by Lisa Tucker
“Yes, yes, I know. But unfortunately, I think separating the two is becoming increasingly impossible for us both. I don’t care anymore. I just want to end these arguments.”
She felt a lightness in her stomach that she recognized as fear, but she pushed on. “I need to know that if you were ever forced to choose between the company and the right thing that you would do the right thing. I know you always say, ‘What is right? Who knows? We live in a complicated world. Postmodernism is a bitch. Relativism sucks.’ On and on, one clever comeback after another, but deep down, you have to know what I mean. What if a young child had a disease? And you could either save her and ruin Astor-Denning or—”
“If only it were that simple. Let’s say I ruined AD for this kid. Do you think another company could instantly re-create our manufacturing process? What about all the other kids who would die when every one of our medicines disappeared from the market?”
“What if it wasn’t a child, but your mother? Are you saying you would have saved AD and let your own mother die?”
“Enough,” he hissed, and grabbed his bags and went down the stairs. She heard the door slam downstairs and then the sound of his Honda as he sped out of the driveway and down the street. A few minutes later, she broke down sobbing because she realized how cruel that last question had been. Why had she done this to Matthew? It was as though she couldn’t even see him anymore.
She spent the rest of the day in a panic, afraid she’d never have a chance to make it up to him. What if he died in a plane crash? What if he died in a taxi in Palm Beach? What if he just didn’t come home? She felt even worse when she found something in his underwear drawer. She wasn’t snooping; she wanted to wear his flannel boxers and one of his old T-shirts to bed so she could pretend she was close to him. Crammed into the back of the drawer was a Hallmark greeting card: green background with yellow streamers and the word Congratulations on the front. Inside he’d written, “Since you’re going to be doing all your thinking in a tank soon, why not come to Palm Beach first for a mindless week? You, me, and all the hot bubbling water we want? How can we go wrong?”
He’d obviously bought the card when he thought she was going to accept the think tank job, which was in downtown Philly. It made her sad that he’d shoved it in the drawer when she finally admitted she’d turned them down, but what really got to her was the bubbling water comment. They never had enough hot water in the house. She was always complaining that she could barely take a bath. Now she knew why he’d mentioned that his suite had a Jacuzzi. He wasn’t bragging about the perks of his gig; he was saying she might like to be there, with him.
The next morning, she decided to go to Palm Beach. It was the most impulsive decision she’d ever made, and she felt proud of herself, that she could be so spontaneous. By the time she got a flight and arrived it was after six, but that was fine since Matthew’s speech was scheduled for 9:15, after a formal dinner held in the ballroom. She’d brought along the dressiest clothes she owned: her interview dress and black pumps and a little black jacket she hoped would make the outfit formal enough. This was before everyone had cell phones, though Matthew had one, an enormous thing that was always losing its charge. She thought about calling that number or his room number, but she was afraid it might rattle him somehow and ruin the speech. Maybe a little part of her was excited at the idea of spying on Astor-Denning.
It wasn’t hard to get into the ballroom, which surprised her since she knew Matthew’s speech, like everything he did, involved proprietary information. They had security guards at the main door but the others were unlocked, probably so people could quickly go to the bathroom. Amelia was able to slip in unnoticed and sit near the wall, where it was dark enough that she knew Matthew wouldn’t see her, especially when he was up on the stage, surrounded by lights. She swallowed hard as she watched him walk out: so gorgeous in his best suit, the most beautiful man she would ever be with for the rest of her life; she already knew that. When they introduced him as an MD from Hopkins who had already achieved the impossible, a perfect MCAT score, the crowd let out a collective gasp before they clapped and laughed with appreciation. She felt proud that the guy she lived with could amaze all these corporate big shots.
He turned out to be a wonderful speaker, looking around the room, projecting his voice, pausing at the best moments—she wondered where he’d learned to do this. What really amazed her was what he said. She’d never heard him talk about the principles of the company’s founders and his personal commitment to integrity. She’d never heard him say that the most troubling thing to him in medical school was intractable patient pain. As he presented the information about AD-7219, the NCE or “new chemical entity” they had in development, he sounded as brilliant as Ben, but a lot less confusing. Matthew really cared about this NCE, and that was what surprised Amelia the most. He wasn’t playing a game; he truly believed that this untested thing, represented only by a slide with a sketch of a molecule, might someday change the way pain was treated around the globe.
Sitting in her dark corner, watching the man she’d lived with for two and a half years and known since college, she was amazed that she was still learning new things about him and filled with ideas of the work they could do together now. He could study his molecule and she could write about modern pain treatment, which she knew was in horrible shape, largely because of the stupid War on Drugs. Her grandmother had suffered so much in her last days, but the doctor wouldn’t give her stronger painkillers because they were addictive. Pablo, her sponsored child from Venezuela, had a bone disease that caused him pain whenever he walked without his crutches. So many people suffered all over the world. Maybe her very own boyfriend would be the one to change this.
When the speech was over, the crowd was on its feet, cheering for her hero. Someone else went up to shake his hand, an older guy, a little sleazy-looking, more like a traditional pharmaceutical executive. Well, there had to be some of those, too. Amelia knew that as well as anyone. Capitalism had its demands, but like Matthew told her, it was a false dichotomy to think a drug couldn’t be good for people and make money.
She slipped out the door and went back up to her room. She had to get out of her pumps, and she could tell Matthew was going to be stuck in the ballroom for a while. After she took off her expensive dress, she put on what Matthew called her sexy jeans and a silk shirt. Then she turned on the TV and watched two PBS Frontline repeats before she decided it was time to try his room. It was on the top floor; she wondered if the view would be romantic. Maybe there would be a balcony. They could order room service and sip champagne and toast the NCE, the future cure for pain.
His room number was 1230. She’d written it on her hand, knowing she always doubted herself about numbers unless they were written down. When she knocked and he didn’t answer, she figured he was probably still downstairs. Unless he was asleep. It was after midnight, and he’d probably been running around all day. She hated to wake him, but she knocked again, harder, because she wanted him to know she’d come to Palm Beach after all. She’d heard his glorious speech.
This time, he did answer. He opened the door a crack, wearing only a towel. That’s when she remembered the Jacuzzi tub and broke into a smile. She was still smiling like an idiot when she heard a woman say, “What is it?”
She knew this kind of thing happened all the time; she’d even read a statistic that said 60 percent of men were unfaithful, but that was precisely why she didn’t think it could happen to her. It was so ordinary, and Matthew wasn’t ordinary.
His face begged her not to come in, but she pushed past him anyway. She had to see the woman, even though she already knew she’d bitterly regret that decision. The woman was tall, with long legs and a stomach so flat Matthew could have eaten off it. Not to mention that her face looked like some model’s. Amelia noticed the face last because as soon as she’d forced her way inside, the woman had jumped up out of the Jacuzzi, shockingly naked, and run across the room, grabbing her clothes
off the floor and taking them into the bathroom. Later, Amelia realized who she’d looked like: Christy something-or-other, that supermodel in billboard ads who said she’d rather go naked than wear fur.
Matthew had thrown on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. The woman was dressed and gone, but he and Amelia were still just standing in the middle of the room, looking at each other. Finally, he said, “I’ve never done this before. I hope you can believe that.”
She did believe it, but there was something she had to know. “Where did you meet her?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Just tell me.”
“Why?”
“Please, Matthew. Answer the question.”
He waited for another minute. “You think she works for Astor-Denning. Oh, Jesus, that’s it, isn’t it?”
“No,” she said, though it was. She thought the woman was probably his new assistant who he’d raved about last week, and that he’d been lying when he’d described Cassie as an Ivy League grad—and a black woman. “I know she doesn’t work at AD, but I think they provided her to you. Like some kind of disgusting bonus for the speech you wrote.”
Amelia was about to add that she’d been in the ballroom and heard how great the speech was when he said, “You are so way off it’s hilarious.” He shook his head. “I know you’ve never had a job, so let me explain how it works. When a company is deciding whether to spend upwards of eight hundred million to develop a product that may never make it through the rats and dogs, much less Phase 1 trials, guess what? They don’t hand over the responsibility to some middle-management guy in the marketing department. The speech I gave was written by a committee of scientists and executives. It was still being revised until Thursday night, when my boss’s boss turned it over to us. My guess is they picked me to deliver it because they wanted to put a young face with the product, and because of the Hopkins doctor, MCAT crap. I don’t know. I’m not privy to the process of making those decisions.”
She felt like a complete and utter fool, though she didn’t intend to say so, wasn’t even aware she had until she heard his response.
“You’re not a fool, but for god’s sake, don’t you think it’s time you grew up? Every shitty thing in the world is not the fault of some spooky corporation. It’s not the good, innocent people versus the big, bad businesses.”
“But that woman?”
“The company had nothing to do with her. I’m the bad guy here. Just me.”
“But where did you even meet someone like that?”
“You can’t be serious. Christ, Amelia, I’ve run into women like her all over the country. They don’t give a shit if the guy says he has a girlfriend. They don’t think about whether it’s right or wrong, they just want…”
He stopped midsentence, but it was too late; she finally understood—and he did, too. She watched as his expression moved from the panicked realization that there was no way back from what he’d just admitted to the depressed conclusion that it was over between them, before finally settling on a calm acceptance that was unmistakably tender, clearly sorry for her. And then, because he was right, because she really hadn’t grown up yet, she let him fold her in his arms. She let him walk her back to her room and help her pack; she even let him drive her to the airport in his rental car. And god did she cry: she wet his shirt and used the entire box of Kleenex in the hotel room while she went on about how heartbroken she was that he’d betrayed her over and over again, all over the country, on his trips.
If only he’d said something, anything, one word of defense or justification or explanation, she would have realized how pathetic she was, pouring her heart out about this to him. Instead, he just kept listening, his eyes full of pity for her. This pity was the one thing she still blamed him for, even after she’d grown up and realized that everything else had been at least partially her fault. But his pity had encouraged her to behave that night in a way that would still embarrass her years later, despite all her accomplishments. For that, she would never forgive him.
The one good thing that came out of that night was her reaction to Matthew’s speech, which made her realize, just as Ben and Matthew had, that the future of medicine was all about drugs. She turned down the job in Chicago and took a riskier career step, starting her own think tank to study the ethics of drug development and the practices of pharmaceutical companies worldwide. She found the topic fascinating, and yes, maybe some part of her was still fighting with Matthew, still trying to prove that he was wrong about Astor-Denning.
She never lost interest in the NCE that his speech had made her care about, even if he hadn’t meant a word he said. She followed it closely as it made its way through the AD pipeline, read about the clinical trials, talked to the FDA about its safety record and approval. As she watched this drug go out into the world, she hoped Galvenar really was a miracle drug for pain, but she was ready to accept whatever she found out, as long as it was that precious thing, the real orphan of the twenty-first century, neglected by almost everyone, even most of the good guys: the truth.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Real Kid
In all the stories Danny read, once the knight slays the fire-breathing dragon, he comes back to civilization and is welcomed as a hero. The drawings in the books were always the same: the brave knight riding in on his trusty horse, everyone in town cheering and throwing flowers and, sometimes, on the far right corner of the page, the king, who was waiting to give his personal thanks. This always happened on the last page of the story. It was the happy ending.
That was what Danny had always thought, anyway—until he spent a few days in the man’s house. Then he’d discovered that the stuff these books left out, after the parade into town, after the king’s welcome, was the really happy part. When the knight climbed into his first hot bath and stayed there as long as he liked, soaking until he was clean from his greasy hair to his filthy black feet. The huge meals the knight got to eat whenever he wanted: beef and chicken and fish and caldrons of soup. All the daydreaming the knight got to do, sitting around strumming his lute or just looking out the castle window, relaxed, knowing that there was no dragon to fear anymore, the town was secure.
Not that it was exactly like that for Danny. The first day, he couldn’t relax for a minute because he didn’t know when the security guard would show up. He’d come up with a plan, but for the plan to work the apartment had to look like no one was there. He kept everything clean, but unfortunately Isabelle had found the garbage bag Danny brought with them and had taken out her three favorite things: the talking stuffed elephant Danny had bought her, the pink baby shoe with the puppy pattern she’d found on the sidewalk, and the Barbie doll she’d gotten in a Happy Meal. As she crawled around the apartment, he ran after her, picking up whatever she’d dropped and sticking it in the closet, knowing it would be right back out a minute later, when Isabelle crawled into the same closet and found it again. At least his sister was getting used to the closet as “their” part of the house, though he told her she couldn’t touch any of the boxes of papers the man kept in there, figuring they had to be important or the guy wouldn’t have put a dead bolt on the closet door.
Danny had noticed the dead bolt when he was walking around in the man’s bedroom while Isabelle was still asleep. The man had a clothes closet, too, which was normal except for the size, so big that three lights were needed to see all the shirts and ties and suits and shoes. The closet with the dead bolt was smaller, but still big enough that he and Isabelle would be comfortable in there. And of course they could lock the door from the inside, which would make it look like the man had left it that way. That was the point, and the reason Danny had spent almost a half hour picking that dead bolt in the first place.
He’d learned how to pick a dead bolt because someone at their house was always locking him out. His mom wouldn’t give him the key since she insisted she was always home to let them in. It was true that she was home, but it wasn’t true that she let them in. Half the time whe
n he pounded on the door, his mom didn’t answer, and nobody else did, either.
After several cold evenings waiting on the front step and a broken window that everybody was mad about, Danny asked another kid in the house if he knew anything about picking locks. The boy was younger than Danny, but he was always coming home with expensive toys Danny knew had to be stolen. He told Danny the basics, and Danny spent the next day scrounging for the two tools he’d need: a bent nail and a bristle from a street sweeper. He hammered the nail flat and put it in the bottom of the lock, like a key. He turned it just a little bit and held it. Then he was ready to use the bristle, which was skinny enough to fit in the top of the keyhole and was the real “pick,” according to the other boy. The easiest way was to push on the street-sweeper bristle, then pull it out, then put it in the keyhole again, and out. Over and over again, all the while turning the nail key just a little. The more pins had moved to their right place inside the lock, the more the key would turn. All he had to do was be patient until every pin was in place and the key would turn all the way and the door would open.
His mother was amazed that he’d learned such a useful skill. After that, she never worried if she wanted to go out when he and Isabelle might be on their way home. “You can just pick your way in, my little genius,” she said—ignoring how frustrating it was for him to have to spend at least ten minutes just to get into the house.
If his mother hadn’t been so upset she would have remembered Danny’s skill and known where he and Isabelle were when the security guard let her into the man’s apartment. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning on the second day; Danny was exhausted from keeping watch all night, waiting to see who would try to make them leave this place. When Danny heard someone knocking, he grabbed his sister and her Barbie and ran into the special closet, locking the door behind them. Then he told Isabelle, “Cops,” which she knew meant she had to be absolutely quiet, not one sound. Even if she heard their mother, which they usually did when they were hiding from the cops. Their mother wasn’t the problem; Isabelle instinctively understood that. The other voice was the one they had to hide from.
