Oxygen (16 page)

Charlie Marsallis is tall;
his olive-colored eyes are draped by full lids that curve downward at his temples. He stands back against the open door to let me walk by, one long arm cocked across his waistband and the other extended to show me into his office. My head barely reaches his shoulder. He indicates the cushioned Windsor chair opposite his cluttered desk. A gold basketball trophy stands on the bookcase below his framed degrees; every other surface on the tables and shelves is stacked with legal briefs and medical charts and thick white sheaves of stapled papers. The files I can read from my chair are labeled Jansen vs. Heaton. A framed picture of a young woman and a boy paddling a kayak balances on top of a pile of memos stamped with Donnelly’s letterhead.

“Did Jean get you anything to drink?” he asks, turning to slip off his suit jacket and hang it on the rack behind him.

I shake my head. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Well. Where to start?” He settles into the rolling desk chair and pivots toward me, raking long fingers through his loose blond hair so that it splays in odd angles across his brow. His youthfulness is disconcerting; it almost makes me miss Donnelly’s stern, paternal self-confidence. “I met with Ms. Meyers-Yeager and she’s given me a summary of your case up to last week.” He lets his words hang between us for a moment, as if inviting me to jump in with my own version. He clears his throat and continues, “I haven’t been through everything yet, but she assures me—and I can see from Mr. Donnelly’s notes—that your initial deposition is pretty solid. You don’t have any earlier claims against you or problems with your credentials or complaints on your record at First Lutheran. The autopsy results are a hurdle, but I’ve read your comments about the child’s heart problem. We’ll be calling an expert witness to back that up.” He pauses again. I nod at him, wondering how many meetings it will take to cover the ground I thought was safely behind me.

He continues, “I have two academic anesthesiologists in mind. But obviously the direction we take will depend on what we learn in the next few weeks.”

More time. It has already been six weeks since we got the autopsy results. In a profession enriched by hourly billing I suppose Darryl Feinnes has every incentive to uncoil his next attack as slowly as possible. I should feel the heat of adrenaline surging into righteous anger, a demand for prompt justice that might bond me to this young lawyer. But I’m drained by the idea of more weeks of waiting.

Across from me his office windows face the neighboring building, cement walls blur into a stone-colored sky; illuminated cells of backs and shoulders hunch over flickering computer screens. Marsallis stops talking for a minute, and when I glance back at him he is studying my face. This man is a stranger to me—a stranger who has access to more facts about my life than I would share with a lover. Or perhaps I have become the stranger, on the brink of conceding a life I thought I’d earned.

His voice drops a notch, almost as if he’d read my thoughts. “I know it must be hard, starting with a new lawyer at this juncture.”

My eyes suddenly sting. Donnelly’s formality had made it easier to mask my feelings. I wait until my throat relaxes and force myself not to think about the autopsy. “Truthfully, my only goal now is for this to end. If it were up to me, I’d settle it for any sum they want. But I don’t suppose the insurance company will let you do that, will they?”

He hesitates a beat, then nods. “I hear you. Neither law nor medicine are that uncomplicated these days, are they?” He rocks forward in his chair to lean on his elbows, the knobbed bones of his wrists jutting beyond his sleeves. His hands are large, even for his big frame—with long, almost gangly fingers that must feel more natural branching over the sphere of a basketball than curling about the shaft of a fountain pen. “Why did you choose anesthesia?” he asks.

The question lands so far outside the realm of litigation and legal defense that I am caught off guard. “What?”

“Why anesthesia? Why did you decide to become an anesthesiologist instead of a surgeon, or a psychiatrist, or—for that matter—a chemical engineer?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I hesitate. “I’m good with my hands, I guess. I like doing the procedures. I aced pharmacology and physiology and so my dean suggested anesthesia.” I’m giving him the rote reasons I always give to friends and patients when they begin such introductory small talk. But then I notice how he’s looking at me, waiting for more, and I reach further inside to reasons I haven’t thought about in months now. “I like helping people through a critical time. Everybody always thinks anesthesiologists are just there to watch you sleep, but it’s the preoperative part, when patients are anxious, that makes the difference. That’s what I went into it for. I always shake their hand—just as an excuse to hold it for a minute, right before their surgery, and see them let go of at least a little bit of fear. I like seeing, just as they go off to sleep, how their faces get almost young again, as if they’re escaping the stress of work or their illness. Even if it’s because of a drug. Even though they’ll wake up to the same problems, at least I can give them some temporary relief. I love figuring out how to take away somebody’s pain. I get to meet people I’d never even talk to otherwise—hear a little about how they live, what matters to them.” Suddenly I feel self-conscious and trail off, shrugging my shoulders.

Marsallis nods to himself, oblivious to my embarrassment, as if assimilating this blurted testimonial as thoroughly as he might evaluate my board exam scores. “I like that. I’d like people to hear that.” He raises his eyebrows and looks me directly in the face again. “Of course, this latest twist will complicate things for a while. But, even before I hear any new evidence, I can promise there’s a good chance this will get thrown out.”

“Thrown out?” I look him straight in the eyes for the first time since entering the office, ready to hear what Marsallis has learned in one week that has eluded Donnelly for months.

He looks surprised at the animated relief in my voice. “Definitely. It’s hard to make this type of charge stick unless they have really irrefutable information—something concrete. As much frustration as the public professes toward health care, juries are still very unlikely to convict a doctor. I wouldn’t be surprised if the district attorney refuses to even consider it.”

Something turns over inside my chest. “The district attorney? What are you talking about?” I know I’ve misunderstood him, but blood rushes into my face. “We’re still going to mediation, right? Why would this change to a juried trial just because of the autopsy results?” I want to ask him if he has my case mixed up with someone else’s.

He sits motionless—I wonder, for a moment, if he’s heard me. Then a creeping flush mottles his neck and cheeks, and I know instinctively that some secret hand has been played.

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d been told.” He drops his head and stares down at his clasped hands resting on my case files, pages flagged with bits of colorful tape signaling that here a mistake occurred, here a judgment was passed, here a decision was made that exploded into three ruined lives.

“You thought I’d been told what?”

“Dr. Heaton, what did John Donnelly tell you about your case at your last meeting?” He says this so softly I have to lean forward in my chair to understand him.

“John Donnelly told me that I needed to get another lawyer. Because Jolene’s heart defect made me more liable,” I answer, my voice brittle as glass. “He told me that the hospital and I were no longer on the same side of this suit. Without saying it outright, he told me the hospital was going to get out of this by blaming me.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing else? That’s not enough?”

“Did Mr. Donnelly tell you—did
anyone
tell you—that a criminal investigation is under way?”

Behind Marsallis the rain heaves in gusts against the windows, which bow and shiver with each pulsation of air. My stomach rolls and I have to swallow twice, and then again, to keep it settled.

“I need a glass of water. Could you get me some water?”

“Of course, just a minute.” He leaves the room and I lower my head to my knees, terrified for a minute that I might throw up. The clink of ice on crystal startles me. He is crouching beside my chair, and when I lift my head our eyes are at equal levels—there are lines across his brow I had not noticed before. “Here. It’s okay, just take a deep breath.”

I take a sip of the ice water, so cold my teeth ache. “Explain this to me. What are you talking about?”

He puts the pitcher of water on an end table and sits down in the chair next to me. Now we are both on the same side of this desk laden with reams of legal dictums—the counterbalance offered against a lost life. He takes a breath and says, “Someone has filed a complaint with the district attorney accusing you of criminal negligence resulting in the child’s death. You should have already been told about this.”

“How is that possible? How can anyone claim that—even if they want the money, even if they believe I made mistakes? Where does a tragic mistake become a criminal charge?”

“You aren’t
charged
with anything criminal at this point.” He leans over his knees toward me, his tone more like that of a sympathetic consoler than a legal adviser. “But someone has approached the district attorney with allegations—true or false—that the state is obligated to pursue. If they don’t find any substantial evidence to back up the claim, then no charges will be filed. And that’s very likely.”

I wrap my arms across my abdomen and rock forward. “Who’s behind this? Who’s saying this about me?”

“I don’t know that right now. And I don’t know what evidence the DA has—they aren’t required to tell us unless they actually file charges. It could be anyone who thinks they have new information the state would be interested in. In truth, it could be anyone who wants to see you take the entire blame for this.”

“But how can a doctor be charged with anything criminal?”

“It’s rare. Usually something extreme—like alcoholism or drug abuse, or some blatant misuse of equipment.”

The muscles of my abdomen are so taut it’s hard to take a breath. I look over at him, this solemn-eyed man I must now depend on, his tie skewed beneath his collar, his bangs frayed along his forehead as if he’d forgotten to comb his hair. “Listen, this has blindsided you,” he says. “I had no idea you didn’t know. But there is a very good chance, like I said, that we can get this thrown out, even if the state does file a charge.”

“What, then this whole thing finally ends?”

“No, the mediation still has to be settled. But it ends any question of criminal wrongdoing on your part.”

We are both quiet. “What should I do now?” I finally ask.

“Try not to worry too much. We have to wait until we hear from the district attorney to plan any specific defense. Be sure you don’t talk about this at work, of course.”

I look up. “I’m not at work anymore. Frank Hopper, the hospital’s CEO, asked me to take a leave of absence. Didn’t you know that?”

His face colors again. “No.”

In the building across the street, workers gather briefcases and umbrellas, chatting in small groups as the day winds down. Someone in his partner’s office behind us laughs, and the noise reverberates until a door slams and all goes silent.

“So there’s nothing more we can learn today?” I ask, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.” He stands and puts his jacket on.

I walk to the door before he can open it for me, then turn and look back at him. “Can I leave town?”

“Leave town?”

“Am I allowed, I mean? To leave the state?”

He hesitates and looks as if he wants to ask me another question, then slips his hands in his pockets and nods. “Sure. But you should leave a phone number.”

As I’m about to close his door behind me he begins talking again and I turn to face him. “My son…” He stops and takes his hands out of his pockets, folds them across his chest. “My son, he’s six now. He was born with a birth defect. His trachea had a narrowing in it, and he stopped breathing right after his delivery. He’s…well, he has a mild palsy, most likely as a result of that episode. But my son is alive because an anesthesiologist was working at the hospital that night.”

He stands there watching me, so lean and athletic, so resilient with his freshly framed degrees and untarnished willingness to lope into this medical-legal labyrinth. “I’ll let you know where I can be reached, Mr. Marsallis,” I say, while I can still speak without my voice breaking.

Lori is ecstatic when I tell her I’m coming for a few weeks, if a little surprised that I’ll arrive tomorrow. In the middle of our short conversation she is already telling Elsa to get her stuff out of the guest room, and Neil to clear his toys out of the bath. I don’t try to explain to her that this is not purely a long-postponed pleasure trip. I pull a kitchen chair to my closet and drag dusty suitcases from the high shelves to the floor. The effort exhausts me, as if age had slipped in at dawn and thrust me decades forward by dusk.

Except for some short naps and a long shower I am up all night paying bills and stopping the newspaper and sorting through my mail. At least I’ve no cat to kennel, and I’m willing to let my lone philodendron wither away. At 6:00
AM
the taxi driver rings me from the entry gate and I bump down the hallway with my bags to the front door, backing through it to wedge my suitcase past the hinge. I nearly stumble when my heel catches on the ribbons of a small white box sitting on the mat just beyond my threshold.

My arms are so full I have to nudge the box into the elevator with my foot and drop my purse before I can pick it up; the weight of its contents gaps open the cardboard lid, and chocolate suffuses the air. I slip its silver ribbons free, and inside is the ebony torte; a floret of chocolate frosting glues a slender gold chain to its lacquered coating. The chain loops beneath the flap of a sealed envelope. I tease it open without dislodging its chocolate tether and free a pink sapphire pendant and a note.