Capitol Reflections (3 page)
In Marci’s twilight consciousness, the ocean looked bluer than it ever had before. Seagulls wheeled over the dunes as water gently washed across her feet before sinking into the sand. The wind pressed a blue dress of the lightest cotton firmly against her body while she peered into the hazy distance. A ship was slowly becoming invisible as it lumbered away from shore, finally disappearing over the horizon.
How far had the water between her toes traveled, she wondered. Five miles? Five hundred? A thousand? What midnight constellations had ruled over these small trickles when they had been part of the immense depth that was the Atlantic Ocean? Had freighters cut through the waves that were now breaking onto shore, or had the swells been lonely and isolated?
Gwen groaned as her pager relayed a phone number. She slid off the bar stool, walked to the restaurant’s foyer, and removed the cell phone from her purse. She didn’t recognize the telephone number on the pager, but she dutifully punched her keypad until she heard the ring tone of whoever wanted to speak with her.
“This is Captain Maulder,” she said, hoping that the disturbance was nothing more than someone who couldn’t locate her last report on sub-clinical infections.
Moments later, the blood drained from her face. She closed her flip-top phone with a flick of the wrist, went back to the bar, and took her husband’s hand.
“We have to go,” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.
“What’s up?” Jack Maulder asked, as Gwen pulled him onto the street, her legs almost breaking into a run.
“That was the ER at Bellevue. It’s Marci. She’s had some kind of seizure.”
“Is she going to be—”
Gwen shook her head nervously. “They don’t know.”
Jack stepped off the curb and hailed a taxi. Moments later, the vehicle’s red taillights faded into the gray twilight as a slight drizzle dampened a street warm from a day of sunshine and the friction of ten thousand tires.
Marci felt a sharp prick in her right forearm and opened her eyes. Five minutes later, her pupils were not quite as dilated as before thanks to whatever was dripping through the tube snaking into her arm. She could see more clearly now and stared at the dots on the suspended ceiling. She felt slightly better and thought she might not die after all. All around her, machines were beeping and people were talking. She couldn’t actually see anyone since her peripheral vision was constricted, but she was alert enough to know that there was a steady flow of traffic in and out of the cubicle where her gurney was parked.
“Anh,” she said. “Anh Nguyen. Tell her things will be okay.”
“Don’t talk, Ms. Newman,” said a female voice. “Just lie still.”
The beeping from one of the machines suddenly sounded faster and louder.
That can’t be good
, Marci thought.
Not good at all
.
, Marci thought.
Not good at all
.
It wasn’t. Marci felt a sharp pain in her chest as her heart started beating more rapidly than it had ever beaten in her life. She thought the sensation might be similar to what a hummingbird felt as its wings fluttered faster than the human eye could possibly detect. The bird’s heartbeat, she recalled, was also incredibly fast, and she closed her eyes as her own heart hammered against her ribcage. She sensed more activity around her, doctors and nurses speaking in rapid-fire, staccato jargon.
“Hi,” said a familiar voice.
“Hi, Gwen,” said Marci, not opening her eyes. Her heart rate slowed a little when she heard the voice of her old friend.
An argument followed, during which the medical team told Gwen she needed to leave the room, and Gwen informed them that she was a physician and a friend summoned to the hospital twenty minutes earlier.
“Gwen?” said Marci, opening her eyes.
“Yes, honey. I’m still here.” Gwen leaned directly over the gurney so Marci could see her face.
“I love you.”
The two women looked at each other, Gwen’s hand wrapped around Marci’s small, pale fingers.
“I love you, too.”
“Ond … dee,” said Marci.
“What did you say, honey?”
“Ondee,” Marci whispered again.
“
Ondine
?” Gwen said, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Your favorite ballet. We’ll see it again soon.”
Ondine
?” Gwen said, a single tear rolling down her cheek. “Your favorite ballet. We’ll see it again soon.”
Marci tilted her head slightly, and for a brief moment her focus seemed sharper as she stared directly at Gwen. “Ondee,” she repeated.
Gwen shook her head. “I understand.”
Gwen’s eyes were filling with tears.
Ondine
was about a water sprite. Marci had always loved the tragic ballet. Perhaps it was her love of the ocean. Perhaps Marci identified with Ondine’s inability to find love. Either way, she had listened to its sad
pas de deux
over and over again.
Ondine
was about a water sprite. Marci had always loved the tragic ballet. Perhaps it was her love of the ocean. Perhaps Marci identified with Ondine’s inability to find love. Either way, she had listened to its sad
pas de deux
over and over again.
Suddenly Marci’s entire body went rigid. The beeping sound was replaced by a steady whine, terrifying to anyone who knew its significance.
She was flatlining.
At the beach, a hummingbird was carried far out to sea by a strong wind.
A new adventure
, the little bird thought.
A brand new adventure
.
, the little bird thought.
A brand new adventure
.
And then the bird was gone.
3
An attendant led Gwen and Jack through a maze of corridors to a small, carpeted room with a sofa and three chairs. A stately picture of the Hudson Valley hung over the sofa, and a standard-issue ficus plant rose in the corner, giving the room a bit of color in contrast to the sterile surroundings of the hospital. Gwen was stunned she could even notice this, stunned that the world had any detail for her at all at the moment. Marci was gone. Inexplicably gone.
“What the hell just happened?” Gwen asked, sitting on the sofa.
Jack Maulder, tall and broad-chested, pulled his wife close. He didn’t say a word and Gwen didn’t expect him to. He gave her what she needed just then—a place to cry for the conceivable future.
“I can’t believe it,” she said when she’d regained a modicum of composure. “This isn’t possible.”
“She literally worked herself to death,” Jack commented sympathetically. “You warned her for years to slow down, but Marci couldn’t resist the adrenaline rush of a high-powered career.”
“Yeah, but she was pretty healthy, Jack, all things considered.”
“People die unexpectedly every day even if they don’t lead stressful lives.”
Wiping away fresh tears, Gwen ran her fingers through her hair. “I know, I know, I know,” she said with exasperation in her voice. “But I knew Marci, and … well … this shouldn’t have happened.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting, but people don’t die of seizures. Not the first time, when they’re in the prime of life.”
“Sometimes they do, honey.”
There were exceptions to everything. Gwen knew that. But the exceptions were extremely rare. It was virtually impossible to believe that Marci was one of them.
Once again, a wave of tears crested on top of her. Marci had been Gwen’s best friend for most of two decades. She was as essential to her life as her heart and lungs. How do you survive that?
Pulling herself together, Gwen rose abruptly.
“Where are you going?” Jack asked, rising with her.
“I have to call Marci’s family, hopefully before a stranger here at the hospital finds their number.” She pulled out her cell phone and started to walk away. Jack seemed confused by this, so she said, “I just need to be alone for a few minutes.”
Gwen called Marci’s parents, people she felt as close to as anyone in her own family. Her mind flashed on holiday visits. When Gwen’s dad humorously battled her for the Thanksgiving wishbone, could either of them ever have imagined the conversation they were about to have?
The call rapidly devolved to single syllables, incoherent fragments, and, ultimately, wails of grief. When it was over, Gwen leaned against the nearest available wall for support and sobbed against it because Jack’s chest was too far away.
She had no idea how much time passed before she was capable of drying her eyes. When she did, she cleared her throat and scrolled to another number on her phone’s contact list.
“Dave?” she said, unsure of how she sounded. “Captain Maulder, USPH. I’m going to be over tomorrow morning. You’re going to be getting a new customer shortly—Marci Newman’s the name. I want you to save a blood sample for me, but don’t accession it in your lab system. I want to take it back to Rockville with me, okay?”
Dave Dardenoff was one of the assistant coroners at the New York State Medical Examiner’s Office across 32nd Street from Bellevue. Dave had worked at the FDA’s New York office for a while, but he fancied himself to be Quincy, the medical examiner from the old TV series. He preferred a real life medical mystery to analyzing charts and graphs and going on the occasional plant inspection. Dave and Gwen had always gotten along well, and he would provide her with a sample of Marci’s blood, no questions asked and strictly off the record.
Gwen began walking back to the quiet room to rejoin her husband. He’d be worried about her by now, but he knew better than to come to look for her. Somewhere else in the hospital, Marci’s lifeless body lay. Everything in Gwen’s medical training told her that Marci shouldn’t be dead. She wouldn’t forgive herself if she didn’t do something to figure out what had just happened to her very best friend.
4
Mark Stern sat at his desk, playing Space Invaders on his Dell flatscreen. He took his job as a top reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
very seriously, but that didn’t stop him from sneaking in a little R & R during a day otherwise devoted to profiling the bluebloods who controlled the blue chips. He’d just turned forty, but part of him was always going to be a kid, and he had learned years ago that a complete surrender to adulthood was just too difficult for a man who still kept R.E.M. T-shirts and a jean jacket in his closet. He had attempted the quantum leap to responsible, dashing, GQ status; the most notable example being when he tried to placate his old girlfriend by wearing Brooks Brothers suits and attending elegant East Hampton parties, complete with string quartets, champagne, and caviar. He always left depressed, feeling like an imposter. He’d go back to his apartment, smoke a little dope, listen to bootleg Clash CDs, and dream of the Pulitzer he was going to win someday.
Wall Street Journal
very seriously, but that didn’t stop him from sneaking in a little R & R during a day otherwise devoted to profiling the bluebloods who controlled the blue chips. He’d just turned forty, but part of him was always going to be a kid, and he had learned years ago that a complete surrender to adulthood was just too difficult for a man who still kept R.E.M. T-shirts and a jean jacket in his closet. He had attempted the quantum leap to responsible, dashing, GQ status; the most notable example being when he tried to placate his old girlfriend by wearing Brooks Brothers suits and attending elegant East Hampton parties, complete with string quartets, champagne, and caviar. He always left depressed, feeling like an imposter. He’d go back to his apartment, smoke a little dope, listen to bootleg Clash CDs, and dream of the Pulitzer he was going to win someday.
In Mark’s dreams, that Pulitzer would come from a multi-part investigative piece on the plight of the tamarin or the spider monkey published in the
Nation
, but if it had to be about a next-generation globalized billionaire, that would work as well. Mark knew the Pulitzer thing really was more than just a dream, even if the subject matter probably was. He’d started his career by writing for various small town papers in upstate New York (“Police Chief Election To Be Held Saturday”) and gradually moved up to the
New York Times
, going after the kind of local stories buried on page four of the Metro section (“Priest Talks Jumper Off Whitestone Bridge,” “Chimpanzees Found In Bronx Apartment—Owner Pleads Ignorance”). Stern was a ringmaster in the word circus where reporters used prose style aimed at seventh-grade syntax. While his editors never took the stories seriously, the paper’s marketing department started noticing one reader poll after another in which Stern’s stories and byline were the only ones readers could remember. The publisher, well aware of the importance of selling newspapers, ordained that the
Times
give Stern his own column.
Nation
, but if it had to be about a next-generation globalized billionaire, that would work as well. Mark knew the Pulitzer thing really was more than just a dream, even if the subject matter probably was. He’d started his career by writing for various small town papers in upstate New York (“Police Chief Election To Be Held Saturday”) and gradually moved up to the
New York Times
, going after the kind of local stories buried on page four of the Metro section (“Priest Talks Jumper Off Whitestone Bridge,” “Chimpanzees Found In Bronx Apartment—Owner Pleads Ignorance”). Stern was a ringmaster in the word circus where reporters used prose style aimed at seventh-grade syntax. While his editors never took the stories seriously, the paper’s marketing department started noticing one reader poll after another in which Stern’s stories and byline were the only ones readers could remember. The publisher, well aware of the importance of selling newspapers, ordained that the
Times
give Stern his own column.
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