“Phil, you’re impossible.”
“That’s why you married me.”
She sighed, stood up and walked over to him. “One day,” she said, draping her arms around his neck, “you’ll realize how important we are. I just hope it won’t be too late by then.”
CHAPTER 8
MADISON WALKED OUT of the operating room, the perspiration from his chest drenching his blousy maroon hospital scrubs. He had removed his latex gloves and was stretching and exercising his hands. He rubbed them together, dispersing the white powder that had been deposited across his palms.
“Great job, Phil,” Fred Oliver said, patting him on the back.
Madison rolled his head around and stretched his shoulders back. “Neck’s killing me.”
“After fourteen hours, everything aches.”
“I’m glad that EMG was run this morning. The MRI didn’t show nearly that much encroachment.”
“All that scar tissue,” Oliver said, shaking his head. “It was wound around that nerve like a sheath. And that disc fragment. You did a good job fishing it out. I took one look at that and I knew twelve hours wasn’t going to be enough.”
Fred Oliver was Madison’s most requested assisting surgeon—particularly in difficult cases such as this one. He had hands of stone—with dexterity that professional basketball players would envy. And, like many neurosurgeons, he was somewhat eccentric.
“I’m absolutely exhausted,” Madison said as he flopped onto the bench in front of his locker. “If breathing wasn’t reflexive, I’d have definite cause for concern.”
“I know the feeling. As soon as I change I’m gonna call a cab, go home, and nap for the next few days.”
“Can’t. You’re scheduled in surgery at eight Monday morning.”
Oliver’s shoulders slumped. “Eight?”
“I saw it on the schedule on my way in.”
“Shit, the L5 discectomy.”
“That’s the one.”
“Totally forgot.”
“Don’t complain, at least you’ll have a day to rest. I’ve got a trip to Marine World with the family tomorrow. If I can drag myself out of bed.”
“At least you have a family to go home to,” Oliver said, pulling his shirt over his head. “I’ve got a quiet house and a maid who comes once a week.”
“I’ve got to figure out a way of spending more time with them. I’m in meetings more often than I’m with my wife and kids.”
“Bad sign, Phil.”
“So I’ve been told,” he said, walking toward the showers.
Madison dressed, gathered his energy and went out to the waiting suite, where he met with the patient’s family. Three of them were asleep, slumped across a row of padded chairs, but the parents were awake, if a bit dazed after the fourteen-hour wait. They jumped up as Madison walked through the door.
He informed them that the surgery was successful, and that their son would be able to walk again without a deficit. It was a particularly grueling surgery, but he had a very competent neurosurgeon assisting him. He briefly explained why it had taken longer than anticipated, and they nodded as if to indicate that they understood. They didn’t, but it did not matter as long as everything was going to be all right.
A nurse walked by and smiled, telling them that Dr. Madison was brilliant in the OR, and, that had another doctor performed the surgery, their son’s chances of walking again would have been significantly less.
“That’s very kind,” Madison said, “but we don’t want them to think that I paid you to say that.” They all laughed. The family was relieved. Madison, was again the hero.
King of Sacramento General Hospital.
The ride home was only about fifteen minutes, and a relatively straightforward route down the freeway. At two o’clock in the morning, he was glad that it was such an easy drive. He could have made it with his eyes closed...which almost occurred on several occasions.
Madison parked his car in the semidetached garage and entered the house via the back door, trying to be quiet so as not to wake the dog. Fortunately, Leeza had thought of it, and as usual whenever he had a late or emergency surgery, she left him in the kitchen so he would not bark from upstairs and wake the children.
Madison received a few slobbery licks from Scalpel and pacified him with a couple of pats to the head. Sitting down at the table, he began to leaf through his mail, which Leeza had evidently picked up from their private mailbox while she was out. There was a reminder notice about a leadership retreat for the board of directors of the River City Theater Company, and a letter signed by him to the board members of the nonprofit Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation, or CCMR, informing them of a date change for their forthcoming meeting. Leeza’s going to love this. Another two meetings.
The theater company retreat he could probably skip, but the CCMR board was a different story. CCMR, which helped people with mental retardation assimilate into society, also provided resources to parents who needed to understand the law or navigate government bureaucracy. But most importantly, it supplied programming so adults with special needs could socialize in a positive environment.
Madison initially became involved with the consortium when he brought his younger brother, Ricky, who had been born with Down syndrome, to one of its programs eight years ago. Over the course of several months, it had helped instill the social confidence Ricky needed in order to function in society, and it educated him and his parents on the various agencies that offered job training and placement for adults with disabilities. As a debt of gratitude, Madison agreed to serve on its programming committee. That was followed by a seat on its board of directors, which led to his acceptance three years later of the vice presidency and then, two years after that, the presidency.
He put the meeting notice off to the side and continued with his mail. There were bills from SMUD and AT&T, and one from the American Heart Association reminding him of his thousand-dollar pledge. At the bottom of the pile was a catalog from Hammacher Schlemmer. As usual, Leeza had filtered out the junk mail. He had too little time to bother with get-rich-quick schemes and the endless stream of low-interest credit card offers.
He shoved the pile of papers aside and removed his shirt. Even though it was the middle of the night, the temperature outside was still around 80, which meant that it must have climbed near 110 in the late afternoon. With a separate central air-conditioning unit for each floor, Leeza often raised the ground floor thermostat to 80 during the night. He opened the refrigerator and closed his eyes for a moment. The cold air felt good.
He pulled out a couple of cartons of Chinese food—Leeza must have ordered in—and he popped them into the microwave. He really didn’t feel like eating—the cozy sheets and Leeza’s body beckoned—but he knew if he didn’t put something in his stomach, he would awaken with a splitting headache. As it was, he would probably feel awful in the morning, but he did not want to compound it.
After eating, he went upstairs without the assistance of the elevator—it would make too much noise and wake everyone—as much as he could have used it. His knees felt like they needed a quart of oil, and his arches ached.
He stopped by the boys’ rooms as he walked down the hall, and peeked in on them. He planted a kiss on their cheeks, tucked them in, and trudged into his bedroom. Throwing his clothes in a pile by the bed, he glanced at the clock: it was 2:31. He fell onto the mattress, rolled onto his side to give Leeza a kiss, and was asleep before he reached her lips.
CHAPTER 9
AS MADISON SLEPT, he dreamed of being devoured by a giant whale. His face was soaked, he was engulfed in water and he found it difficult to breathe. Finally, shaken from his sleep, he realized it was Scalpel licking his face with a huge, slobbering tongue. He threw a hand up and swatted the dog away as Elliott jumped in the bed and shouted, “Daddy!”
“Wake up, sleepy head,” Leeza said. “What time did you finally get home last night? I waited up, but fell asleep after Leno’s monologue.”
His eyes were plastered closed. As he struggled to pry them open to snatch a look at the clock, Elliott sat down on his stomach. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.”
He moaned. “Seven...”
“You’re lucky. I let you sleep. The kids had me up an hour ago.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t get to bed until two-thirty.”
“Two-thirty? Why so late?”
“Where’s Jonah?” he asked, moving Elliott off him.
“In front of the TV, watching Sesame Street.”
Madison closed his eyes. Leeza picked up a pillow and hit him. “Get up! We’re going to Marine World today, remember?”
“Yeah, Marine World!” Elliott yelled.
Madison rolled out of bed, feeling like a stiff board, and lumbered over to the shower. The cold water would wake him up. He had done it many times before in medical school and during his internship at Sacramento General.
Everyone dressed quickly while Leeza reheated the pancakes for Madison for breakfast. He sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a copy of the Sacramento Herald in front of him. He scanned the front page and shook his head. “Remind me to cancel this rag. The Bee’s a lot better.”
“Surgery go well yesterday?”
“It was a bear, but the guy will be able to walk, probably pain-free. Fourteen hours. My feet still hurt.”
“You’re not Superman anymore.”
“Shhh...” he said, bringing an index finger to his lips and smiling. “Don’t tell anyone else that.”
He finished breakfast, then loaded the van, grabbed the camera, and made it into the garage.
“I can’t believe we’re actually going somewhere as a family,” Leeza said as she strapped Jonah into his car seat.
But when Madison sat down in the van and reached for his seat belt, the phone rang. She clamped a hand down on his shoulder. “Phil, don’t answer it.”
“It could be important.” He jumped out of the van and snatched up the phone. “Hi, Ma.”
Leeza rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Great.” She cursed herself for agreeing to put a phone jack in the garage.
“Look, Ma, let me call you back tomorrow. I’ve got the kids in the car—yes, I know it’s been a couple of weeks but I’ve been busy... No, I think talking to you is important. I didn’t mean I was too busy to call you, I meant, well, I haven’t even seen the kids, Ma. I’ve really been swamped...”
Leeza was throwing dirty looks at Madison faster than an automatic weapon fires its rounds. He threw up his hands, mouthed I’m sorry, and turned away.
“What kind of problem is Ricky having?... So what? What’s that got to do with his job?... Okay, okay, put him on. Wait—let me call him from the car—ma?... Oh, hey Ricky…how you doing, bud?”
Elliott shouted from inside the car: “C’mon, Dad, talk to Uncle Ricky later. We have to go! You promised!”
Madison sat down on the workbench and nodded at Elliot.
Ricky had been institutionalized at birth upon his pediatrician’s recommendation. It was the doctor’s opinion that with another young child at home, trying to deal with the burden of a son with mental retardation would deprive the other child of important attention and time. Reluctantly, the Madisons agreed and Ricky was sent away.
For ten years, they wondered if they had made the right decision. The nagging concern that they had taken the easy way out weighed heavily on the Madisons until a week before Ricky’s eleventh birthday. At that time, new research was released indicating that institutions were not only ineffective but unnecessary because individuals with mental retardation could largely care for themselves and be contributing members of society. Shortly thereafter, Ricky was deinstitutionalized, an event that brought tremendous joy to the Madison household. He returned home and was immediately enrolled in a special education school within the local public school district.
Instead of resenting Ricky’s presence, Madison immediately took to him and often assisted his parents with his brother’s care. As the years passed, however, Ricky’s caseworker, who had been present regularly in the early going, was increasingly less available. To fill the gap and to solve problems, the Madisons turned to big brother Phillip—but the call usually came when his own wife and children needed his time. This created a great deal of friction with Leeza, but deep down she understood and felt sorry for Ricky. She would voice her complaint and then let it pass.
Madison was shaking his head. “I got it, Ricky, don’t worry. I’ll call tomorrow and take care of it...It’ll all be okay tomorrow, all right?...Now put Mom back on the phone....I love you too.”
After telling his mother that he would straighten everything out, he explained to her again that he had to go, and hung up.
Leeza was waiting in the van. She would not look at him, artfully avoiding his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Ricky had a problem at work—”
“Let’s just go,” she said.
“Yeah, Dad,” Elliott said, “let’s just go.”
After ten minutes’ travel down Highway 50, Leeza turned to Madison. “So what’s wrong with Ricky?”
“He had a problem with his boss at work. No big deal. Just a misunderstanding and Ricky doesn’t know how to express himself and give his side of the story. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
“Sometimes I feel like your life’s not your own. You give everything you have to help people get better and improve the quality of their lives. You give your time and money to several charities, you-name-it to your brother.” She threw up a hand. “You’re always doing for others do you realize that?”
Madison shrugged.
“It got worse when you became vice president of the Consortium. That was five years ago, Phil. And then when you took the presidency—”
“I’d rather not go through all this again, Leeza. Please.”
“I don’t want to keep bringing it up. But your life hasn’t been yours ever since. It hasn’t been ours either.”
Madison sighed. “Soon as Donna returns, my time should free up.”
“Donna, at the Consortium? I didn’t know she was out.”
“She was having some psychological problems, and it kind of got out of hand.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Irritability, forgetfulness...sometimes she just, I don’t know, spaced out. The last week or so it seemed to worsen. I don’t know if she’s having problems at home or if it’s a delayed reaction to the death of her sister, but she’s taken time off to get her head together.”
“How long is she going to be out?”
“Who knows. She could be back in a couple of weeks—or maybe never. Murph’s looking into it. He said he was going to call me tonight to discuss it.”
“Who’s gonna handle the fundraising?”
“Donna’s assistant. Murph just hired her a few weeks ago. I haven’t even met her. Her name’s Brittany...Brittany something. She was originally hired to help with the backlog of membership accounts receivable collections. Then, when we had that glitch with the licensing board, Donna had to free up some time. She gave Brittany some of the fundraising duties. Good thing, because at least she had some idea as to what Donna was doing, and how she was doing it. Harding, that’s her name. Brittany Harding.”
“Phil, you can’t continue to carry the organization on your back. It’s time for someone else to run the agency. You’ve given it everything you’ve got, and it’s time to pass the baton.”
Some time ago, he had realized that Leeza was right, but he had held off telling her that there was no one else who was ready or competent to assume the presidency. Having a brother who benefited from the assistance that the Consortium currently provided to hundreds of area children, youth, and adults, he felt committed to the organization. He couldn’t leave it without adequate leadership firmly in place.
“I’ll look into it,” he said. “Just don’t count on anything changing in the near future.”
“I gave up hopes of that a long time ago,” she said.
By the time they made it to Marine World—or Six Flags Discovery Kingdom—Jonah had fallen asleep, though he awoke when they arrived. The crowd was large, the weather beautiful yet unseasonably chilly. The dinosaur and shark exhibits fascinated Elliott, but they scared Jonah, and he ended up clinging to his father until they moved on to the petting zoo.
The boys spent the next four hours running, yelling, feeding the animals, and eating com dogs and ice cream dots before finally collapsing in the back of the van on the way home. All in all, it was a good day outdoors with the family.
When they drew close to town, Leeza called Steve’s Pizza and ordered dinner. It was ready by the time they arrived, and Leeza held the warm cardboard boxes on her lap until they made it home a few minutes later.
The phone was ringing as they headed into the house. “The machine will get it, Phil. We’re gonna eat dinner first.”
“But—”
“The machine will get it,” she said, taking him by the arm and steering him toward the kitchen.
The pizzas were devoured in a matter of twenty minutes. The answering machine had a message from Michael Murphy, the regional executive officer of the Consortium for Citizens with Mental Retardation.
Murphy was hired eleven years ago by the Consortium. Based in San Francisco, he would make weekly trips into town to touch base with staff and monitor administrative matters. Murphy’s job was to play watchdog over the other two offices in northern California. He had been personally responsible for hiring Donna, the Sacramento administrative officer, ten years ago.
Madison took his handset over to the family room lounger and punched Murphy’s number into the keypad. The phone was answered two rings later with a boisterous “Hellllooo,” Murphy’s trademark.
“You always sound so damned energetic, Murph. Makes me feel like a wretched old man.”
False Accusations Page 5
