The Walk (4 page)

“I know. I’ll get to it. I hate handling the money. I’m no good at money.”

“You’re good at spending it.”

She frowned. “That was mean.”

I looked at her and my expression softened. “Sorry. You know you’re the reason I earn it.”

She leaned forward and kissed me. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said. “I’ll have Steve transfer some money into your account.” I sat up. “We may be celebrating tonight. Or not. Either way let’s do something fun. We have the whole weekend.”

She got a big smile. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to tell you.” She put her finger on my lips. “I guarantee you’ll never forget this weekend.”

Neither of us could have guessed how right she was.

I pulled into my private parking stall about twenty minutes after nine. Kyle was already in a bad mood. “Glad you could make it,” he said, as I walked into the office. I was used to this. Kyle was always uptight before a big presentation.

“Relax, Kyle,” I said calmly.

Falene walked in behind Kyle. “Good morning, Alan.”

“Morning, Falene.”

Falene was my girl Friday—a sleek, olive-skinned beauty of Greek descent whom Kyle had met on a model search and hired as our executive assistant and resident eye candy. Even her name (her mother had given birth the night she saw
Bambi
) was exotic.

“Relax?” Kyle said, his voice strained. “This is the Super Bowl. You don’t show up late on game day.”

I kept walking toward my office followed by Kyle and Falene. “Are they here yet?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not late.”

“Can I get you anything before the meeting?” Falene asked.

“How about a sedative for Kyle?” I said.

Falene smiled wryly. Even though Kyle had hired her, she had never been crazy about him. Lately the relationship seemed worse.

“I’ll meet you in the conference room,” Kyle grumbled.

I understood why Kyle was so anxious. The client we were about to pitch was Wathen Development Company and the campaign was for an upscale housing development called The Bridge: a $200 million project, with 400 units, two clubhouses, and an 18-hole golf course. Their annual advertising budget exceeded $3 million.

Wathen, a brash, perennially tan forty-something developer, arrived about fifteen minutes later. He was flanked by his accountant, Stuart, and Abby, a British woman we’d never met and whose role was unclear. Kyle and I shook hands with them as they entered our office.

“What can we get you to drink?” Kyle asked.

“What have you got?”

“What’s on tap, Falene?” Kyle asked curtly. Falene glared at him, then turned to Wathen.

“Mr. Wathen,” she said, “we have . . .”

“Call me Phil.”

Falene smiled. “Okay, Phil. We have juice: cranberry, apple, pineapple, and orange. We have seltzers, vanilla and peach, and Coke, Diet Coke, Pepsi, Perrier . . .”

“They still make that Perrier?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He laughed. “I’ll have a cranberry juice. Could you mix a little pineapple in with that?”

“Certainly.”

“Abby,” Wathen said, “what’ll you have?”

“Nothing.”

“I’ll have a vanilla seltzer,” Stuart said.

“Very well,” Falene said. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

As Falene walked out, Kyle invited everyone into the conference room. As we were settling in around the table, something peculiar happened—something a little difficult to explain. I suddenly felt a sharp pain up my spine, followed by a powerful emotional flux, a bizarre feeling of oppression that seemed to press the very breath from me. At first I wondered if I was having a heart attack or a stroke, then an anxiety attack. Whatever it was, it passed as quickly as it came. No one seemed to notice that I was breathing heavy.

I had designed the conference room to showcase my myriad awards. The walls were textured with plaster then painted aubergine and covered with gold-framed advertising awards. The south wall had two crowded shelves that held our trophies. The awards on the east wall were concealed behind a screen that descended from the ceiling.

When everyone was situated around the table, I turned on the room’s projector, and the Wathen Development logo appeared on the screen.

Falene returned, careful to take the first drink to Wathen. “There you are, sir, I mean, Phil. Cranberry with a splash of pineapple. Anything else?”

“Just to be twenty again,” he said.

Abby rolled her eyes.

She distributed the rest of the drinks, including a Coke to Kyle, which, I noticed, she did without looking at him.

“All right,” Kyle said, “if it’s all right with you, Phil, we’ll begin.” Wathen nodded, and Kyle dimmed the lights with
a hand remote. “Thank you for this opportunity. Our objective, as your future agency, is to create a campaign that will not only result in capacity occupancy of your new development, but a demand that will keep your real estate value strong and growing.

“Our campaign employs a multimedia approach that includes television, radio, newspaper, Internet, and outdoor advertising. We propose to launch the campaign with a fifty-billboard showing with the express purpose of creating name awareness. We’ll accomplish this with a three-phase outdoor message, the first to begin as soon as you’re ready to pull the trigger.” He pointed to me. “Al . . .”

I pressed a button on the remote to unveil the first billboard comp.

Bridge under construction

The board was yellow and black like a road hazard sign. Kyle and I simultaneously glanced at Wathen. He showed no emotion. His lack of response made Kyle visibly nervous. “It’s a teaser campaign,” Kyle said. “We’d run this with both a south and north exposure on I-5 and I-45 for two months.”

“It looks like a detour sign,” Abby said.

“Exactly,” I replied.

She continued. “But what if people think that some bridge is really under construction?”

“Actually, that’s our hope,” I replied. “These potential clients of yours drive past several hundred billboards every day. They’ve learned to tune all those signs out, but
not the directional signs. As they discover they’ve been tricked, this will give them a relationship with your development. After thirty days, we unveil the second board.” I pressed a button.

Bridge opens July 16th

“This is when we begin the television and radio campaign,” Kyle said. “While up to this point the campaign image has been purposely austere, the campaign now begins to show a luxurious aspect: upscale, beautiful, chic, happy people enjoying the exclusive lifestyle and amenities of The Bridge. You’ll notice that the bright yellow of the first board has subtly changed to a tint more gold.”

“And then,” I said, “with the opening of Phase I, the final board.”

The Bridge is now open.
Cross over to Washington’s premier new Lifestyle

Wathen smiled and slightly nodded. Stuart leaned over to whisper something to Wathen, and Abby was also smiling.

Just then Falene opened the door. In a terse whisper she said my name, “Al.”

Kyle looked at her incredulously. She knew better than to interrupt at such a crucial moment. I gave her a quick headshake. She walked to my side and crouched down next to me. “Alan, it’s an emergency. McKale’s had an accident.”

“What kind of accident?” I said loud enough that everyone looked at me.

“Your neighbor’s on the line. She says it’s serious.”

I stood. “I’m sorry, my wife’s been in an accident. I need to take this call.”

“Go ahead and take it here,” Wathen said, motioning to the phone in the middle of the table.

Falene turned up the lights. I lifted the receiver and pushed down on the flashing button. “This is Al.”

“Alan this is your neighbor, Monnie Olsen. McKale’s been in an accident.”

My heart froze. “What kind of accident?”

“She was thrown from her horse.”

“How bad is she hurt?”

“She was rushed to Overland.”

Everything in my mind was swimming. “How bad is it? Tell me.”

She hesitated then suddenly began to cry. “They think she’s broken her back.” Her voice faltered. “She . . .” she stopped. “I’m sorry, she said she couldn’t feel anything below her waist. You need to get to Overland.”

“I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.

“Is she okay?” Wathen asked.

“No. It’s bad. I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll finish up,” Kyle said.

As I left the room, Falene put her hand on my back. “What do you need?”

“Prayers. Lots of prayers.”

I sped to the hospital, oblivious to the world around me. The drive seemed endless, and the whole way there an adrenaline-fueled dialogue took place in my head—a battle between two polar forces. The first voice assured me that my neighbor was just panicked and everything was fine. Then another voice shouted,
It’s worse than they’re saying. It’s bad beyond your worst nightmare.

By the time I reached the hospital I was nearly crazed with fear. I parked in a handicap zone outside the emergency entrance and ran inside and up to the first admittance window, where a middle-aged woman with thick glasses sat behind a glass partition. She was looking at her computer screen and didn’t notice me.

I tapped on the glass. “My wife’s in here,” I said frantically.

She looked up at me.

“McKale Christoffersen. I’m her husband.”

She typed the name into her computer. “Oh, yes. Just a minute.” She picked up her phone and dialed a number. She spoke softly to someone then hung up and turned back. “We have someone coming to speak with you. Have a seat, please.”

I sat down in a chair and covered my eyes with my hand and rocked back and forth. I don’t know how long I had been like that when I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was our neighbors, Monnie and Tex Olsen. The moment I saw their stricken faces something burst inside me. I began sobbing. Monnie put her arms around me. “We’re so sorry.”

“Have you talked with the doctors?” Tex asked.

I shook my head. “They’re still with her.” I turned to Monnie, “Did you see it happen?”

She knelt down beside me and spoke quietly. “No, I found her just a few minutes after it happened. Her horse got spooked and threw her.”

“How was she?”

I wanted to hear comforting words, but she just shook her head. “Not good.”

It was another ten minutes before a young woman, boyish-faced with short hair, slacks, and a silk blouse with a plastic name tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck walked out of the double-doored ER into the waiting room. The woman behind the glass motioned to me, though I’m sure it was only for confirmation. It wasn’t hard to pick out the guy in distress. “Mr. Christoffersen?”

I stood. “Yes.”

“I’m Shelly Crandall. I’m a hospital social worker.”

They sent a social worker?
I thought. “I want to see my wife.”

“I’m sorry, but the doctors are still working on her.”

“What’s going on?”

“Your wife has had a spinal fracture in her upper back. The doctors are stabilizing her.”

“Is she paralyzed?” The words sprang from my
mouth.

She hesitated. “It’s too soon to say. In an injury like this there’s a lot of swelling, and that can affect the nerves. We usually wait seventy-two hours for an accurate prognosis of the damage to the spinal cord.”

“When can I see her?”

“It will still be a few hours. I promise, I’ll take you to her as soon as she’s out. I’m sorry, Mr. Christoffersen.”

I slumped back down in the chair. Monnie and her husband sat across from me, silent.

The wait was excruciating. Every minute that the clock ticked off seemed to steal hope with it. I listened anxiously to the overhead announcements about incoming traumas and patient emergencies, wondering if they were talking about McKale.