Healer: A Novel

by Carol Cassella

  “Warn her not to eat anything from the minibar,” Claire says over her shoulder. She hears the door close and a moment later Addison’s arms are around her waist. When she does not give he tenses and pulls away. After a minute of silence Claire says, “Adjoining suites? My week’s paycheck wouldn’t cover one of them. I hope you have some pretty big news.”

  Addison slips his hands in his pockets. “You haven’t even kissed me hello.”

  She turns around and leans forward on her toes just enough to tap her lips against his, then walks into the bathroom, runs hot water over a washcloth and presses it against her eyelids. He comes in behind her and closes the door, as if Jory could hear through the walls. “It is big. Or it could be big.”

  Claire takes the cloth away from her face. “It’s funny. I’m kind of wishing you wouldn’t even mention it until you know for sure.”

  “I called Ron Walker.” She waits for him to go on, water dripping down her cheeks. Addison cups his hand along her jawline and wipes away black streaks of mascara with his thumbs. “He’s interested.”

  Claire sits on the cold rim of the marble tub, feels her heart skip ahead, almost angry that her body will go where her mind doesn’t want to. “How interested?”

  “Interested enough to be paying for this room. We’re meeting him for dinner tomorrow night.” He drops his head a minute, and when he raises it again to look at her she sees a lightness playing in his eyes she has missed for months. “He said this is exactly the kind of project he’s been looking for.”

  “I didn’t even bring a dress. Why didn’t you warn me?” Claire says, letting a small surge of excitement build inside her.

  “You look great.” He leans over and kisses her, locks his fingers around the back of her neck. “Go buy a dress. Buy some new jewelry to go with it.”

  “I haven’t paid the credit card bill this month.” Even before he responds she starts the question she didn’t intend to ask him. “Does he know everything about the vascumab trials?”

  His eyes grow quiet again. “I don’t know how to do anything else but chemistry, Claire. He has all the information he needs to make his own decision. If he’s in, we’ll be repeating all the animal studies again.”

  Claire pulls her hands away. After a minute she gets up and steps past him to the sink, picks up the wet washcloth, gone cold now, blushed with the pink and beige of her makeup. Addison keeps talking to her, watching her face in the mirror. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Blame me for what?” Claire asks, hearing the clip of distrust in her voice and wishing Jory would come in unexpectedly, or the phone would ring, or the maid knock—anything that would give her an excuse to change the subject for a while. She turns the water on full until it’s hot again and wrings out the washcloth, her hands red, her knuckles white. Addison doesn’t answer her, but when she catches his reflection she sees his exuberance dimming. And something deeper in his face, some sadness that snags at the garment of their union.

  “Buy a blue dress, will you? Something like that one you got in London?”

  She turns around and faces him, because the subject has changed, because she wants to have these two precious nights together in their city. “If it makes you happy I’ll look for a blue dress.”

  They make it a good day. Even Jory is careful to stay in the moment of now. She walks between them, sometimes even holding their hands before remembering she could possibly be spotted. They go to the Seattle Art Museum and walk up to Pike Place Market, where Jory is given ten dollars to spend at the bead store and another dollar to have her fortune cranked out of a mechanical gypsy. She shows it to neither of her parents before tearing it into small bits and dropping it through a sidewalk sewer grate. Before they left Hallum, Claire promised her she could visit friends on Sunday, but Jory hasn’t called anyone. Claire reminds her and Jory says she’ll think about it, giving Claire a please-don’t-bring-it-up-again look. And so they become tourists, on vacation in this city they used to own.

  Addison takes them into Mario’s and has Claire try on every size 8 blue dress, which she turns into a game of America’s Next Top Model for Jory’s amusement. She finally picks out a simple belted shift at Nordstrom, the color of the sky just before the last sunlight goes. Addison approves although, he says, it doesn’t match her eyes as well as the London dress had. By the time they get back to the hotel Claire feels happy, remembers the short-lived thrill that accompanies the unwrapping of new things, like the euphoric taste of chocolate at the end of a fast. She is looking forward to the dinner now; it’s been months since she’s been to a good restaurant—any restaurant—and not spent more time looking at the prices than the food choices. She takes extra care with her makeup and hair, grooming she has quit giving much attention to in Hallum. The dress looks even better in the flattering lights of the hotel suite than it had under the fluorescents in the dressing room. Addison zips it up the back and pulls out his pocketknife to snip the tag, but she spins around and holds his wrists against her chest. “Not yet. Not till we know. Leave it for a good luck charm.”

  He folds his pocketknife into his closed fist and brushes her hand against his chin. “You’re still not wearing your ring. Even in Seattle?”

  She smiles, keeping her eyes at play over his face. “It’s in a better place.”

  Ron Walker stands up as soon as they enter the small dining room. “Did Addison tell you Campagne is my favorite restaurant? We used to come here on my birthday,” Claire says, taking his hand. The walls are painted soft green and the angled evening sunlight casts reddish gold across the dark mahogany floors. The maître d’ pulls out her chair, the waiter stands one step away ready to accept their drink order. They are at a corner table beside the window. In the center of the clean white cloth, a glass vase holds two bloodred tulips. She unfolds her napkin and sits back in her chair, taking in the colors, the guests, the pleasantly abstract paintings on the walls; remembering the pleasure of allowing a meal to fill an entire evening, the luxury of being served.

  “You should have brought your daughter,” Ron says. “She’s here with you, isn’t she?”

  “She’s eating pizza in front of the TV. She’s in heaven.” Claire pulls the vase close to smell the flowers, but the blossoms are still too tightly closed. Walker selects a bottle of wine. Addison drinks quickly at first; Claire can tell he’s on edge, but Walker seems completely relaxed. He asks Claire about the clinic; it’s clear he considers Dan nothing less than a miracle worker. “He started that place just for the farmworkers, but then word spread. He’s pretty much the only safety net in the valley, until you’re dying and the hospital has to take you in.” He fills Claire’s glass. “Preaching to the choir, I know. I’m glad you’re there. Dan likes to think he’s going to have this much energy forever but he looks worn out to me.”

  They are halfway through dinner before Walker finally turns the conversation to vascumab. Addison has said less and less with each course, with each glass of wine, and then Claire watches him visibly expand as they begin to discuss pharmaceuticals—inflating with hope. Or pride, she thinks. Much of it justifiable pride. Walker describes himself as the ideal angel investor—educated enough to bring money to a smart opportunity, uneducated enough to stay out of a bright scientist’s way. But from the questions he asks and the industry comparisons he makes, it is obvious he’s read every scrap of information Addison sent him.

  “Pharma didn’t interest me when I was younger. I’ve seen people make a lot of money in it, but the risks seemed too unpredictable.” Addison leans forward to add something but Walker puts his hand up. “Bear with me. You already know a lot of what I have to say, but if we’re going to be bedfellows in this I want to say it anyway.”

  Claire glances at her husband and leans her elbows on the table with her chin in her hands, ready to absorb Walker’s point of view, an economic side of this story she’s never fully heard.

  “I like cancer.” He pauses as if he’s replaying his own words, realizi
ng how they sound. Then he breaks into a self-deprecating smile. “I like investing in cancer. Cancer treatment.” The waiter pours out the last of the second bottle, Walker holds a hand across the top of his glass. He goes on. “My first wife died of cancer.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Claire says.

  Walker wipes his mouth on his napkin, folds it carefully before putting it back in his lap. “Chronic myelogenous leukemia at thirty-nine. She might have lived if Gleevec had been on the market then.” His focus comes back to the table. “It was a long time ago.” He smiles, though a bit sadly. “I’ve had a very patient and lovely second wife for the last eight years. But I didn’t get rich being sentimental, and so that is not the main attraction. Five years ago I put ten million dollars into a cardiovascular drug. Armor Labs in California developed it. Everybody who saw the data was stunned—said it was the best new drug they’d seen in decades. Even the FDA. Demographics projected it could save 200,000 people a year between heart attacks and strokes. Then the FDA decided we had to study it in 50,000 people before it could be approved, which would take more than ten years. Armor went bankrupt in year three.”

  “I remember that,” Addison says. Then he turns to Claire. “Cancer drugs have a shorter time to market since you’re studying them in patients with a terminal disease.” She nods at him, wondering if he could have forgotten all the times she’s listened to him tell her this and more about his work. He’s too distracted, focusing on the endgame instead of the moment.

  “That was the last drug I put money into. I do own a large holding company that invests in some biopharma research—including several CROs and an IRB—but I manage their business, not their science. He looks straight at Claire, his graying eyebrows lifted. “A CRO is a contract research organization that helps run drug studies, finds the volunteers and runs all the tests. The IRB is the review board that oversees any human drug testing.” Claire smiles politely at this, catches Addison giving her a look that clearly means Please just play dumb.

  Then Walker reaches into a briefcase at his feet and pulls out a thick binder that Claire recognizes as the reams of information Addison has been carting to meetings all over the country. He pushes his dessert plate aside and plants the notebook squarely in front of himself. “I like this drug. I like it, and the consultant I had review it likes it.” Addison shifts in his seat. Claire looks at him but can tell he is trying not to meet her eyes, doesn’t want to see his own vulnerability in her expression. “Now for my questions,” Walker says.

  Addison clears his throat and opens his hands over the table like two birds taking flight. “Ask me anything you’d like to. If I don’t have the answer I’ll get it for you.”

  “There are a lot of labs working on antiangiogenesis drugs. Many are already at the human trial phase. You had only a provisional patent on this drug, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Addison says. He flares his hands again then quickly drops them. Claire watches him, recognizing every sign of his anxiety, holding her breath. Addison continues, “I’m sure you know how tricky the timing can be on patent applications—we wanted to protect the basic molecule while it was still in development but not be forced to disclose the unique structure. I wanted that twelve-month window the provisional patent gave us.”

  “But in the meantime some other lab could be making your drug. Vascumab.” Walker’s hands are resting on either side of Addison’s files, his fingers in a relaxed arch. Claire has the feeling he knows every answer before he asks the question.

  Addison clears his throat again and Claire has to lock her hands in her lap to keep from gripping his knee. “I felt—and believe to this day—that vascumab is a singular molecule.”

  Walker studies him, motionless, like a hunter waiting for precisely the right opening. “Convince me that your patent situation doesn’t expose my investment to greater risk.” He fans his arm across the table, taking in the room, taking in the whole world. “You have no way of knowing the lab down the street isn’t about to put in their own patent application for the same molecule. Beat you to the finish line.”

  Addison moves his head in a slow figure eight, not a yes, not a no. Claire waits, her mouth going dry. “Science isn’t a process that happens in isolation, Ron. It’s a ladder of incremental steps that a lot of people around the world are building at the same time. It’s very rare—extremely rare—to have one individual or one lab make a huge leap ahead of anyone else.” He pauses. Claire can almost hear him deciding how far to go. “But I have. It may look like a small difference in the chemical structure, but it completely changes the binding characteristics. I haven’t seen any other lab focusing on that variance. I believe vascumab is going to change the way we treat cancer, not just in the U.S. In the whole world. It is going to change the meaning of that diagnosis.”

  Something passes across Walker’s face, little more than the way the light is reflected in his eyes. He isn’t hearing anything he didn’t expect; Claire is sure of that. He is testing. Testing Addison. “How confident are you that vascumab can be safely studied in humans within the year?” Walker asks, sitting a touch straighter, little more than the twitch of a muscle. “Your own child. Or Claire, here. How comfortable would you be giving this drug to them?”

  Claire sees Addison stall; she knots her hands in her lap. Walker waits, unblinking, clearly knows more than anything printed in that binder, more than any bankrupting legal fees could protect—the silence makes her want to stand up and put an end to all the possibilities right now, collect their daughter and their bags and the tentative purchases they made today on the breath of hope and drive back across the mountains to Hallum.

  But then Addison pushes past the question, into a part of himself beyond shame or ego, lets himself be taken over by the same conviction that drove vascumab from a sketch on a scrap of paper to a biologically active compound. “I believe the mouse studies were flawed. They need to be repeated. As soon as they are I would be happy to be the first human volunteer.”

  Walker still doesn’t move, locked on Addison’s eyes as if he can see all the way through to whatever heaven or hell has in store. And Addison holds his own with it, stares right back until, slowly, Walker breaks into a grin. He flicks his eyes at the waiter and within a minute there is a bottle of champagne on the table with three glasses. “Well, then. Let’s be sure we get it on the market before any of us needs it.”

  After too much champagne they all walk down to Steinbrueck Park overlooking Puget Sound, the night so clear and moonless even city lights can’t diminish the stars. They stand with their heads craned back, testing each other on constellations, listening to the plaintive bellow of the ferry’s horn. Claire starts to tell Walker about the times Addison would wait for three shooting stars, but changes it to something less intimate. “Funny to think some of those stars are already dead. That used to blow me away when I was a kid. But it always made me feel like fate had a plan for me—my own light after death, I guess.” She drops her chin level with the ground again and stumbles against Ron in a wave of dizziness. “Oh God. Champagne after wine.”

  Walker has a hand behind his own head, supporting it like a pillow so he can stare straight up. “I don’t know. Always made me feel more like an accident. I think you earn your life.”

  Claire is quiet on the walk back to the hotel. Addison seems lost in plans until he asks her what she thinks about the dinner, whether she is excited.

  “Stunned more than excited, I guess,” she says, leaning into him and wrapping her arm around his. “And a little drunk. But I’ll wake up excited. So can I ask why you were so resistant to calling Ron, or will you get mad at me again?” He should take it as a joke, the way she lets her voice sing. When he doesn’t respond immediately she worries the wine has relaxed her judgment too much, the issue is still too ensnared in their balance of marital power.

  But his answer falls outside of any subject she’d been expecting. “Because Rick made the same suggestion to me. Just before we split u
p the team. He thought I should get Ron interested before the mouse data leaked out.” Addison takes his arm out of hers and stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Paranoia, maybe. Embarrassment. You were walking on a landmine.”

  Jory has fallen asleep across the bedspread in her clothes; the three empty chocolate wrappers from their turndown treats litter her pillow. Claire shimmies the covers out from under her and rolls her between the sheets. Jory sleeps through it all with nonsensical grumbling, but mumbles, “I love you, Mama,” just before Claire closes her door.

  Addison is in the bathroom. She knocks. “I forgot my phone charger. Where’s yours?” The water is running and he doesn’t answer, so she opens the top dresser drawer to rummage through his boxers and undershirts and daybook and computer cords. Underneath them all she uncovers the framed picture missing from the mantelpiece—Jory. Jory weighing less than three pounds, a pencil-sized endotracheal tube strapped to her pale rosebud mouth, bunny-shaped EKG pads over her chest and an IV line taped into her scalp. Her head was the size of a tennis ball. Claire clearly remembers the nearly imperceptible weight of it when they’d let her hold her. The translucent skin over her hands and feet was mottled purple and pink, her ribs puffed like the veil-thin wings of a butterfly each time the ventilator cycled. All the tapes and straps holding baby Jory together had sweet pictures on them: teddy bears and stars, as if designing them for the child she might become gave them less austerity, more healing power.

  The picture makes Claire’s heart turn over—because she has found it again, and because she remembers it all again. Remembers the wooden rocker they let her sit in day after night after day, waiting for Jory’s tissue paper lungs to grow, waiting for the fetal channels in her heart to close. Claire had known too much. Addison could stand beside the incubator and talk excitedly with any nurse that brought news of progress, however small. Claire would have traded every second of her education for some of his naïveté.