On that particular morning, two doctors sat in the staff lunchroom at a Formica table. Dr. Agopian was looking over Adam’s records, while Dr. Mendelson looked tentatively over the poor excuse for coffee he had been offered.
“You’ve been treating Adam for a long time, I see,” Dr. Agopian remarked.
Dr. Mendelson simply nodded. Against his better judgment, he had agreed to take some time out of his busy schedule to stop by the Presidio House and sit down with Dr. David Agopian, the young psychiatrist taking over Adam’s case.
Dr. Agopian looked back down at Adam’s paperwork. “I’m sure you’re already aware of this, but we’d be more than happy to include you in Adam’s treatment if you’d like to remain involved. We welcome the participation of family and professionals invested in a patient’s well-being, especially a private practitioner like you, who—”
“Yes, yes. I am aware of it.”
Dr. Agopian paused, waiting for the older man to say more. When he didn’t, Dr. Agopian opened his laptop and turned it to the side—an invitation for Dr. Mendelson to look on with him. “Well, his insurance coverage is excellent, which is to say that there are plenty of funds available to pay for your—”
Dr. Mendelson again cut off Dr. Agopian. “Money is not the issue here, Dr. Agopa.”
“That’s Agopian. It’s an Armenian name.”
“Yes, well.” Dr. Mendelson cleared his throat before continuing. “The point is, I’ve done all I can for Adam. From here on I think it would be best to allow others, like yourself, who can bring a fresh perspective to the case, to manage Adam’s care.”
“Right . . . Well, perhaps we can consult with you as needed?”
“Of course.” Dr. Mendelson stood. “I’ll have the rest of his files, including all of his earlier records, sent over to you next week. All you need to know about Adam Sheppard will be in there.” With that, Dr. Mendelson stood and headed for the hallway.
Dr. Agopian quickly got up to follow him. “And his wife? Do you know if she will be involved?”
“To be honest, I wouldn’t count on that,” Dr. Mendelson said as they reached the lobby. He stopped and turned to Dr. Agopian. “In fact, I would anticipate a change in conservatorship in the very near future. I expect the State will soon be in charge of Adam’s affairs.” He extended his hand for an obligatory handshake.
“Best of luck, Doctor.” And with that, Dr. Ronald Mendelson turned and walked away.
Clouds heavy with rain pressed in on the 18th floor windows, causing the office to be unnaturally dark for 2 P.M. Nevertheless Jane Sheppard kept her sunglasses on. They had become a useful accessory these days, a handy prop in the many dramatic scenes she had found herself in since Adam’s meltdown.
“There are, of course, certain things we cannot touch,” the lawyer was saying from across the desk. “His pension, certain assets accumulated prior to marriage, things of that nature.”
Jane liked her new lawyer. He looked like a lawyer. Approachable yet at the same time formidable. Not quite the leading man, but great hair, and he certainly knew how to put on a good show. She liked the way he straightened and squared the stacks of documents on his desk while he was talking, a habit he’d probably picked up from someone playing a lawyer on TV.
“Those particular assets aside,” he continued, “in this type of situation, it’s really up to the spouse to determine what to go after.”
Jane turned her veiled gaze toward the windows, toward the slate-gray misery outside, and let out a long, deep sigh to convey just how distressing the entire situation was for her.
The lawyer looked sympathetic to her plight.
Since that night at the Silver Oak Grill, Jane felt as if she had been cast as the lead actress in her own series, Blackhawk’s new number-one-rated reality show, Dark Secrets of the Sheppard Family Revealed. She could feel the cameras dollying behind her and the attention of others flowing magnetically toward her wherever she went. She had become a local celebrity, which was terribly exhausting and, of course, exhilarating beyond belief.
“How about we start with me asking a few simple questions?” Jane’s lawyer said, leaning forward across the gleaming oaken expanse of his desk. “With all you’ve done for Adam, and all you’ve been through, what do you feel you deserve?”
Jane looked down at the floor and gave a slight shrug. Then she took a deep breath, lifted her head, and slowly removed her sunglasses. “Well, Bill, I think I deserve as much as possible.”
The law office scene lasted another 20 minutes, and Jane felt that it had gone well.
“We’ll get everything in the works,” Bill said. “My secretary will set up a time for you to come back early next week, if that’s convenient.”
“I should be able to fit that in,” said Jane.
“Oh, and I’d appreciate anything you can do to help get Blake Dorsey and his attorneys in here for a meeting. The transfer of Adam’s conservatorship and healthcare directive really needs to be taken care of as soon as possible. I know Mr. Dorsey is a busy man these days; I see his name in the papers all the time. But this needs to happen as soon as possible.”
“Oh God.” Behind her Gucci shades, Jane rolled her eyes. “I’m so sorry about that. Blake’s been acting weird lately. I’ll call him right away.”
At the elevators the lawyer put a gentle hand on Jane’s shoulder. “You know, Jane, we all miss your energy at Rayana’s morning class.” Jane had met her new lawyer at a yoga studio in Lafayette.
“I’ll be back soon,” Jane said. “It’s just still a little hard being around everyone. This whole situation has been devastating.”
“Of course, of course. But you should know that everyone’s rooting for you.” The lawyer pushed the Down button for Jane.
“I’ve been hitting this restorative class over at Core Power in Alamo,” Jane added casually.
“Oh, that’s Vendra’s class, isn’t it? I hear she’s good. Is she good?”
“She’s all right.” Jane shrugged. The elevator gave a ding. “I’ll see you next week. And, thank you.”
“Of course.” The lawyer smiled and gave Jane a big, supportive hug.
Jane stepped in the elevator. As the doors were closing, her lawyer put his hands together and bowed. “Namaste.”
Jane bowed back. “Namaste.”
As Jane reached her car, the rain started to come down in torrents. Safely inside with the seat-warmer on, she watched as fat globs of water exploded against her windshield. Before leaving the parking lot, Jane popped her earbuds in and tried Blake’s cell. Things had gotten strange with him lately. Jane half wished her call would just go straight to voice mail, but after the third ring, he answered.
“Yeah . . . Hi, Jane.” Blake’s voice was rough and slightly muffled.
Jane looked at the clock on her dashboard. “It’s three o’clock. Don’t tell me you’re just getting up?”
“Earnings report was through the roof . . . big party last night.” Blake began to violently clear his throat.
“You need to go to Bill Waverly’s office and sign the goddamn papers.”
“I signed those papers already.”
“No, Blake, you haven’t. I just left his office, and he said you and your attorneys haven’t even responded to his calls.”
“Bill Waverly . . . the guy handling the restaurant damages?” Blake sounded as if he was struggling to get out of bed.
“No. Bill is my attorney, the one handling the divorce settlement, the attorney who can’t proceed until you get your ass in there and take over Adam’s conservatorship and healthcare directive like you said you wanted to do, because you care so goddamn much.”
“Jesus, Jane, don’t fucking start with me, okay? Just because you and Dr. Douchebag are giving up on him—”
“Here we go again.”
“He’s going to be all right, Jane. You’ll see. He’s done this before.”
“No, Blake. This is different. Adam’s not going to be all right. In fact, if
you care so much, why don’t you go visit him and see for yourself?”
“I can’t right now, okay?” Blake snapped, before getting suddenly quiet. “Things are crazy at work . . . and I just . . . I just can’t see him right now.”
“Why, Blake?”
“Because . . . Look, I’m not blaming you, Jane. You didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, maybe if you had reminded me about his birthday dinner like you said you would, I would have been there, and maybe I could have—”
“What? What could you have done? Save Adam from himself? I don’t think so. It’s time to accept that there is nothing you, me, or anyone else could have done.”
“I should have at least been there for him,” Blake mumbled.
“Blake, stop it. Stop blaming yourself and go sign those papers—”
“I’m not blaming myself! I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not saying you did. Christ.” Jane checked the rearview mirror for lipstick on her front teeth.
“I have always done what was best for Adam,” Blake went on. “I covered for him. I tried to help him. I never thought . . . this would happen.”
Jane could hear the sound of Blake filling a glass with crushed ice from his refrigerator. “Blake, listen to me,” she said. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, Jane, I’m fucking listening!”
“It’s time to let go. Both of us have to move on. Just let the State take over everything like Dr. M. suggested.”
“Just forget about Adam? Just abandon him?”
“Yes, Blake. Forget about Adam and move on.”
Jane had already planned her next step in that process, complete with beaches and yoga, sunsets and Mai Tais, and a brand-new reality show set on the lovely island of Maui.
CHAPTER 30
CONTROLLING THE NARRATIVE
Blake stood watching as maintenance workers finally removed the clutter from Adam’s cubicle. He had kept everything exactly as it was in the hopes that its former occupant would eventually return. But six months had passed, and according to Adam’s new doctor, there had been no change in his condition.
Blake had followed Jane and Dr. Mendelson’s advice and decided against becoming Adam’s conservator. Instead he let the State take over after Jane and Adam’s divorce had been finalized. But Blake had continued to call the Presidio House several times a week to check in on Adam’s progress. He’d spoken directly with Dr. Agopian, who had sounded optimistic, though he’d also cautioned taking the long view. After several months of patience, Blake had started to lose hope. These days he only checked in with Dr. Agopian once every other week.
Twice Blake had attempted an actual visit. The first time was in early spring, but after booking the appointment, things had gotten conveniently busy at work. The second time Blake had made it all the way out to the Presidio House parking lot, where he sat in his car, trying to work out why he was so terrified to face Adam. You’re Adam’s best friend, for God’s sake, Blake assured himself. You’ve done so much for him; even now, after everyone else has abandoned him, you’re still here.
Blake had pulled his key halfway out of the ignition, but that was as far as he got before the key got sucked back in. You are in no way responsible for what happened to Adam. He did this to himself. By the time Blake had finally gotten the key back out of the ignition, he was no longer in the Presidio House parking lot. Without being fully aware of it, he had driven all the way across San Francisco to the Financial District, and had parked in front of The Whisky Shop, where a special order of Laphroaig 25-year-old Scotch was waiting for him inside.
“What do you want done with stuff like this?”
Blake blinked several times before he realized that one of the maintenance workers clearing out Adam’s cubicle was talking to him. He was holding up a large framed photograph of a Hawaiian sunset, something Jane had given Adam to brighten up his work space.
“That? I don’t fucking care,” Blake mumbled. “Throw it out. Or keep it if you want.”
“Okay, and what about the rest of this?” The maintenance man pointed to the dozen or so large plastic moving crates filled with photos, pill bottles, health shake mix, and books, lots of books. “Should we toss all this crap out too?”
“That’s not crap!” Blake snapped. Then he added, “Sorry. No, I’ll keep that.”
Later that afternoon Blake stood in his office, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the heavy mist outside silently dance in violent swirls. Blake took a couple of steps closer until he could just begin to make out his own reflection in the glass. It was the closest thing to a mirror he had dared look at in recent weeks. He had been gaining weight; how much exactly, he couldn’t say. Fifteen, twenty pounds maybe, hidden for the most part beneath looser-fit clothing.
What Blake now saw was what couldn’t be hidden, what had caused noticeable reactions from friends he’d run into that hadn’t seen him in a while. His face and neck had puffed out substantially, the sharpness of his chin reduced to a slope. His mouth, normally full and expressive, had been pushed into tighter quarters by two bloated cheeks. There were new lines in his skin as well, creases that hadn’t been there a year ago. Worst of all were his eyes—dark and sunken. You’re just worn down, that’s all, Blake told himself. Too much partying, too much booze. It’s time to rest and reboot.
Another step closer to the window now, Blake leaned forward until his forehead hit the glass. His old spot. The glass felt dangerously thin today. Adam was the glass, Blake’s inner voice whispered. He held you up all these years. And now that he’s gone, there’s nothing to stop you from falling, is there?
Blake made an ironic little snort, fogging the glass under his nose. He knew nothing could really threaten his career at this point. Even with Adam gone, Pixilate had become too integral to the success of Virtual Skies, and as Pixilate’s founder, Blake was close to untouchable; firing him would be a PR nightmare, not to mention that he controlled the intellectual property rights to all of their source code. In fact, he had only gotten more indispensable without Adam there.
Blake’s latest achievement inside the Tower had less to do with his first love, video games, and more to do with the idiosyncratic social networking platform Pixilate had introduced in their Lust 4 Flesh series. Based on its popularity with younger users, Blake had suggested integrating some of the game’s network functionality directly into the main MyStar network interface. As a social network, MyStar was still struggling for relevancy, so the team running it up on the 60th floor was open to Blake’s idea.
The reaction was immediate: users loved the redesign. Sharing, posting, and messaging through MyStar skyrocketed, so much so that within three months it had leapfrogged the competition on its way to becoming the most popular social networking site among preteens, and the third most popular network among teens and under-thirties. Virtual Skies’ stock split that month, and Blake made the cover of Wired magazine under the headline, “Blake Dorsey Navigates the Stars.” The issue came out the same day Adam had been transferred to the Presidio House.
The proprietary code behind Blake’s MyStar coup had, of course, been written by Adam, a fact that Blake never tried to deny. Sure, Adam created it, but I’m the one who knew how to leverage it, and that’s just as important, Blake justified in his head. However, when he heard people around the Tower referring to it as “The Adam Code,” the nickname stung Blake like a poisonous dart.
Blake leaned a little harder against the window as if to test how well it could handle his extra weight. Looking down he could just make out the row of newspaper stands on the sidewalk below. That’s where my body would probably land if the glass suddenly dissolved, Blake thought. Something seemed different about those old stands. The countless times Blake had looked down from here, he had always seen the newsstands as being one long row; but now he saw they were arranged in two shorter rows with a little gap in the middle. How is it possible that I never noticed that before? Blake wondered. It was a meaningless little
detail, but for some reason it really bothered him. How many other things have I missed?
“Hello, Blake.”
Startled, Blake pulled back from the window and turned around. At his door stood the man he had been unconsciously avoiding since the beginning of the year, actually since Adam’s meltdown at the Silver Oak Grill.
“Hi, Rene.”
Adiklein was silent for a while, taking in Blake’s appearance. His face didn’t register the same surprise Blake had seen from others. Instead Adiklein smiled, which somehow made Blake feel even worse.
“May I enter?” Adiklein asked, waiting politely just outside the door as if he actually needed permission to come in. Blake suddenly noticed how much his boss looked like a vampire out of Lust 4 Blood, with his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back and his pale skin glowing with preternatural health.
“Yes, yes. Of course. Come in. I was just thinking about some new games we’re testing—Tower Defense stuff.” Blake walked over to his desk, knowing Adiklein was aware that what he’d just said was bullshit. Blake hadn’t been actively involved with any development at Pixilate for months now. Since his big triumph with MyStar, he’d been spending less time in the Tower and more time out destroying his liver with friends.
“I haven’t seen you around recently,” Adiklein said, drifting silently into Blake’s office. “We’ve missed your creative input at the Cross-Pollination Brunches. There are some bright new minds up there, hungry young minds.”
If this was an attempt to provoke Blake’s competitive side, it wasn’t going to work. He was too tired to even care. “I know. I’ve just been swamped.”
“Oh? What’s been keeping you so busy?”
Blake shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Actually, I’ve been dealing with some personal issues.” He hoped this would be enough to derail the conversation, but it wasn’t.
“Ah, yes. I heard about your friend . . . Adam. I suppose condolences are in order,” Adiklein said gravely. He was moving around the room, casually looking at things. “But as I’ve told you, butterflies are fragile. They are easily crushed.”
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