by Kira Peikoff
“There’s just one little problem,” I said, twisting my cigarette stub into my frosted glass ashtray. “You’re not dying.”
You raised an eyebrow. “As if that’s a bad thing?”
I sighed. Your innocence was charming, but tedious. I was around fifteen years older than you, but the gap in our levels of cynicism couldn’t have been wider.
“Every investor wants to make a profit as fast as possible. This is a business of quick turnarounds. But you could live another sixty years.”
“So you’re saying no one will want it?”
“I’m sure I could find a buyer. But you won’t get the settlement you want.”
“How much?”
I shrugged. In truth, you were a terrible client. “At best maybe a hundred and fifty grand.”
“That’s only half of what I need! You have to do better. Who are these buyers, anyway?”
“Hedge funds. A few specialize in buying up old and sick ‘lives’ so their risk is minimized in this shitty economy. These guys are making a killing.” I smirked. “Pun intended.”
You rolled your eyes without the consolation of a smile.
“The only guarantees in life—” I started.
You sighed. “Are death and taxes, I know.”
“And the former has no loopholes.”
“Very funny.” Your curled upper lip revealed your disgust. “What’s it like to get such a kick out of other people’s misery?”
“Lucrative.” I knew I was being a jerk, but I was so numb then that I didn’t care. “What’s it like to be humorless?”
“Ugh.” You stood up, your nostrils flaring. “I’ll find someone decent to help me.”
“I’m the only life settlement broker in the Keys,” I said, lighting another cigarette and drawing a deep puff. “You’re stuck with me.” I coughed on the exhale, failing to cover my mouth because it happened so often I didn’t even notice. At least smoking quashed my appetite and kept me as thin as a gym rat (which I was absolutely not).
You threw me one last revolted look. “Then I’ll drive to the mainland.”
Your shoulders slumped as you walked away, and I felt a momentary pang. As tough as you seemed, even you couldn’t hide your pain.
You grabbed the doorknob.
“Wait,” I called. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
You turned around to glare. Your wispy bangs fell over your eyes and you pushed them to the side. I knew I had only that moment to make peace or you’d be gone for good.
“Can we start over?” I said, my own warmth surprising me. “You don’t have any time to waste. Let me help you.”
“No thanks, I prefer dealing with human beings.”
“I could halve my commission,” I heard myself say. “Five percent instead of ten.”
Your brow softened, but your voice remained harsh. “What does that matter when I need double the offer you predicted?”
“I have an idea.” I put my elbows on my faux wood desk and steepled my fingers.
“What,” you said, “fake my own terminal illness?”
“Yeah, right. Would you buy a house without an inspection?”
“What then?” Your tone was sarcastic, but I had your attention.
“Your said your mother has hereditary breast cancer.”
“Yeah. A mutation on BRCA1.”
“Have you thought about what that means for you?”
“I don’t want to know,” you said quickly. “This isn’t the time for me to worry about myself.”
“What if I told you I could more than double your payout if you have the same mutation? The higher your risk, the better.”
Your mouth twisted into a scowl. “This is a screwed-up business.”
“My ex-wife would agree. But I’m helping people out of very tight spots. It’s win-win.” I leaned back in my cushy leather chair, knowing you were hooked—even if you didn’t know it yet.
“But if I have the gene, then I have to live with that knowledge for the rest of my life. I can’t un-know it.”
“Is that too high a price to pay for your mother’s life?”
Your green eyes narrowed. “And what if I don’t have it?”
“First get tested. Come back as soon as you know the results.”
A queasy look crossed your face, but you nodded and stepped out without another word.
Despite your mother, I hoped for your sake that the news was good. After you left, I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out my scrapbook of newspaper obituaries. It was bound in handsome brown leather with gold trim, a fitting record to commemorate my past clients. I liked to read their life stories, to remember that I had helped them in their final months or years, so my self-loathing wasn’t totally justified. But most of all, I liked to remind myself that I knew better than to get attached to anyone who was mortal.
CHAPTER 3
Joan
5 months, 2 weeks before, New York
Joan Hughes felt her husband’s dry lips brush against her forehead. She pulled the goose-down comforter up to her chin and kept her eyes closed against the early morning sun. He was standing beside the bed in a navy suit, his briefcase slung over his shoulder.
“Have a good day,” he whispered.
She murmured something inaudible into her pillow, burying her face so it wouldn’t give her away. Underneath the covers, the sheet was sweaty where she was gripping it. His dress shoes clomped over the wood floor out into the living room, through the foyer, out the front door. It closed behind him and she heard his key turn in the lock.
Her eyes snapped open. In one fluid gesture, she threw off the comforter and jumped to the floor. She was already dressed, having risen at 4 A.M. to throw on her secret new clothes: hot pink nylon shorts, a sports bra, and a hot pink tank top. She hated the color, but it was well hidden underneath her long-sleeved black nightgown. Now she yanked its silky fabric over her head, kicked her feet into sneakers, and pinned her short blond curls into a Yankees baseball cap she’d bought the day before. She also hated the Yankees. Flying out the front door, she caught sight of her outfit in the hall mirror. It was revolting. Revoltingly perfect.
She rode the express elevator down twenty-five floors and hurried through the co-op’s grand marble lobby, avoiding the gaze of the friendly doorman so he couldn’t stop her with small talk. She made it outside in time to see Greg walking two blocks south. Her heart quickened at the sight of him from afar—it was hard not to admire his effortless elegance, his confident posture and purposeful stride.
Was she really the kind of wife who spied on her husband, after thirty years of loyal marriage? But he had left her no other option. Week after week over dinner they hashed out variations of the same exasperating dialogue:
Her warm touch on his arm. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
His almost imperceptible flinch. “Nothing. I told you.”
“But you’ve been so . . . distant.”
“My patients—”
“I know, I know. But you’ve always had tough patients. That’s never stopped you from . . .”
From wanting me, she would think. All their lives he had been a passionate, affectionate partner, his libido barely slowing down over the years. But in the last few months, his interest had dropped off. He greeted her with dry pecks instead of kisses, failed to seek her out in the shower, kept his hands to himself in bed.
Yet her inquisitions always failed. Across from her at the dinner table, he would shrug, his hazel eyes shifting to that faraway state that reminded her of glass hardening. Even in his withdrawn state, he was attractive—six feet tall with a slender athleticism honed by years of running marathons. His salt-and-pepper hair was thick, his features chiseled, his lips expressive.
“You’re sure there’s nothing else bothering you?” she would press. “Just work?”
“You’re doing it again,” he would tell her gently, despite the tightness in his voice. “Trolling for a story.”
; Oh, why did she even try?
Ever since she’d left her beloved career as an investigative reporter twenty years before to become a full-time mom to Adam, their only child, she would gravitate to what she called “little icebergs”—hints of possible stories submerged beneath the surface. If there was anything she had learned from her decade as a journalist, it was that she had a nose for sniffing out stories, though she did sometimes get carried away with dead-end leads.
Of course, that was all well behind her, since Greg’s work as an ER doctor and his lucrative consulting gigs had made a luxuriously idle life possible for her. It would be ridiculous to think of going back to work in her midfifties, when she had all the money she could ever hope to spend. So her days were filled with social outings, shopping, fund-raising for Greg’s medical charity, and babysitting their two-year-old granddaughter Sophia, the light of her life. Meanwhile her investigative instinct remained, like a phantom limb that sometimes needed scratching.
But this time, the itch wasn’t just in her mind. She was sure of it.
She kept safe distance behind him on the sidewalk, following him another three blocks south on Riverside Drive and east two blocks to Broadway. He walked fast, as though he were late. She pulled the baseball cap low over her face when he turned the corner, not that it mattered; he would never think of her if he noticed a woman in an obnoxious pink sweat suit. Her colors were classy whites, beiges, blacks.
His charity office was on the third floor of a walk-up building on the corner of 80th and Broadway, right across from their gym. Across the street, shielded under the arched doorway of a brownstone, she held her breath. If he walked past his office, that would be her first real proof that he was hiding something.
His steps slowed—her heart caught—and then she saw his hand reach into his pocket for his keys. When he stopped at the right door and opened it, she realized the depth of her relief. How badly did she want to be wrong! He disappeared inside, and she turned to go back home, feeling like an inane stalker.
But at the intersection of West End and 80th Street, she stopped. Her reporter’s nose for news was rarely this far off. She decided to take her investigation one step further, just for the hell of it.
She checked into the gym and went up to the third-floor weight room, with its floor-to-ceiling windows that looked across the street directly at Greg’s corner office. If he was truly in there, she could observe him from afar.
She grabbed a five-pound barbell in each hand and planted her feet squarely in front of the window, away from the blue mat where the other patrons were lifting.
“It’s easier to face the mirror,” came a deep voice a few feet away.
She looked over her shoulder to see a burly young guy curling barbells she probably couldn’t have picked up. He tilted his head at the wide mirror that ran along the side wall.
“Thanks,” she said shyly. “But I don’t like looking at myself.”
Greg would have laughed at that; she could spend up to two hours getting ready before dinner reservations. Keeping up one’s looks was important for any decades-long marriage, but especially when one’s husband aged so well.
She turned back to squint outside, pumping her weights. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the glare of the sun, but soon she oriented to his redbrick building across the way and counted up three flights. There, through the corner window, she spotted him. He was not alone.
Sitting at his desk, his handsome nose in profile, he seemed to be studying something on his computer screen. Next to him stood a young busty woman in a tight pencil skirt and low-cut blouse that emphasized her curves. Joan recognized her short pixie haircut from the description Greg had given of his new executive assistant, Alaina.
He had described her as efficient. Was she pretty? Joan had asked. All he said was, That hairstyle doesn’t do her any favors.
He hadn’t mentioned that she would ooze sex appeal if she were bald. Even from this distance, that much was obvious.
Alaina lay her hand on the back of his chair. Not touching his neck, but close. Joan felt her own neck prickle. What she would have given at that moment to hear what they were saying.
Greg swiveled in his chair to face his assistant. He must have said something funny or teasing, because she tossed her head back with a laugh. Then she flicked her wrist at him and sashayed toward the door. Joan watched Greg eye her shapely butt until it was out of sight.
A harmless flirtation, Joan thought. He’s a red-blooded man. No harm in looking. But the voice of reason didn’t match her body’s reaction. Sweat pooled under her armpits. She ceased to feel the weights in her hands, pumping them fast up and down.
Just when she thought the show was over, Greg’s posture transformed. As soon as the door closed behind Alaina, his shoulders hunched forward. He put an elbow on his desk and picked up his landline. He stared at the dial pad for at least ten seconds, the phone cradled in his hand. Then he made a call.
It was short, less than a minute, but his gestures were telling: he sliced the air with his hand and waved furiously. He appeared to shout before pulling the phone away from his ear and staring at it, openmouthed.
The steel-nerved Greg she knew prided himself on his composure; he almost never raised his voice.
Then he shocked her once more.
Alone in his office, he leaned forward and buried his head in his arms. His body shook in little spasms that took her breath away.
He never, ever cried.
CHAPTER 4
Isabel
5 months, 1 week before, Key West
The envelope arrived a week after her visit to Richard Barnett. She had kept her promise and gone to the nearest lab right away for expedited genetic testing. One blood draw and several anxious days later, the results landed in her mailbox. The return address was stamped MYRIAD GENETICS, SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH. It was strange to believe that her fate was contained in something so thin and plain, so indifferent to the magnitude of what lay inside it.
Her mother was home from the hospital by then and knew nothing of her quest to raise money for the radically better treatment; Isabel didn’t want to get her hopes up only to crush them if the plan failed. In the meantime, her mom had accepted the standard chemotherapy regimen and was already suffering its hazardous effects.
Of course, Isabel acted as if she would be in the lucky 15 percent who made it. The number acquired an outsize significance. She bloated it any chance she could, especially for the sake of her frantic little brother. A 15 percent chance of rain? Better find the umbrella. A 15 percent tip? Plenty high. Fifteen percent battery on the cell? It’ll last.
Andy became obsessed with statistics, to the point that he was compulsively guessing the odds of mundane events: baseball games, his grade on a history test, his chance of catching a cold.
“Odds, schmodds,” their mom was telling him as Isabel walked in with the fateful envelope. Andy was hugging his knobby knees to his chest near the sofa, where she was curled up under a knitted wool blanket. Her long black tresses were already falling out in clumps, but she pretended not to notice. “What were the odds you would survive the crossing on that broken raft, alone? Zero? But you’re here, aren’t you?”
That was Mom—the standard-bearer of reassurance.
Isabel stashed the envelope into her purse before either of them could notice. Her palms were clammy with dread. Most confusing was that she didn’t know what she wanted—a positive or a negative result.
She promised herself she would open it later. There was work to do first.
In the last eleven days, she’d gotten more up close and personal with survival than she ever had been on television. There was no question which role was the more grueling, now that she was a home nurse, bookstore manager, cook, maid, and substitute mother. The setting wasn’t glamorous—a wood-slatted bungalow instead of a Brazilian rainforest—but staying alive here actually counted. Not as a bauble for bored viewers, but as a matter of life and death. No safety net.
No edits. No do-overs.
After making sure her mom had enough water and dry toast, a wastebasket, and the remote, Isabel kissed her cheek, gave Andy a playful slug, and headed out for a shift at the store. The letter remained at the bottom of her purse, unopened.
As she walked down the porch steps, Andy’s voice caught up with her. “Izz!”
She turned around to see him closing the front door so their mother couldn’t hear. When he looked up at her, his dark brown eyes seemed laden with the weight of the world. His red Miami Heat jersey hung off his scrawny frame.
“What’s up, dude?”
He crossed his arms. “I have to ask you a question.”
“Yeah?”
“But you have to tell the truth, okay? I’m not a little kid anymore.”
She inhaled the scent of the coconut palm trees that shaded their porch. The air was hot and sweet, but the hair on her arms prickled.
“What is it?”
“Is Mom gonna die?”
She leaned back against the porch railing, ignoring a splinter that dug into her palm. “Of course not.” The words sounded shrill even to her.
His face scrunched up. “You promised not to lie!”
She crouched down to his eye level, swallowing hard. “I’m doing everything I can to help her. I promise you that much.”
“You swear?”
She extended her pinky and he interlocked his own. They squeezed on it.
After he trudged back inside, she knew she couldn’t wait any longer.
She sunk to the steps and pulled the envelope out of her bag. Her name taunted her in bold black ink.
Holding her breath, she ripped the seam. Her hands fumbled as she pulled out the thin piece of paper. It was on formal letterhead and began with a preamble she was sure no one had ever paused to read:
