Of Flesh and Blood (61 page)

A scattering of nervous laughter met the crass question. Duluth looked to Vogel, who nodded his permission. “Until it is tested in court, I do not believe there is a definitive answer to that,” she hedged. “The Alfredson board is clearly within its right to negotiate a sale of the medical complex. However, certain interested parties—such as the hospital’s foundation—have the right to contest any sales.”

The ponytailed man threw up his hands. “For the love of God, jump off the fence and offer us your best guess.
Please!
”

Duluth opened her mouth to reply, but Vogel cut her off. “Undoubtedly it will be hotly contested in court, but at the end of the day, we do believe the Alfredson board can sell this hospital. Yes.”

A buzz broke out among the attendees, with murmurs and comments circling the table. Eileen had to call the meeting back to order. After the lawyers were excused, she introduced Gregory Alfredson as the first board member to address the group. A skinny, stooped man in his early sixties, Gregory appeared nervous, speaking with notes and addressing only the podium in front of him. “The Alfredson hospital is synonymous the world over with excellence in medical care. My great-grandfather, Marshall Alfredson, always intended for our family to oversee this wonderful institution . . .”

While Erin appreciated Gregory’s support, he was such an ineffectual speaker that she suspected the entire room had tuned him out after his first few sentences. After Gregory sat down, Eileen introduced Alison Baxter, a plump younger woman with curly red hair and a fiery demeanor to match. Baxter spoke without notes and made her perspective crystal clear from her opening sentence. “Listen, I might be distantly related to Marshall Alfred-son, but I have no more connection to the Alfredson Medical Center than I do to the Mayo Clinic . . .”

For the next few hours, member after member rose to speak, almost equally divided for or against the motion. Some were eloquent and passionate; others droned on and on. But the longer Erin listened, the greater her unease became—she sensed that the tide had already turned in favor of the for-sale side.

Eileen adjourned the meeting by announcing the lunch break. Trolleys of food were wheeled into the room. After serving themselves, William, Tyler, and Erin sat down to eat. None of them had heaped much food on their plate, but William’s looked barren with one roll and a few spoonfuls of pasta salad.

“What do you think, Dad?” Tyler asked, lowering his fork to his untouched plate.

William shrugged. “Very few surprises, so far.”

Erin sighed. “A lot of the Alfredsons seem set on selling this place.”

“It’s bound to be close. There is a lot of money at stake for each member personally. Most have come here with their minds already firmly made up,”
William said. “It’s going to come down to a small group of them whose votes are undecided, or at least unknown.”

“You nervous about your speech, Dad?” Tyler asked.

William flashed a tired smile. “I can only do what I can do. Besides, I am not sure my words will make a drop of difference.”

Erin reached out and squeezed his shoulder, feeling nothing but bone under his suit jacket. “You’ll do good, Dad.”

William looked at them for a long moment. “Regardless, I am glad you’re both here.” He cleared his throat. “Your mother would have been very proud.”

A few minutes later, Eileen stood up at the front of the room. “In the interest of time, I think we can finish our coffee and dessert as we continue the meeting.” She pointed to the back row of seats. “It’s my honor now to introduce the CEO and president of the Alfredson, Dr. William McGrath.”

William rose from his seat and, without a glance to either of his children, headed for the far end of the room where Eileen waited. He moved stiffly, as though in pain, but he kept his head high and back straight. By the time he reached Eileen, his first slide was already mounted on the screen above him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hutchins. And to the rest of the board, too. I feel truly honored and privileged to have the opportunity to speak to you as the Alfredson’s CEO.”

On the large screen, a grainy black-and-white photograph of two men standing side by side at the bottom of the steps of the original brick building appeared. Erin had never seen the photograph before, but she recognized Marshall Alfredson and Evan McGrath from other photos she had seen. “I’m certainly not a historian,” William began. “But I have to believe that Marshall Alfredson and Evan McGrath would be exceedingly pleased and proud of what their descendants have accomplished over the past hundred years.” He pointed out the window to the nearby buildings. “The clinic that Evan dreamed of and Marshall Alfredson built in 1896 has truly become one of the world leaders in health care with one of the best research, teaching, and clinical programs in the nation. Arguably, the world.” He swept a hand in front of him. “Just how special is the Alfredson? You might ask.” He paused to scan the faces at the table around him. “Allow me to elaborate.”

Though he spoke without notes, the slides changed above him in seamless continuity with his words. “This hospital has produced
three
separate Nobel Prize winners in medicine. Four major new classes of pharmaceuticals were born here. And numerous surgical techniques used the world over have been pioneered on these grounds. We have weathered two world wars, the Spanish flu, the population boom in the Pacific Northwest, and constant advances in technology and evolving health-care needs. The Alfredson has not only risen to every challenge, but emerged stronger for each.

“In the past year alone, the Alfredson has treated over two hundred thousand patients, who came from as near as Oakdale and as far as Madagascar. We house the third most successful organ transplant program in the country. Our cure rates for pediatric and adult cancers are as good or better than any other oncology program. We are widely acknowledged to have the leading neurological and spinal cord research program in the nation.” He stopped to look at the others around him. “But such is the spirit of this hospital that we never rest on our laurels. I would now like to review some of the exciting, potentially earth-shattering research and innovations blossoming around us, literally, as I speak . . .”

Using a series of slides, some accompanied by video footage, William highlighted several of the major medical programs—from the joint replacement service to the diabetic care center. Even Erin, who had attended the medical staff meetings and heard some of this before, was floored by the amount of research and development taking place at the Alfredson. She found herself a little choked up when William turned his attention to the cardiac program, citing its phenomenal success rate with procedures such as angioplasty and heart transplants and expanding on the promise of experimental projects like the Alfredson pump—a new prototype for an artificial heart.

The screen above William ran through a series of financial slides and stopped on one with a steadily rising bar graph. “The work the Alfredson does is extremely expensive. As a nonprofit organization, our programs are supported almost entirely by the foundation through ongoing donations and existing endowments,” he said. “However, no private company would ever, or
could
ever, afford to maintain or support the level of research and innovation we currently do. The sale of the Alfredson would paralyze, or more likely eliminate altogether, most, if not all, of the ongoing work in these areas.”

The screen went blank above William. “I suppose at the end of the day, many of you have to ask yourself: So what?” He paused to shrug. “If not the Alfredson, then surely some other hospital will take up the slack and fill the void?” William shook his head. “Sadly, that will not happen. Do you want to know why?”

A few heads around the table nodded.

“Health care in this country has reached a state of crisis. With an aging population, increasingly complex care, and the spiraling cost of medicine and technology, we simply cannot afford to provide decent and accessible care to our citizens—often, to the ones who need it most. An entire segment of our population is suffering medical neglect. Arguably, criminal neglect. No private insurer or health-care company will look after these people, but in more than a hundred years the Alfredson has never ever turned its back on patients in need.

“Here at the Alfredson, yes, we have looked after movie stars, world leaders, and royalty, but we have also cared for the homeless and the poor. Children without insurance who need lifesaving subspecialized care. The frail elderly, psychiatric patients, substance abusers, and other disenfranchised patients have always found compassion and care within the walls of this hospital, just as Marshall Alfredson and Evan McGrath envisioned before the first brick was ever laid.

“If you choose to sell the hospital today, the Alfredson might live on in name.” He paused for a long moment. “But I promise you, her spirit will not.”

With that, William limped away from the screen and toward the back of the room. At first, the room fell into silence, but then someone at the far end of the table began to clap. Soon, others joined in until most of the people around the table were applauding. A number of people even rose to their feet.

William was still poker-faced when he reached Erin and Tyler. But Erin could not help herself. She hopped to her feet and wrapped him in a hug. “You did great, Dad.” She swallowed. “You really did.”

Aside from a smattering of unavoidable small talk with a few tedious cousins, Lorna Simpson had hardly spoken up to this point in the meeting. She sat halfway down the table, in a black skirt and a jacket a size too small, trying to appear as disinterested as possible. But her mind never stopped racing, and she was constantly tabulating a running tally in her head. The earlier anemic and hopelessly repetitive presentations from her distant relatives had helped Lorna compile her mental estimate of where the vote now stood.

For the most part, the meeting had progressed as Lorna anticipated. William McGrath’s speech was undeniably heartfelt—some might have even considered it stirring—but his words were unlikely to sway any voters, especially once Lorna had the chance to refute them. The only real surprise, and a pleasant one, was that her great-aunt—whom Lorna considered a wild card—had remained silent throughout. The old bird had made eye contact with Lorna and waved a few times, but otherwise Dot had reclined back in her chair, seemingly content to just listen to the other board members.

Lorna had worked tirelessly in the two weeks since leaving Dot’s mansion. She had gone to great effort to orchestrate events and leave as little as possible to chance. The master stroke, in her mind, was positioning herself on the agenda as the very last speaker with a bogus story of how she might be delayed having to care for her ill father.

Lorna was glowing with optimism when, after the afternoon’s final coffee break, Eileen Hutchins announced, “We will close the formal addresses with a presentation from Dr. Lorna Simpson.”

Tired and worn down by the long day of speakers, the others around the table showed little interest as Lorna strode up to the front with a thick
folder tucked under her arm. Lorna didn’t mind at all. After years of lecturing restless undergrads, public speaking no longer intimidated her. Though Lorna knew she lacked the charm and wit of the best lecturers, she possessed an innate sense of timing and enough of her great-aunt’s flair for storytelling to hold an audience. Besides, she was certain there was no risk of losing her crowd today.

Lorna had a quick glance at the vaguely familiar faces around the table and then launched in. “Don’t let the title fool you. I’m not a real doctor. I have a Ph.D. in history. And history is
exactly
what I would like to talk about today. But before I do, I need to touch on the present to help put the history in context.”

Lorna looked down past the end of the table to where the McGraths sat at the far end of the room. She waved in a gesture of greeting. “We’re fortunate to have three McGraths here today. Isn’t it amazing that two families could intertwine so closely over multiple generations to produce something as special as the Alfredson?” She shook her head as though awed. “I was moved by Dr. McGrath’s description of how far the institution has come and the incredible promise it still shows.”

Lorna let the smile seep from her face. “But Dr. McGrath did gloss over a few details that I think are worth considering. For example, he mentioned that the Alfredson has treated numerous world leaders, but he did not point out that, only last week, our hospital almost killed a former presidential front-runner.”

A few murmurs of surprise broke out around the table.

“It’s true. It hasn’t been discussed much publicly, but we’ve had a superbug—one of those multiresistant germs—raging inside the walls of the Alfredson. Several buildings, wards, the ICU, and the kitchen all had to be closed. More than ten people have died so far. And Senator Calvin Wilder, a patient of Dr. McGrath’s daughter-in-law, came within a hair’s breadth of joining them.”

Lorna paused to allow the board members to absorb the news. She looked over at the three McGraths again. “As integral as the McGraths have been to the Alfredson, a history of unrest has followed the family throughout the generations. That might never have been more true than today.” Lorna reached inside her folder and extracted the photocopies of Denny Rymer’s articles about Nate Stafford. She divided the stack in half and handed each pile
to the nearest person on either side of the table, who took one and passed the rest down the line. “Those of you who live in the Northwest might have already seen this story about Dr. Tyler McGrath.” She pointed him out to the rest of the attendees.

Tyler folded his arms across his chest and shifted in his seat under the sudden focus, but he said nothing.

Lorna sighed. “Unfortunately for the young doctor—a very good childhood cancer specialist, by all accounts—he is embroiled in a nasty and very public accusation of malpractice and ethical misconduct.” She went on to summarize the case, highlighting the lack of consent and the tragic outcome. “Aside from the potential for huge monetary damages, I think even Dr. McGrath Sr. would agree that it is not the kind of publicity the Alfredson would want. As you can see from the article, Dr. William McGrath has been more active in trying to clear his family name than in addressing the actual incident.”