Suzy's Case: A Novel (22 page)

McGillicuddy looks to Goldman and Goldberg for the answer. They give her the nod. She turns back to me. “Sure, they can go.”

“I appreciate your consent.” I turn to June. “Okay, you go. I’ll call you when I need you.”

June perfectly employs reverse psychology. “We’re willing to hang around if you need us for moral support?” She gives me a concerned look.

“No. You take Suzy home. She’s had a big day.” They step in the elevator. Boo-yah.

In the conference room the court reporter is in the process of packing her stuff away. “Can you set that back up again?” I request. “We need to place a statement on the record.”

She gives us all a look and reluctantly sets up her machine. Moe, Larry, and Miss Curly are beaming with victory. “Did this guy really think he was going to leave here with that wire and patch?” I hear McGillicuddy whisper to Goldberg, shooting me the thumb.

“Ready,” the court reporter announces.

I start. “Let the record reflect that Ms. McGillicuddy is standing
to my right with Mr. Goldman and Mr. Goldberg. So stipulated, Ms. McGillicuddy?”

“So stipulated,” she answers.

“Let the record further reflect that Ms. McGillicuddy, with the ratification of her two partners, consented to allowing my clients to leave here just a few minutes ago. So stipulated, Ms. McGillicuddy?”

“So stipulated.”

“Let the record further reflect that Ms. McGillicuddy just made query to her partners, Goldman and Goldberg, as to whether I really thought I was going to leave here with a certain wire and electrode patch produced by nonparty witness Nurse Marsha Braithwait. So stipulated, counsel?”

McGillicuddy gives her partners a puzzled look. “Ah, okay, yes. So stipulated.”

“Now, Ms. McGillicuddy, let me answer your question. No, I didn’t think I was going to leave here with the lead wire and patch. That’s why I gave them to June Williams, who left here with your permission and consent. Are we quite done?”

W
hen I arrive back at my office and hit my voice mail, I hear my mom, who is at home now. “Is this thing recording? Hello? Is this recording? Son, it’s me, your mother, Adele. Please call me. It’s urgent. You and your sister must come to my apartment tonight. We have some planning to do. I’ll explain it to you later. See you at seven sharp. It’s urgent. And your sick mother shouldn’t be the one calling
you
.” There’s the guilt.

I hate when my mom leaves messages like that. In fact, they’re always urgent. She’s been battling cancer for over two decades and every time I hear “It’s urgent,” I think it’s the big one. I’ve asked her a million times to save it for when things really take a turn for the worse, but I know after seeing her in the hospital, this time may actually be truly urgent. In her last operation they removed the remainder of her left breast, and bits and pieces from various internal organs. They did some genetic studies and found she’s a .38 Special.

I return some calls, push various papers around my desk, respond to several of Lily’s emails, leave a message for June to come into the office tomorrow with the wire and patch so we can have them examined by a forensic electrical engineer, and then head uptown to my mother’s apartment. She’s long divorced from my father and lives with her horny little dog, Piero.

I enter her apartment to see my sister, Rachael, sitting on a bronze Giacometti chair. Mom looks at me and smiles. “Good, you’re here. Sit down. We have a lot of things to discuss.”

“Okay, but how did you get out of the hospital so fast? You were just in ICU.”

My sister answers for her. “She discharged herself against medical advice. Again.”

“Good move, Mom,” I tell her. “They’ve got to love you for doing that, giving them a complete defense, knowing I’m a malpractice lawyer. Now what are we here to discuss?”

“I called you children here so we can plan my funeral.” My sister and I give each other a look and I crack a smile. “What’s so funny?” Mom asks.

“Nothing’s funny about you dying and all,” I reply. “You just have a funny way of going about it.”

“Well, I’ve finally accepted this is the end of the road for me and I want to make sure things go smoothly.”

“Okay, we’re listening.”

“First of all, who do you think we should invite to the funeral?”

“Mom, it’s not a bar mitzvah, for God’s sake.”

“I know, but I just think there should be a guest list. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been to a funeral and someone’s not there who I know should be. I don’t want that to happen to you. I want my children to know who snubbed their mother. I mean, I’m not asking you to make our guests RSVP. I just think sending out an invitation is enough.”

“Um, okay, Mom. Just check the names of the people whom you want us to invite in your address book and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Good,” Mom says, satisfied. She turns to my sister. “Now, what do you think I should wear?”

I cut in. “Does it matter? We’re Jews, for Christ’s sake. The casket’s going to be closed. What’s the difference?”

“Of course it matters,” Mom insists. “It’s technically a formal occasion so black’s appropriate. I want to be dressed in proper attire even if I’m not going to be seen. I’ll know the difference.”

“How will you know the difference? You’ll be dead.”

“If I don’t pick out an outfit now, I’ll know the difference while I’m still alive and that’s the point. Well, honey? What should I wear?”

“Why don’t you wear that black velvet jacket with the red Chinese embroidered flowers you love so much,” Rachael suggests.

“Oh, I was thinking of that, too, but it’s too good a piece to be buried in and I wanted you to have it. Maybe you guys can dress me in it for the service at the funeral home and then take it off my back before we head to the cemetery.”

“You’re kidding, right, Mom?” I ask.

“No, but I guess it does seem like it’s too much trouble. Rachael, why don’t you take it home with you tonight and then you can wear it to my funeral instead of me.”

Rachael looks at me, then back at Mom. “Uh, good idea, Mom, I’ll do that.”

“Fine, then.” Mom turns to me. “Are you free Friday?”

“I can try to be. Why?”

“I’ll have recovered enough by then to leave the house and I want you to take me to Bergdorf’s to get me something to wear to my funeral.”

“Bergdorf Goodman’s?”

“Of course. Where else would I go to get something to be buried in?”

“Fine. We’ll go to Bergdorf’s so we can bury you in a nice new outfit.”

My phone rings and I look at the caller ID. It reads:
PRIVATE CALLER
, which is not private anymore but rather June Williams. I hit the ignore button despite my promise to be more sensitive to her situation. A few moments later, it rings again. She’s stubborn. It happens twice more before I shut it off altogether. Client obligations or not, I don’t want to interrupt my mom’s funeral-planning session.

We don’t have long to wait before she tackles the next item on her agenda. “Now, I’d like there to be a nice obituary written. Who’s going to take care of that?”

“I’m really busy now,” I offer, perhaps a tad too quickly, “investigating a case where a little girl went from perfectly healthy to perfectly brain damaged in a matter of minutes. I’m a little tight on time.”

“Well, I’m tight, too,” my sister says. “At least you work for yourself.”

I look at my mother. “You have some time on your hands right now, Mom. How about you write a draft and I’ll mark it up before it goes to press?”

“That’s a great idea.”

When it comes to her bio, we all know she prefers creativity to hard fact. Great art dealer, yes. But we all know she didn’t discover Picasso as a child, despite her tale otherwise. The timing isn’t even right. So even if I’m going to be the editor, it doesn’t hurt to remind her. “Now, no fudging—”

Suddenly, the intercom rings. Mom grabs it. “Send it up.”

“Send what up?” Rachael asks.

“I ordered in Thai. It just seemed the right kind of food for the occasion. Plus, I have no appetite these days, but for some reason was craving Thai.”

“You can’t eat,” I advise her. “They just took out two pieces of your colon the other day. You’ll perf yourself and end up with a colostomy bag.”

“Oh, please. I’m not really going to eat. I’m just going to put the food in my mouth and absorb the flavor.”

The bell rings. I answer the door and pay the guy. I hand my sister the two brown paper bags inside the two white plastic bags, and she carries them over to the table. I try to remember the last time the three of us had a meal together like a real family.

Just then the intercom rings again. I go to answer but Mom says, “I got it.” She listens to the doorman. “No, I don’t know who that is. Sorry.” She listens a little more. “One moment,” she says, turning to me. “Tug, are you expecting a June Williams?”

“Uh, no. Why?”

“Because she’s here and claiming it’s urgent she see you.”

“Urgent? Sound familiar, Mom? Okay, tell him to tell her I’ll be right down.”

“Too late. She’s on her way up. She gave Antonio the slip.”

I sigh.

“Who’s June Williams?”

“That’s the case I’m working on. Right now I’m in the middle of trying to figure out whether there was malpractice or if her daughter’s brain damage resulted from a sickle cell crisis.”

“Treat her nicely. She’s been through a lot.”

“I intend to, Mom. But I’m allowed to feel irked about my situation, which I don’t want to get into.”

I peek out the door, waiting for the elevator. I hear a ding and June comes walking down the hall, looking hotter than ever.

I step out and close the door. “Uh, hi, June. Nice red, white, and blue outfit you’re wearing. How patriotic.”

“What can I say, I was inspired by Lady Liberty this morning.”

“I am curious. Could you enlighten me as to how you knew I was at my mother’s and how you knew where my mother lived?”

“Sure. I came into the city hoping I’d find you at your office because I wanted to talk to you about something. I thought you’d be there because your number came up on my missed call list. When I went up, your doors were locked. I thought you were still in there so I called your office number but the machine picked up. I hung up and tried again, still no luck. I was desperate to talk to you, so I called a third time, and when the machine answered, instead of leaving a message I entered your birthday for the security code. It worked and I listened to your messages and heard the one from your mother. And not that it’s my business, but if she’s sick, then you
should
be the one checking up on her, not the other way around. Anyway, so I called information and she was the only Adele with your last name. So here I am.”

Wow, she’s good. “How did you know my date of birth?”

“Well, when Mr. Benson told me he was transferring my file to you, the first thing I did was look you up in the New York State Bar Association directory to see when your birthday was so I could establish your zodiac sign. I need to know zodiacs. I’m just like that.”

“You’re something, June. Your resourcefulness is scaring me.”

“I had to find you tonight because I got a man-genius who can look
at the wire and patch for us except that he’s leaving for South Carolina on an early-morning flight. So we have to see him tonight at his junkyard in Brooklyn.”

“Unfortunately, I’m busy at this moment planning my mother’s funeral with her.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry about your mom. Is she going to die soon?”

“I couldn’t tell you. According to her doctors, she should’ve been dead years ago. They can’t give her a life expectancy because they’ve never seen a case like hers. She’s basically living with bits and pieces of her vital organs.”

“It’s sweet of you to make the plans with her. I’ll wait downstairs, and when you’re finished we’ll go.”

“You’re not going downstairs. You’re coming inside or I haven’t heard the last of it from my mother.” We go inside. “Mom, Rachael, I present my favorite client, June Williams.”

Mom yells to us from the table. “Hi, June. Come sit down. We waited for you two. There’s plenty here for everybody.”

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” June says courteously. “I’m so sorry I barged in like this. Your son told me in the hall. I hope things aren’t too painful for you.”

“Now, that’s quite all right,” Mom assures her. “How would you know we were planning my funeral? Unfortunately, things have become painful. I’m on the patch now—you know, morphine. It’s the first step on your way out. Still, it’s better than the pump, which I know is coming next.”

“I’m so sorry. Yes, I know about the patch. My mother passed from cancer. She was an unusual case. She had both breast and ovarian cancer at the same time.”

“I can’t believe that!” Mom exclaims. “She was one of us! A Thirty-Eight Special!”

“A Thirty-Eight Special? You mean like—”

“Not the gun, although it’s deadly. You see there’s a group of thirty-eight women—most dead now—who have something wrong with a particular gene that triggers breast and ovarian cancer simultaneously.”