lot of signs. Why haven’t we heard about this?”
Russ looked embarrassed. “The director thought he had it under control. Usually when a sign, especially an important sign, is stolen, some citizen in that neighborhood reports it, and it’s replaced within twenty-four hours.”
Titus shook his head. “Not good enough. A great many accidents can happen in twenty-four hours.”
“Well, I agree with you,” Russ said, “and I—mentioned—it to the director.”
I knew what that meant. Russ was a gentle guy, but he had an explosive side. I guessed that the director of public works discovered that.
“What other kind of signs?” I asked.
Russ cleared his throat and recited from memory, “Ten stop signs, five yield signs, two dip signs, and two slow curve signs. Nineteen in all.”
“What?” Jon inserted. “No ‘Elect Glenn for Congress’ signs were taken. I’d think those would be the first to go.”
Tess lowered her head, and I saw her jaw clench. “So help me, Jon, one more crack out of you, and I’ll slap you so hard your ancestors will scream.”
“That, my dear, would be assault and battery. You would go to jail.” Jon leaned back and smiled as if he had just declared “checkmate” in a chess game.
“It would be worth it,” Tess said.
The smile from Jon’s face disappeared.
“To continue,” Russ said, “things have escalated. It’s not just signs anymore. Four fire hydrant caps are missing, three segments of guardrail, and—get this—a manhole cover.”
“Aren’t manhole covers really heavy?” Larry asked.
