Megan's Cure (3 page)

Chapter 5

Ann Arbor, Michigan

NANCY JOHANNSEN WAS proud of her 36 years teaching children at Clancy
 
Elementary School in Ann Arbor.
 
When her husband had died eight years earlier, it kept her from spiraling down.
 
It gave her a sense of purpose and plenty to keep her busy.
 
When you spent half of your day negotiating the emotional ups and downs of 28 extremely busy second graders you don’t have the time or energy to feel sorry for yourself.

She put off retirement for two years even after she maxed out on the pension scale.
 
She had no children.
 
She wasn’t particularly close to any of her relatives.
 
What would she do with herself?

Then the school district undertook a round of layoffs.
 
Johannsen retired so a teacher with a young family could keep her job.
 
Retirement had gone better than she expected.
 
She tutored, gardened, volunteered at the library and managed a discussion blog that focused on the Ann Arbor school district.
 
It was the blog that had invigorated her the most.
 
She often felt that she was back in the classroom.
 
The first thing she did was set a filter to stop all posts that contained the two-word sequence “Go Blue.”
 
She had explained to a dozen University of Michigan alums that non-Michigan folks might be offended and, yes, she thought there were even a couple of Ohio State grads who subscribed to the blog.

She had to talk down contributors who thought all whites were racist, assumed male teachers were universally gay and child molesters, and believed every principal and teacher cheated on their students’ standardized tests to increase their bonuses.
 
She kept the contact information for the school district’s ombudsman and a psychologist who specialized in crisis intervention taped to her monitor.

When the scientist from San Francisco called her, she was excited to hear from him again.
 
It had been more than a year since his first call when he offered her a chance to help a child.
 
It was soon after her retirement and it seemed fitting, being able to help a youngster.
 
She had leapt at the chance.

But now he was warning her about some sort of danger.
 
She might be in jeopardy.
 
Did she have somewhere…maybe relatives some place…where she could spend some time, perhaps a month?
 

She could stay with her niece for awhile, she said.
 
But after the call, it all seemed too bizarre.
 
It was hard for her to imagine bad things happening on her bucolic street filled with leafy maples, flowering honey locusts and good neighbors.
 
Spring had come early and she had tomato, cucumber and basil plants on the back porch waiting to be planted. She put off calling her niece.

It was noon the next day when the knock on the door came.
 
The man had dark hair with a single streak of white in it.
 
He was reasonably good looking and wore a black jacket over blue jeans.
 
It was after Johannsen identified herself that he pulled the gun out from inside of his jacket and pushed her back into the house.
 

He told her to sit down on the couch.
 
Then he made her lie on her stomach with her face in a cushion.

“Don’t look,” he said.
 

What was he going to do?
 
Molest her?
 
Shoot her in the back of the head like some gangster?

Johannsen obeyed the order not to look.
 
But she listened.
 
She heard him walking around the living room as if searching for something.
 
Then she heard something being moved on the wall above her.
 
Scraping.
 
It was her plaque – the surprising heavy wooden one that fellow teachers gave her when she retired, honoring her 36 years of service.
 

“What does he want with that?” she thought to herself just before it came crashing down flat against the back of her head, knocking her unconscious.

When Johannsen came to, she was under water.
 
She could see the man above her, pinning her arms to the bottom of the bathtub.
 
His expression was blank, not even a frown or grimace.
 
He might have been a photograph.

She tried to flail but it was as if her limbs were fastened to the bottom of the tub.
 
Something was holding her legs down.
 
Maybe someone else.
 
She inhaled water.
 
Choked.
 
Inhaled more.
 
She finally gave up.
 
She relaxed and looked up at the expressionless man with beseeching eyes that said, “Please don’t do this.”
 
But she knew it was a plea that would go unanswered.

Chapter 6

ENZO LEE LOOKED down his row of brown metal desks and then turned to the three rows before him that formed a buffer in front of the editors’ offices at the San Francisco News.
 
How long ago had it been when every desk was filled at deadline with reporters flailing at their terminals and chattering on telephones in panic as they glanced up at the clocks ticking away on the wall?
 
Now, high-speed Internet was devouring low-tech newsprint and delivery trucks.
 
After three rounds of layoffs in 18 months, the newsroom was decimated.
 
Half the desks were empty.

It reminded him of the way soldiers described it pouring out of the trenches in World War I.
 
Half way across no-man’s land, they would look down their row of humanity, see the huge gaps and wonder how much longer Providence would shield them from exploding artillery shells and machine gun fire.
 

Not that this had been quite that dramatic or lethal.
 
It was more as if a team of accountants lined up at the front of the newsroom every six months.
 
Ready.
 
Aim.
 
Fired.
 
Another eight reporters gone, plus a couple of editors.

Lee considered his long tenure in the reporting business a liability in the age of downsizing.
 
It left him firmly ensconced at the top of the union pay scale – all the more reason to hand him his walking papers.
 
All he could think of was that his steady stream of daily fluff stories – the light features that often graced the front page in a highlighted box – had been deemed valuable enough to keep him on for now.
 
Ironically, he guessed that if he had continued in his original specialty – the tough investigating work of exposing crooked businesses and corrupt politicians – he’d probably be out of a job now.
 
Investigative reporting was a luxury few newspapers could afford these days.

Remembering his professional vulnerability, Lee refocused on his story of the day.
 
He had interviewed Roger and Beth, a married couple, in the wine country that morning.
 
They had known each other when they attended Sonoma High School in the 60s.
 
Roger had asked Beth out back then and she had declined.
 
More than three decades, two spouses and five children later, they met again when his Lincoln smashed into her BMW.
 
Within 90 days, they had married.

“
Roger Barrett obeyed Beth Wilson’s stop sign thirty-four years ago
,” Lee began.
 
“
He wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.
”
 

An hour later, the reporter put the finishing touches on the piece.

“
They used the insurance settlement to pay for the honeymoon.

“‘It’s amazing how much car repairs cost,’ said Wilson with a mischievous smile. ‘It just felt like a love tap.’”

Lee had just sent the story over to the copy desk when his cell phone rang.
 
The caller ID told him it was the Chinese Hospital.

“Mr. Lee,” said the voice on the other end.
 
“Your grandmother has had a cardiac arrest...Mr. Lee?
 
Mr. Lee?
 
Are you there?”

Lee was already running across the newsroom heading for the stairs.

A cab ride and twelve minutes later, he was at the hospital.
 
He was out of breath when he walked through the door into his grandmother’s room.
 
He saw Dr. Choy standing next to the bed.
 
She saw him and extended her arm toward him, palm outward, as she finished tucking in a blanket around the sleeping form.
 

She led him out to the corridor and pushed him into a chair standing against the wall on the pale green linoleum.
 

“You look worse than she does,” she said.

Lee took a deep breath.

“How is she?” he said.

“She’s doing well,” said Choy.
 
“Her heart stopped but the monitor caught it.
 
The nurse came in and began to give her CPR while everyone else was getting the crash cart.
 
All it took was a couple of pushes on her chest and she was back.”

“So, that’s it?” said Lee.
 
“No other damage?”
 
Choy sat down in the chair next to Lee, twisting to face him.
 
She had her hand on his arm.

“Hopefully, not,” she said.
 
“We’ll have her checked out.
 
It was very quick.
 
I’m hopeful any damage was minimal.
 
It’s possible it’s not really a circulation issue…such as a blocked artery.
 
It could be more the impulses telling her heart when to beat.
 
If that’s the case, they may recommend a pacemaker and defibrillator.
 
Cardiology will tell us.”

Lee settled back into the chair and closed his eyes for a moment while he exhaled slowly.

“How much more of this can she take?” he asked, directing the question as much to himself as to Choy.

“She is very strong for her age,” said Choy.
 
“What is she?
 
84?”

“Actually, 85,” said Lee.
 
“Yes.
 
She is in remarkable shape.
 
But, 85 is 85.
 
This would take a lot out of anyone.”

“Unfortunately, what we are doing does not eradicate the cancer,” said the doctor.
 
“It only slows it down.
 
And, she seems to be responding less to each treatment.
 
Resistance is building and we started with the most effective drugs.

“I wish…well…it doesn’t matter,” she continued.
 
“It’s not available.”

“What?” said Lee.

“Well…it’s just…I thought by now there would be a new drug out,” said Choy.
 
“A couple of years ago, I met someone at a medical conference.
 
He was working on something that seemed very promising, especially for this kind of cancer.
 
I’ve checked all the literature.
 
There were a couple of early mentions but nothing recent.
 
Not even trials.
 
I don’t know what happened to it.”

Lee was quiet for a moment.
 
He just looked at Choy.

“You’re saying there could be something else out there that we can try?” he said.
 
“Even if it’s experimental?”

Choy shrugged.

“Let’s find out,” he said.
 
“Let’s make sure.
 
Tell me everything you know about it.
 
I’ll find out what’s going on.”

“I haven’t been able to find anything useful,” said Choy, shaking her head doubtfully.
 
“It just…disappeared.
 
It’s not uncommon for drugs to be delayed…or abandoned altogether during late testing.”
 

“Look,” said Lee, taking her hands in his.
 
He noticed that her palms were warm but dry.
 
“You”ve been right about everything the last two months.
 
The progression.
 
The treatment.
 
Side effects. You’ve answered my many, many questions.”

“You can be…well, uh…persistent,” she said.

“Thanks for not saying ‘stubborn’ or ‘annoying’ but I know I can be both those things as well,” he said. “The point is that I trust your instincts, Ming Wah.
 
If it sounded promising to you, let me take another look.
 
I’ll find out what happened.
 
Let’s get the story. There’s always a way.”

“Leave no stone unturned?” said Choy, gently disengaging her hands from his and smiling indulgently.

“Well,” said Lee.
 
“That’s always been one of my mottos.
 
Plus, it will give me something to do.”

Choy was silent for a moment.
 
Lee could guess her thoughts:
 
“Let the grandson have this project.
 
Make him feel less helpless…less anxious.
 
It might make life easier for everyone.”
  
 
 

“Okay,” she said with a resigned sigh.
 
“I know better than to try to stop you.
 
Here is what I remember.”