The Test (6 page)

As Carla waited in line for the slovenly receptionist to check her into the health department, she had second thoughts. Fellow patients were slouched in rows of metal chairs all crunched together. She thought of her mother's cheery cardiology office. Mom wouldn't believe this shitty dump. But then again, she wouldn't believe many of the places where Carla hung out.

Waiting to be called into one of the cubicles, Carla almost threw up as the odors—disinfectant, body odor, urine—turned her stomach. Why hadn't she just used cash for a private doctor? But since Bunky had
moved into her apartment, he handled the money and she didn't want to scare him. Unless she had the virus, then she knew that she'd have to tell him. Would she have the guts to do that?

“Miss Parnell?” She'd given the clinic her real name. Dressed like the other derelicts, shabby, and not too clean, she couldn't see anyone making a connection with the well-known Parnell family. “You can see the counselor now. Step right in.”

“Miss Parnell.” A plump, gray-haired lady pointed to a chair in a cubicle. “You're HIV test came out positive,” she said straight out. “And you tested negative for hepatitis.”

“Oh fuck,” Carla slumped back into the chair. So Hank
had
given it to her. Or was it the drugs? “Are you sure? Could there be a mistake?” Floundering for the right question, the one that would give her hope, “A false positive? Oh shit.”

The woman kept talking, but Carla's head was in a fog. Somewhere in that fog, her parents were out there, trying to tell her something, but she couldn't make out what they were saying.

“Talk louder,” she blurted.

“Miss Parnell?” The fat lady waved a hand in front of her face like a windshield wiper. “Are you following me?”

“What am I going to do?” She came back in focus. Her parents' faces faded away, exposing reality.

“Like I said, you can see a private doctor, or enroll in the HIV/AIDS clinic we run here. Remember, you're not the first person to get HIV. I suggest you join a support group. Learn from other people's experiences.”

Carla didn't respond. The woman continued, “You'll have to make some tough choices. About whom to tell.”

“What?” Carla's eyes filled with tears as she considered. Bunky? Did Bunky have it too?

The counselor fidgeted, shuffled some papers, and looked up at the wall clock.

Carla realized that she was taking up too much fucking time. Starting to cry, she groped inside her purse for a tissue and blew her nose.

“Oh shit.” Carla stared at the bright red spot on the tissue. The
matronly woman reached into a drawer and handed her a fresh wad, not offering to take the bloody one. Carla knew her nose was all fucked up from cocaine.

“You must tell your sex partners and anybody you've shared a needle with.”

She had to be kidding.

“They need to know,” the woman droned, “so they don't go infect others and so they can get treatment themselves if they're positive.”

“How long have I had this?” Carla asked, but her question was ignored.

“Regular medical care is a must.” The woman's voice made Carla want to put a stranglehold on her pudgy neck. “Modern drugs can keep the HIV virus under control. The drugs are complicated. You need to find a doctor with experience.” The woman let her gaze linger on Carla's emerald and diamond ring, the one her dad had given her when she'd turned twenty-one. “Or sign in at the Health Department Clinic. I have a packet of information for you. But my advice is to tell others. Those who you think will support you. This is something you'll have to live with the rest of your life. It'll be your responsibility to take care of yourself and the more people who know of your illness, the easier your problem will be.”

Carla sat there, unable to move.
Tell people? Support?

“You think about it. Read the information in this package.” The woman got up and handed her a manila envelope. Still, Carla couldn't move.

“I have to see my next client now,” the woman finally said. “Here, take this.” She reached for a sheet of paper from a pile on her desk. “The ten most important questions to ask your doctor.”

As Carla headed out into the noisy, crowded streets of midtown Manhattan, she let herself be jostled by pedestrians, aimless, afraid to be alone. She ended up at the crack house where she used to hang out before she got the million from her dad's estate. She did a line of coke. It helped, but when she came down, she still had HIV. She came off the high slowly, not crashing like she sometimes did. Through the lone dingy window, she could see that it was dark, and she decided to go
home. She would tell Bunky. Maybe he had it, too, and had never told her. Wouldn't that be sweet? Anyway, that counselor was right. Bunky did have a right to know. But no one else.

The residence on Park Avenue seemed empty when she stepped off the elevator into the elegance of the apartment's seventeen rooms. Sara would have left for home, but where was Bunky? She searched for a note. Not finding one, she headed for her bedroom. Weary and scared, she sank onto the down comforter, and without premeditation, called the number that she had memorized when she was in kindergarten.

“Hello?” A deep male voice.

“May I speak to Ashley?”

“She can't come to the phone right now,” the man said. “I'll be happy to take a message.”

Must be the guy that Rory had told her about—the doctor, twice Ashley's age. How she'd met this guy right after Dad died. How he'd fucking moved in with her. How totally un-Ashley. Carla had been intending to call Ashley and get it straight from her, but, well, she hadn't.

“This is Carla, her sister, may I speak with her, please?”

“Can she call you in the morning. We're running late.”

“No, she can't fucking call me in the morning.” Not caring if she sounded hysterical, Carla screamed. “I need to talk to her now.”

“Very well,” the voice said.

“Ashley, my love, you have a phone call,” Carla could hear in the background, “your sister—No, Carla.”

“Carla!” Ashley picked up in an instant. “Hi, honey. You just caught us. Conrad's taking me to dinner at Le Bec Fin. Very posh, but it
is
Valentine's Day. Remember Dad used to take Mom there on special occasions?”

“Ashley—” The words would not come out, that she had HIV. Suddenly Carla cared what Ashley thought. She'd always lived in her big sister's shadow. How could she now tell her how far down into the muck she'd sunk.

“What is it, Carla?” Ashley's tone changed to serious. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Carla said, stemming the flow of tears that needed to be unleashed. “I just wanted to say Happy Valentine's Day and make sure that you were all right.” Shit, it was Valentine's Day?

Ashley lowered her voice. “I am better than all right,” she confided. “You know, all these years, I've never had a ‘Valentine'—unlike my gorgeous little sister who had more than her share. Right?”

True, Ashley had been too busy studying. No time for fun. Too busy for dates. Too busy to get HIV.

“I'm happy for you,” Carla managed, disheartened. She couldn't tell Ashley, not tonight.

“Hey, I've gotta run. You can't believe how many strings Conrad had to pull to get a reservation tonight.” After a pause, Ashley's voice softened, “Carla, we do have to get together. Sometime soon. Okay?”

“Sure,” Carla mumbled, recognizing the threatening undertone.
We all know how bad you've fucked up your life
.

Hanging up the phone, Carla lay back and wept. Wept for her mother whom she still missed desperately. The rest of the family, Frank and Meredith, to be exact, thought her too indulgent with Carla, but they were wrong. When Mom was alive, Carla had someone to talk to. Mom always understood. Carla knew that if her mother were alive, she would never have let her sink so far.

Carla dialed Rory's number. Rory had been thirteen when Carla was born, a second mom to her. But Carla figured if she told Rory, Rory'd tell Chan. Chan was a doctor. He'd know what to do. But would they tell the others? No, she couldn't face the shame.

“Hello?” A bright young voice. “Stevens' residence.”

“Becky? Or Emily?” Carla asked, trying to sound normal.

“It's Em. Hey, Aunt Carla?”

“Yes,” Carla said, desperate to hear Rory's voice, so much like Mom's. “Em, can I speak to your mom?”

“She's not here,” Emily said. “Dad took her out. Somewhere in Doylestown. 'Cause he's on call. Nobody wanted to trade on Valentine's Day. You gotta hot date tonight, Aunt Carla?” Both Rory's older girls liked to swap gossip with Carla about the fashion scene in New York. Styles, hot models, teen stuff, but Carla let the phone slip into her lap.

Next thing she heard was that annoying beeping. As she reached to hang up the phone, she saw the scribbled note on her pillow. Her engraved personal stationery, Bunky's hand.

Meet me at the Buzz Club, Valentine. Let's party.

Love ya, babe,
Bunk

With a sinking emptiness, Carla crossed the room to her desk. Her hands shaking, she fondled the bottle of sleeping pills she used to take her down from the highs. Then she cursed. Only two left. Had there been a full bottle? She didn't remember, but she knew she would have taken them all, then and there.

She was shaking now. Making her way to her closet, she stumbled face first into a hanging rack of dresses. Still standing, grasping a handful of garments, she selected one, a slinky red sequined number, and yanked it off the hanger. She had to find Bunky. She needed something now and Bunky would take care of her. Carla's cravings surged as she wriggled into the dress and groped for a pair of spike heels. She needed to get fucked up. That's all she could think, I need to get fucked up.

M
ARCH
2001

“Senator, Mr. Schiller's here.” Matt Cleveland plunked a thick dossier on Frank's desk in the Senate Russell Office Building and started to unwrap a Snickers bar. “Right on time. Six o'clock.”

“I'm beat. Two straight days of closed hearings on intelligence matters. Scary stuff coming on the heels of the Armed Forces Committee. All I need right now is that old man.” Frank looked up and ran his fingers through his hair. “And get that candy bar out of my sight. Here I am trying to stick to the Atkins diet, living on cheese and no-sugar Jello.”

“Don't forget you're meeting with Senator McCain. Seven in the Dirksen Building.” No sympathy from Matt.

“Let's hope this does the trick.” Frank patted the dossier, then reached into a drawer for his stash of cashews.

He was crunching a few when Matt ushered Carl into his office. Frank offered the usual amenities. Did he want coffee? Tea? He held out the jar of cashews. Carl politely declined all as he settled into the client chair opposite Frank's polished mahogany desk. Frank assessed Carl's tremor and judged it to be no worse than two months earlier, but nevertheless he felt a certain guilt in making the old man travel to D.C., when he could have seen him in Philadelphia the next day.

Frank asked about Phyllis. Carl asked about Frank's congressional agenda. To get off on the right track, Frank indulged the lawyer by confiding that he was worried about national security. That there needed to be a loop connecting intelligence with technology, with the armed forces, with immigration. Carl told Frank that Phyllis was just getting over bronchitis.

Then Frank got down to business.

“I have retained the law firm of Stewart and Stewart to create a challenge to Dad's will,” he began. “I think it's in the best interest of the family. I assume you knew I'd go ahead and do this, but I wanted to let you know in person before I filed, out of courtesy. You'll find the arguments well presented.” Frank pushed the brief across his desk as if he expected Carl to pick it up. Carl didn't. He just wrinkled his face, smoothed back his dyed hair, and stared back across the desk.

“You'll see the premises. That Dad suffered from dementia. Disabled by the cancer. Metastases all over.”

“Except the brain.” Frank felt Carl's eyes bore into his. “I'm sure you've checked the medical records.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but—”

“I told you before. A challenge will not prevail. Your father took precautions. I assure you, Frank, that this course of action will ruin you politically.”

“What is this, Carl, a threat?” Frank's voice rose. “Because there's more. No question that Dad was under the undue influence of an avaricious stepdaughter with no legal rights to his estate.”

“Stop right there, Frank,” Carl said, taking out a white starched handkerchief and mopping his brow. “I must be coming down with that virus Phyllis had.”

Now came the tricky part. Frank had decided to disclose his challenge to Carl's competence, and the conflict of interest inherent in the financial gain he'd enjoy as executor of such an unorthodox trust. Frank had researched Parkinson's disease, and his experts had assured him that dementia is common. In fact, Carl wasn't talking as if he were demented, but Frank's experts promised to make a good case that the old man's competence could be questioned based on statistics. A tricky maneuver as Carl was managing partner of Donnor and Schiller. Meredith was a senior partner at the firm, but Frank figured that he had no choice, and his wife wholeheartedly agreed.

“No, Carl, I won't stop. There is the matter of your integrity, I mean how can you be capable of unbiased judgment? Then there's your health.”

Carl stared across the desk. His black eyes did not flicker as they focused on Frank, and his tremor seemed to have disappeared.

“It's all in here,” Frank said, pushing the dossier toward him. “Stewart and Stewart, firm here in D.C.”