Suzy's Case: A Novel (32 page)

Within moments Nurse Rena runs in. “Well? What happened?”

“Not much. Why are you so interested?”

“I don’t mean to be nosy, but we don’t get a lot of police activity in this hospital, so it’s exciting. Who’s the guy who tried to kill you and ended up dead?”

“He was a secret agent,” I whisper conspiratorially.

“For real?” Nurse Rena asks.

“For real. He was Siegfried, one of the top guys from KAOS, a secret crime organization at the center of the Axis of Evil. More dangerous than Al Qaeda and the Taliban.”

“Wow! Why was he trying to kill you?”

“If I tell you, you’ll be at risk.”

“Then don’t tell me. Come on, you’re getting out of bed. I’m taking
you down to rehab for your initial evaluation so they can set up a course of treatment for you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I respond. I struggle to move, then look to the nurse for an answer.

“You haven’t used those muscles in a while. It’s going to take a little to get your strength back.” I nod, but didn’t realize when I did it would take me near three minutes to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair. It’s not just muscle stiffness from disuse, but also the delicate tomatoes in my stitched-up cinch sack.

We arrive down at the rehab facility of this smallish Westchester hospital and Nurse Rena stops pushing me at the closed double doors. She walks around and pulls the handle of the right one, which locks into an open position. Before me is one large, empty, rectangular room, with all its rehab equipment set out around the perimeter with a large blue gym mat in the middle.

Nurse Rena has wheeled me two feet forward when a young child on crutches glides by us from behind, saying, “Excuse me, mister.” He pulls the other door open with his left hand while balancing on the crutch under his right pit as the other stick leans against his body. That kid has skill. He quick-crutches in and over to the light panel, flicking six switches on in rapid-fire succession. He rests the crutches against the wall and hops to the mat on his left leg, the right one having been amputated.

“That’s Charlie,” Nurse Rena says. “He lost his leg to a bone cancer,” which I had assumed given his hairlessness. I feel her grab the handgrips of my wheelchair and I say, “I got it,” preferring to wheel myself in. I’m pretty sure that’s the first thing I’ve done for myself since awakening. I stop a few feet in to watch Charlie. He has a below-the-knee amputation of his right leg but that ain’t stopping this rascal. He’s jumping around on the mat like he’s some kind of gifted gymnast. The kid is incredible, hopping along, then throwing himself into a one-handed cartwheel, then into some kind of tumble. My amazement is interrupted by a minor startle from behind.

“How do you feel today, Mr. Wyler?” asks a deep male voice I don’t
recognize. The source comes around and his tag reads:
WINSTON FOREMAN, PHYSICAL THERAPIST
. “I’m here to evaluate you for purposes of setting up a course of physical therapy. I’m also going to teach you how to most efficiently perform your adult daily living tasks such as wheelchair transfers, using crutches, negotiating stairs, showering, and things of that nature.”

“Thanks,” I respond. “Could you step to the side, please?” I ask, giving Winston the hand motion to move out of my way. He looks behind at Charlie, now doing one-legged jump rope, with double jumps and hand crossover’s.

“That boy is amazing,” Winston Foreman says. “Nothing will ever stop that child, certainly not cancer. Sad case, he’s only seven.”

Nurse Rena chimes in, “Yes, there’s something inside of him that just won’t let the obstacles of life slow him down.” That statement struck a nerve—not a peripheral one, my cord.

“Winston,” I say, “when do you think I’ll be ready for discharge?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t evaluated you yet.”

“How about you, Nurse Rena—when?”

“I’d project two weeks at the minimum.”

“I see,” I answer, knowing instantly what must be done. “Winston,” I say, “I appreciate you coming down here, but I won’t be needing your services. What I would like you to do for me, though, is call an orthopedist to meet me in the area where they apply casts.”

“But—”

“No buts about it, Winston. If you want to help me, that’s how you can help.” He shrugs, then turns and leaves as I keep watching this boy, Charlie. This amazing boy, Charlie, who won’t let the loss of his leg get in his way.

“Nurse Rena, I’m going to get myself to the casting area, what floor is that on?”

“Two. But—”

“Please, no buts, I have some unfinished business that cannot wait. I want you to meet me there and bring some papers for me to sign. Do you know what papers I’m talking about?”

“Discharge documents, AMA?”

“That’s right, Nurse Rena, I’m leaving here against medical advice. By the way, what day is today?”

“Saturday.”

“Thanks. I’ll be going to my home, then. Could you arrange for a cab? My address is in my chart.”

“You’re crazy, Mr. Wyler.”

“No, not crazy, I just have purpose and passion that was run off the parkway, so to speak. But I’m on the road again,” I say, admiring Charlie. She turns to look, following the line of my sight. He’s on a stationary bike, pumping his leg, spinning a million miles an hour with determination on his face.

I
arrive in the city bright and early Monday morning to make up for lost time. The projected two weeks of hospitalization is totally ridiculous in light of the fact that I already spent ten days running the course of my coma. The weekend at my highly mortgaged boot camp was just the kind of rehab I might have expected. Tyler had me organizing the basement and moving the backyard furniture around, the better to be viewed from the kitchen window. I’m surprised how mobile I am in the walking boot I had the orthopedists put on me before leaving the hospital so I wouldn’t have to mess with crutches. By Sunday evening my wife was making out a list of chores for me to accomplish while at home so I thought my chances of recovering were greater at work.

As I enter my office, I’m just as surprised by Lily’s early presence as she is by mine. She looks up and freezes as if Casper the Friendly Ghost were paying a visit. She’s staring at me with those big brown eyes, and they’re now forming puddles. “You’re alive! I mean, out of the hospital! I mean, here.
¡Dios mío! ¡Dios mío!
”

“Correct on all four accounts. Say what you mean. You work for a lawyer, you know. Our words are our stock-in-trade.”

“What are you doing here? I mean, when did you—?”

“I work here. Remember? My name is on the door, the letterhead, the business cards, the website, and on the signature portion of your paycheck, just to mention a few.”

She gives me a look. “I see you’ve
recovered,
so I’ll drop my false act of concern.”

“Say what you want, but I saw genuine worry in your eyes. The tears forming, the glassiness, and your lip—that began to quiver, too.”

“I was faking. When did you regain consciousness? When were you discharged?”

“Conscious on Friday, discharged on Saturday, completed home work release on Sunday, and here I am. Let that be a lesson to you.”

“Yeah, you’re fully recovered.”

I look at her desk. “What’s been going on around here?”

“The cops investigating your accident came by. As per your standing instructions, I dummied up on every question. I settled three cases you had been negotiating, and the clients all came in and signed their releases. Best of all, I think you’re going to love the responses we got from the attorney defending the hospital on the June Williams case and from one of the cardiac monitor manufacturers I sent the claim letter to.”

“Don’t say anything. I want to see for myself.”

“They’re on your chair.”

“Perfect. Thanks for holding down the fort in my absence.”

“That’s what I do when you’re around anyway,” remarks Lily. “Hey, did they catch the guy who ran you off the road?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

“It was that Bert Beecher. The best part is he killed himself trying to kill me.”

“¡Increíble!”
Lily exclaims. “I told you no good would come out of taking over those HICs.”

“What do you mean? We couldn’t settle Betty Beecher’s case with Bert alive, so he did us a favor. Have her come in to sign the release of settlement and I’ll call Benson up and tell him I closed the case—and the coffin. Otherwise, hold all my calls.”

“I told you—” Lily starts in.

“This is no time for a lecture and you know my position on ‘I told you so’s.’ ”

“Well, I told you so anyway. We need security around here.”

My left ankle begins to throb, and not just a little throb but a massive one. I move two chairs over. I sit my big ass down on one. The other I use to elevate my leg. The walking boot is heavy and I need a break. I also need to address a certain issue with Lily right now, before it gets out of control.

I look at her and pause, the kind of pause that occupies time when one doesn’t know where to begin. “Lily, please. Don’t you think you may be overreacting?”

She is clearly upset. “I’m not overreacting,
idiota
! I’m reacting. There’s a difference, you know. Overreacting is an excited response in disproportion to the stimulus provoking the reaction in the first place. This isn’t a disproportionate reaction. It’s a normal and appropriate reaction under the circumstances, which is to say, when one of our clients tries to kill you.”

“Good definition of
overreacting,
but please, settle down. It was an isolated incident.”

“An isolated incident?” Lily isn’t buying this. “An isolated incident is a onetime occurrence that happens outside the normal course of ordinary events.”

“I have to commend you on your ability to define terms, but please, just take it in stride. We’ve made a lot of money off Henry’s injured criminals and risk is always associated with financial return.”

Lily looks at me and takes a big swallow. She’s all choked up and holding back tears. I sense this whole megillah is because I got hurt and not necessarily because she feels like she’s in danger. Nonetheless, she’s going to take it further anyway. She blurts out, “I’m a mother and …”

“Lily! Enough! I want you to understand I’m fine except for a broken ankle and a couple of twisted nuts that have been surgically untwisted. You have my consent to take any measures you deem necessary to make yourself feel more secure around here, but I’m telling you this was a freak incident. I assure you, nothing like it will ever happen again.”

“Okay. But I’m still going to hire a big black security guard who can also do filing and light typing. Is that okay with you?”

“Fine, but you sounded a little racist the way you put that. When I
speak to June Williams, I’ll ask her if she knows anybody who fits your criteria. She’s rather resourceful. Now, kindly hold my calls.”

“I heard you the first time,” she responds.

It takes great effort to get out of the chair and mosey into my office. I’m mentally fatigued, developing a postconcussion headache, and dizzy as a carousel. My scrotal stitches are itching like crazy, but if there ever was a time not to scratch my balls it would be now. To top it off, I’m craving tequila and asparagus. Why, I cannot say. I’ve never yearned for the combination before. I can’t explain it, but I badly need a shot of Patrón Silver tequila together with a plate of grilled asparagus—and I need it
now
. The asparagus, I should add, has to be topped with a sprinkling of large-crystal kosher salt.

My office is exactly as I left it except for the intense smell of floral air fresheners and two pieces of correspondence I see on my chair. I limp around the desk, pick up the letters, replace them with my buttocks, elevate my ankle on the edge of my desk, and recline. The document on top is a formal legal response to my Notice for Discovery & Inspection from the office of Goldman, Goldberg & McGillicuddy. It reads:

Dear Sirs:

In response to your recent Notice for Discovery & Inspection, please be advised that our client, the Brooklyn Catholic Hospital, in general and by their Department of Engineering in particular, does
NOT
have any documentation, writings, charts, records, memoranda, inscriptions, notes, letters, notices, emails, interoffice communications, third-party communications, scratch pads, crib notes, Post-its, or any other writings heretofore not specifically delineated maintained in the ordinary course of business that possess, contain, and/or allude to information relative to the proper and/or improper
use, application, connection, disconnection, patient preparation, and otherwise general use of cardiac-monitoring machines and devices including, but not limited to, circumstances that may result in electric shock and/or electrocution of a hospital patient.

This Discovery & Inspection response is signed by Winnie “the Weasel” McGillicuddy. Attorneys in New York are required to sign discovery responses. The signature is a verification that the contents of the response are truthful and accurate. In short, you’d better not lie or you’re exposing yourself to a license suspension.