Miranda Page 2

  “I should talk to a relative. Do you have the contact information for any of them?”

  “No,” and I thought: He is all I have and I’m all he has.

  “Do you at least know where I can get it?” He leaned back in his chair. “Wife, children?”

  “No. Norman is still married, but I’ve never met his wife, much less his son.” I took another sip of coffee. “I believe his son lives in Europe.”

  I stopped talking because it occurred to me where the detective could contact the woman that was still his wife.

  “Do you have any paper?”

  Hernandez pulled out a small notepad and pen from his jacket and placed them on the table. I reached out. With a look, I asked permission to take them. It wasn’t until he agreed with a nod that I moved them towards me. I wrote down a name and a number with my best handwriting.

  “This is Norman’s attorney. He may be able to help you contact his family.” While reaching out to take the pen and pad back, he brushed my hand.

  God, these hormones are driving me crazy.

  “Thank you. I hope you don’t mind if I contact you again, if necessary.”

  Another unwelcome thought. Why would it bother me that such a handsome man contacts me?

  “You’re welcome. I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need.” I made sure he understood that I was at his complete disposal, for whatever he needed.

  He again reached out to say goodbye. I did the same and, for a second, I sensed that his eyes were like an open book, and just when I thought I could read them, the book closed again. It was as if he had realized his misstep. Then I felt guilty about thinking how attractive I thought he was with his tanned skin, when the real reason I was there with him brought me back to reality… Norman.

  I thought of calling someone… someone else from the office, of course, because they should know what was happening. I thought that a call at that hour would upset anyone, so I decided not to. I left a voicemail message with Medika’s corporate counsel, and Norman’s attorney, Ethan.

  I walked towards the waiting room. There were seats available now. I entered and sat down.

  I awoke to the ring of the cell phone. Yawning and anxious, the cell that I had in my hands fell to the floor. I answered with a raspy, cracking voice.

  “Miranda Wise, hello.”

  I recognized Ethan’s voice instantly.

  “What the hell is going on?” Tactfulness had never been one of his strengths. “Where the hell are you?”

  I had forgotten my executive voice and used a more calm and informal one.

  “In the hospital waiting room,” I rubbed my eyes in an attempt to feel my body’s reactions and make sure that it was still there. If only there was still hope of waking up from a bad dream.

  “What happened? Are you okay?”

  “Yes. It’s Norman. He had an accident a few hours ago.” My voice cracked the moment I said accident.

  “God! What happened to him? How is he? How is Norman?”

  My silence aggravated Ethan’s usual characteristic anxiousness. He asked me again how our friend was. I explained briefly, without embellishing the situation: “It’s bad.”

  That instant, only silence came across the other end of the line. Then, a moment later:

  “I’m on my way. You can explain in person.” The called ended.

  The cell’s screen backlight had barely shut off when I heard a masculine voice above all others.

  “Relative of Norman Clausell!”

  I felt like they were calling me, like I was that person, even if I wasn’t. I looked up and saw a nurse in blue clothing, standing below the “authorized access only” doorway. The man saw me and, noticing my anguished expression when hearing Norman’s name, knew that I was the one he was looking for. He waved me toward him using the papers in his hand, opened the door a little more, and indicated the way with his other hand.

  “You may see Mr. Clausell now.”

  I followed the nurse through another set of doors with a sign that read Intensive Care Unit. We passed three cubicles and arrived at Norman’s. It seemed like there was no hospital equipment that wasn’t connected to his body. I watched him carefully. His face had suffered enough: his cheeks were swollen and purple, and the inflammation in his right eye was worse. The impression this made left me standing at the foot of his bed staring with a lump in my throat, an upset stomach, and short of breath.

  “You may stay for a few minutes. Dr. Martinez will come to speak with you soon.”

  I approached Norman. With every step I took, I seemed to feel the pain of his wounds in my own flesh. My legs couldn’t stand it anymore and there, next to the bed, I fell to my knees. I took his pinky between my hands. I began talking to him the way he always spoke to me.

  “I don’t have time for this, Norman. You better get out of here quickly. This is no time to be taking a vacation. Leave that to others.” I could barely hold back my tears. I couldn’t help but think of our last conversation, less than twenty-four hours ago.

  Norman had been leading a campaign against me. He was determined that I devote myself to living. He would say that I spent too much time studying and working–that at thirty-two it was time for me to do something more with my life.

  Did he sense that something would happen to him?

  I felt a stare at my back. I couldn’t lift my head. The weight of profound sadness from seeing him this way was too much. A woman spoke from the doorway. It seemed to me like she didn’t want to see my reaction to the bad news. She must have learned that was the best way to deliver it: without looking people in the eye.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. Mr. Clausell’s condition is very serious. The next forty-eight hours are going to be very important to making a prognosis.”

  Dr. Martinez approached me. She helped me up off the floor. I dried my tears and turned towards her. I could only speak in a low whisper. “What’s supposed to happen during these forty-eight hours?”

  “His body needs to start the healing process: the intracranial bleeding must stop, and the pressure against the walls of the brain must diminish. If that happens, it would be a good sign.”

  I paused the conversation briefly.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked, without really wanting to know.

  “That the bleeding doesn’t stop or increases, and that it causes permanent brain damage, or even worse, that Mr. Clausell’s body goes into shock and cardiac arrest.”

  The summary I imagined seemed more appropriate: stated simply, he could die any moment.

  “Is there something I can do besides praying?”

  It goes without saying how helpless I felt just waiting and doing nothing, at the mercy of whatever his body decided to do.

  “Yes, you can do something more.” A feeling of hope came over me. “You can help us contact a relative, wife, perhaps children–someone to consent to the surgeries to repair his broken bones.”

  The sense of hope dissipated.

  “And if no one shows up?” I asked without analyzing what she might think.

  She looked at me a little confused.

  “In case no close next of kin can be reached, we can proceed with the necessary treatment to ensure Mr. Clausell’s health, but we’re required to document that an effort was made to contact them. I’m certain that Detective Hernandez will take care of that.” She approached Norman and began to inspect the intravenous medications that were being administered. “What is your relationship to the patient?” she asked as she moved slowly towards the monitors that displayed every sign of life still left in him.

  “Mr. Clausell is a good friend…” my words were interrupted by a sigh. Why do I give these people details? I asked myself. “And my boss,” I added anyway.

  As she listened to the explanation, the doctor flashed me half a smile. With my last three words, she had come to her own conclusion. I imagine that with so many years of practicing medicine, she’s heard so many stories tha
t one more didn’t surprise her.

  I couldn’t stay with Norman much longer. On my way out, I ran into Ethan. Protocol wasn’t necessary.

  “He’s fucked up. Right?”

  I nodded while looking to support myself against the wall. I needed something to share the weight I felt inside. He spoke again.

  “A little fucked up, very fucked up, or too fucked up?”

  Ethan’s personality forced people to believe that he never took things seriously, even if that wasn’t true. If I had been an outsider, I would have thought so.

  “Very fucked up, Ethan. Very fucked up.”

  I started crying, then felt relieved that I could do it on a familiar shoulder. He hugged me with one arm for a couple of seconds and that was it. He had never been empathic.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked as he pushed me away from his shoulder. He had fulfilled his consolation quota. I told him that it wasn’t clear. I repeated the same story the detective told me–that another car was involved and that the driver had not bothered to help Norman–and that filled me with incredible rage. I’m certain that my cheeks were red with fury. I noticed Ethan's eyes when I mentioned the possibility that the other car had run off.

  Nor will they find him was what I seemed to see in Ethan’s eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Ethan?” I asked.

  As soon as he realized that I had noticed that part of what I was saying didn’t surprise him, he took refuge in his attorney’s mask… in his poker face. I knew that face very well. It had been ten years that I’d known him and worked with him daily. I knew that something in my story had not surprised him, but I could not figure out what. An unexpected cold traveled from my spine to my neck. This must be how it feels to lose trust in someone–a very unpleasant feeling to say the least. I was left staring into his eyes.

  Spontaneously, we began to struggle to see who could stare the longest without blinking–who would blink first. Knowing that Ethan would win wasn’t new to me. He had been trained for it. It ran through his veins with generations of lawyers and prosecutors in his family. I accepted defeat.

  “You must contact his family.”

  “Why?” he asked in a defiant tone.

  “Doctors need permission to perform surgery.”

  “They can proceed without consent,” he exclaimed without me having finished speaking.

  That was very true. He was right, but why not contact the family? If someone could find them, he could, but his interest was absent.

  “What’s wrong, Ethan?” His attitude was now irritating me.

  I crossed my arms.

  “What’s wrong with what, Miranda?” he asked, and then he made a mistake.

  He hid his hands in the pockets of his slacks, a habit he had to hide the involuntary movement of his fingers when he was lying or hiding something. He had forgotten that he had once confessed that weakness to me.

  “Why don’t you want to contact his family?” I insisted, because it seemed he was forgetting that I had been his student, and that he had taught me various tricks and ploys that he had mastered so well.

  I took several steps back.

  “It’s probably not what Norman wants us to do,” he shrugged.

  “What makes you think that?” Tension could be felt in the vacuum created by the pauses between our words.

  Ethan exhaled and grimaced. It seemed as if his chest deflated.

  “Miranda, in all these years, how many times has he mentioned his wife or his son?”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but Ethan had a good point. I allowed my mind to wander to the past. On two occasions, I had heard Norman mention his wife’s name, but his son’s, never. “Eliezer” was the young man’s name. At my continued insistence, Norman’s assistant, Margaret, told me one day, but not without first making me swear that I would never tell anyone.

  Ethan faced me head-on. He came so close that I felt uncomfortable.

  “You’re right about that, but we can’t burden ourselves with something that is not our concern.”

  Although I was very surprised by his behavior, I didn’t show it, nor did I back down. I remained defiant and poker faced.

  “That’s why. It’s not up to us. Let the police do their work.”

  A third voice interrupted the conversation–a wish come true.

  “Sure, that’s our job.”

  Hernandez had approached from behind Ethan, hearing our clumsy challenges. Ethan turned towards Hernandez after first giving me a look that said: Why the hell didn’t you warn me?

  The detective, who must have been working since early morning, had a fresh look on his face. He held out his hand.

  “Detective Hernandez.”

  Ethan pulled his right hand out of its hiding place.

  “Attorney Valdes.”

  Hernandez pulled out the piece of paper on which I had written the information for Norman’s attorney. He unfolded it, glanced at it, and a smile spread across his lips–some very desirable lips, indeed.

  “Did you say, Valdes?” he asked Ethan, thanking me with a smile.

  “Yes,” replied Ethan.

  “Then, I think I’ll do my job. Are you Norman Clausell’s attorney?” Hernandez looked relaxed. He was enjoying the moment.

  Ethan gave me another look of disgust, asking I’m sure, in his particular style: How the hell does he know that? Being a good student finally, I kept the poker face.

  “I’m Medika’s corporate counsel, Mr. Clausell’s company.” He stressed “corporate.” Being a man of few words: that was another one of his distinctive tricks.

  “Counsel, lets skip the technicalities. We need to contact Mr. Clausell’s family. Can you do it or can you facilitate an arrangement?”

  Ethan was sly. He knew better than to arouse suspicion or make an enemy of the detective.

  “I don’t have any contact with them. Nor telephone numbers. Many years ago, Norman gave me an address. I don’t know if it’s current.”

  The detective smiled.

  “Perfect! We have to start somewhere. I’ll see you at your office after lunch.”

  Ethan took his other hand out of his pocket and made a motion with it in the air.

  “That’s not necessary, detective. I can send it to you in an e-mail, if you give me your information.”

  I found this classic encounter between a lawyer and policeman entertaining. Ethan, who thought himself such a tough guy, knew how to pick his battles. Unfortunately, with the police officer, he couldn’t even score a point in his favor.

  “Don’t bother, counsel. I have to go to Medika anyway.”

  Ethan didn’t like that. His hands returned to their hiding place. Hernandez, on the other hand, looked satisfied with what he had accomplished.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you now.” He turned his head, excusing himself, and walked away with that hurried gait with which his legs moved. Before he could leave, I called out his name. He stopped and turned towards me.

  “Yes, Miss Wise.”

  “Any news about the accident?”

  He could smell my anxiety. He shook his head.

  “I hope to have more news soon.” This didn’t comfort me, of course. Even so, I thanked him anyway, as a courtesy. “You don’t have to thank us. It’s our job.” He looked at Ethan. “Isn’t that right, Counsel?”

  The detective had chosen Ethan as one of the battles he had to win.

  “Yes, yes,” he replied without taking his eyes away off Hernandez, who then turned around and continued walking.

  As soon as the police officer left, Ethan approached me and squeezed my arm.

  “Thanks, Miranda!”

  “Thanks, for what?” I tried to sound like a naïve girl.

  “Because now I have that bloodhound on me.” Ethan was definitely upset with me. I removed his hostile hand from my arm and backed up a little. Having him so close bothered me like never before.

  “And how is that my fault? Where in the hell is it written tha
t in case Norman has an accident that results in a coma, I can’t help the police and give them his attorney’s phone number?”

  He moved in so close again that I could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke.

  “It’s called having common sense, Miranda!”

  “Go to hell, Ethan!”

  Tears tangled in my eyelids, I left the hospital at the same hurried pace as Hernandez with Ethan with words still left unsaid. When I got in my car, I hit the steering wheel and screamed.

  As I was leaving the hospital for home, the cell phone rang. I parked by the side of the road and had to search for that damn phone which had disappeared in my purse again. This time I saw that Ethan’s name was on the screen.

  “What do you want?”

  “Miranda Wise, as Medika’s corporate counsel, I order you to limit your communication with police and to not make any statements to the press. I’ll be the one in charge of issuing statements to the press and releasing information.”

  I smiled.

  “Don’t fuck with me, Ethan! You must be joking.”

  “That’s an order, Wise. If you don’t follow my instructions, you will face the consequences.” He swallowed and took a breath. “You know you’re exposing yourself. Understood?”

  Ethan was serious and although the pedantic tone he used bothered me, I understood that he was just doing his job.

  “Understood,” I whispered.

  “Good.” The call ended and then there was silence.

  ***

  I arrived at home and forgot about the bath that I so wanted to take. I lay down exhausted on the bed to recharge, wishing everything had been a dream... a terrible dream and nothing more. It’s not, Miranda. It’s ugly and it’s real. With that thought in my mind I fell asleep… who knows how.

  ***

  A little later at noon, I arrived at Medika. I came in through a rear entrance, which was meant only for board members. I wanted to enter unnoticed. I wasn’t in the mood for explanations or questions, which surely would be asked. Anyway, I had no answers.

  As I was about to enter stealthily, a voice called out my name. There was no escape. It was Alex, my assistant. Drafting corporate press releases and memos was one of his duties. If there were someone with whom I should share what had happened, he would be the one. Even so, it weighed heavily on me to repeat what little I knew.