How to Start a Fire (4 page)

“A paralegal swap? Is that like a wife swap? We switch back and forth depending on your mood?”

“No. It would be permanent, so long as everyone was happy. Is this something you can live with?”

Anna shrugged and said, “Why not?”

She and Carla spent the rest of the afternoon switching desks.

Two months later, Matthew had acquired exactly four new scraps of information about Anna: she didn’t own a cell phone; she read mostly crime novels, at least two a week; she ran four miles every morning except Sunday; and she was about to turn thirty-six. Matthew had extracted that last bit of data from Janet in Human Resources, and not without some difficulty. Although all personnel files were confidential, Anna’s seemed to be locked away in a vault somewhere. Even Janet had trouble tracking it down. But Matthew persisted and promised that he would use discretion.

On the morning of Anna’s birthday, Matthew buzzed her on the intercom. In a brusque, professional voice, he asked Anna to come into his office and shut the door behind her. She did, and then she sat down across from Matthew and awaited his petty complaint about the growing stack of papers on her desk. At least, that had been the purpose whenever Jeff summoned her.

Anna had almost managed to forget her birthday until Matthew slid a small, pink cardboard box across his desk. She looked down at the box and up at her boss.

“Open it,” he said.

She lifted the lid and found a single chocolate cupcake with white frosting. Matthew pulled a candle out of his breast pocket, leaned over the desk, stabbed it into the baked good, swiftly took out a book of matches, and lit the candle. Anna watched him curiously.

“Make a wish,” he said.

Anna said, “World peace,” and blew out the candle.

Matthew laughed at the lie and wondered what she’d really wished for. He would have been disappointed to know that she hadn’t made a wish, having learned some years ago that wanting things seemed to make them less attainable.

“Want some?” Anna asked as she pulled the candle out of the cupcake.

“It’s all yours.”

“Good,” she said and devoured the cupcake in four bites. “Thank you,” Anna said as she got to her feet. “I trust you to keep my secret.”

“Of course.”

Anna nodded her head and exited the office. She felt uneasy but couldn’t say why. Sometimes she thought of herself as a poorly knit sweater; if someone pulled on one snag, she’d unravel.

Max Blackman, the boss of Anna’s boss and the only surviving Blackman of the firm’s name, was giving his customary tour of the fourth floor to a potential new client, Harold Sibley, co-owner of S&R Properties, a commercial real estate management group.

When Blackman passed Anna in the hallway, he took her arm and drew her to his side.

“Anna, I’d like you to meet Harold Sibley. His company is based in Boston, but they’re opening a branch out west. Mr. Sibley and your father went to college together. Harold, this is Donald Fury’s daughter.”

Anna saw a click of recognition when Harold realized who she was. He cleared his throat, probably buying time, trying to figure out what to say. Anna could only assume that he’d heard all about her.

“Donald,” Harold said with a half smile. “He’s got a great chip shot. But putting isn’t his strong suit.”

“No, it isn’t,” Anna said agreeably, even though she had never played golf with her father.

Anna extended her hand to the older gentleman. He gripped it weakly and looked at his arm as if it were an inanimate object. Anna studied his face. There was a slight droop to the left side. Maybe the weakness and the droop weren’t new. But maybe they were. Anna didn’t want to take any chances.

“I need to speak to both of you in your office,” Anna said to Max. Then she briskly strolled into her boss’s office and waited for the men to follow her.

The side of Harold’s face that still clocked expression revealed impatience. Anna closed the door and spoke quickly, without concern for how her words might alarm him.

“Mr. Sibley, have you had a stroke recently?”

“Of course not.”

“Will you try to smile for me?”

“Max, what is the meaning of this?” Harold said, sliding too hard on the final
s
sound.

“I think you might be having a stroke. Can you raise both arms over your head?”

He raised his arms over his head. Anna and Max saw the right arm drift downward.

“Max, call 911.
Now.
”

Max reached for his phone and dialed. With authority, he demanded an ambulance, but he stumbled when the 911 operator began asking questions.

“Have a seat,” Anna said calmly to Harold. She pulled over a chair from Max’s desk. “When did your symptoms begin?”

“I don’t know. During lunch my face felt a little numb. I had some trouble with the fork.”

“So lunch was about an hour ago?”

“Yes.”

“Relax,” Anna said. “You should be fine.”

There was a short window of time to begin fibrinolytic therapy, Anna knew. If Sibley’s symptoms had really started only an hour or so ago, he was still in that window. But what if his symptoms had started earlier?

Max paced back and forth as far as his phone cord would stretch. He checked his watch. Only five minutes had passed. Several employees began casually loitering outside of Mr. Blackman’s office, peering at the scene through the open blinds. Matthew, too curious to restrain himself, knocked on the door and stepped inside.

“Goddamn it, where is the ambulance?” Blackman shouted.

“Max, you need to chill out,” Anna said, “or we’ll be sending two people to the hospital.”

“Is everything all right?” Matthew asked.

“Matthew, go outside and wait for the ambulance. I don’t want the paramedics to get lost on the way up,” Blackman said. Nothing about Blackman’s tone invited further questions.

The EMTs arrived in the office, checked Harold Sibley’s vitals, and put him on a gurney. Max and Anna followed them out, Anna reporting the onset and duration of symptoms and her findings on physical exam. When they reached the ambulance, Max said to Anna, “Go with them. Make sure he gets the best doctor and the best course of treatment. I’ll take my car and meet you there.”

Through his office window, Matthew watched Anna climb into the ambulance.

A few hours later, Anna and Mr. Blackman returned to the office. The steady soundtrack of gossip and conjecture quieted upon their arrival, but questions remained, nonetheless. Matthew had more than anyone. Did Anna know Mr. Sibley? Why did she call Blackman by his first name, and where did that familiarity come from?

“Harold is going to be fine,” Mr. Blackman said to the throng of employees who had congregated in the hall. “Back to work.”

Anna headed over to her desk, but Mr. Blackman called to her from the doorway of his office. Matthew carefully observed them through his open door.

Max Blackman placed his index and middle fingers on his carotid artery. Anna walked over to him, pulled his hand away from his neck, and took his wrist in her hand. She checked her watch, taking his pulse. One hundred beats per minute, a little fast, but she could feel it slowing down.

“You might consider going for a walk now and again. Or cutting back on red meat.”

“Heard it all before,” he said.

“I’m sure you have,” she said.

“Thank you.” Max smiled warmly at Anna and drew her into a close embrace. “You’re doing great. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

Anna noticed eyes peering through the slats in his blinds. She pulled away.

“People will talk,” she said.

“Let them talk. I don’t care.”

“I do,” Anna said.

“So, how are things going with the new guy?” he said, nodding in the general direction of Matthew’s office.

“Better than with the old guy,” Anna said.

Max chuckled. “It was fun while it lasted,” he said.

“I always wondered about that,” Anna said. “Who were you trying to rattle, me or Jeff?”

“Both, I think,” Blackman said as he strode over to his desk and removed an envelope from the center drawer. He folded it and tucked it into the pocket of Anna’s blazer. “Happy birthday.”

“I can’t accept this.”

“You will or I’ll fire you.”

“I never should have taken this job.”

“But you did,” Blackman said. “Now get back to work.”

Boston, Massachusetts

“What are you doing here?” the patient asked.

“I work here,” Anna said. “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in the hospital,” Mrs. Pearl said as she took in her surroundings.

“We met last night when you were admitted. Do you remember?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember,” Mrs. Pearl said.

“That’s okay. We don’t need to remember everything. I’m Dr. Fury. Do you know why you’re here?”

Anna studied her patient’s chart. Edith Pearl had been suffering from chronic kidney failure for two years. Her treatment consisted of dialysis three times a week and a strict diet protocol, by which Mrs. Pearl was clearly not abiding.

“The same reason I’m always here,” Mrs. Pearl said in a whisper.

Anna found herself speaking in hushed tones, as if her voice could shatter another’s. “You had excess fluid buildup and we needed to do dialysis. This was only twenty-four hours after your previous dialysis. Have you been keeping track of your fluid intake?”

“I used to drink four cups of coffee a day. Then water or soda, and then a cocktail before dinner. Now you tell me to chew on ice chips and eat food that has no flavor. I can live without the food, I guess . . . I was playing bridge with my girlfriends, and Lucy made the most delicious lemonade, and I drank a glass and then another glass.”

“Unfortunately,” Anna said, “you can’t do that anymore. If too much fluid builds up in your body, it stresses your heart and makes it hard for you to breathe.”

“I know.”

“I have to remind you.”

“What if I wanted to stop?” Mrs. Pearl asked.

“Stop dialysis?” Anna asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to your family about this?”

“This is my decision, right?”

“It is. But you should talk to your family.”

“What would happen if I stopped treatment?”

“Toxins would build up. That would cause problems with your heart rhythm.”

“And then I would die?”

“Yes.”

“How long would it take?”

“Not very long. A week. Maybe less.”

“Would it hurt?”

“The pain could be managed.”

Mrs. Pearl diverted her attention to her failing manicure. “Would you look at this?” she said, pointing out a chip in the cotton-candy-pink polish. “I just had them done three days ago.”

“They still look nice,” Anna said.

“What would you do?” Mrs. Pearl asked, her voice eggshell thin.

“I don’t know,” Anna said. Lying.

“How do you make a decision like that?”

“It’s a difficult decision.”

“I’m always thirsty.”

“I understand,” Anna said.

TO
: Anna Fury

FROM
: Kate Smirnoff

RE
: Bloodletting

I’ve been reading about this phlebotomy business. What I don’t get is how a procedure that was practiced for three thousand years could have no palliative advantages. So far, I can find none. Sure, I get that the early bloodletting was a crazy religious practice at first and then that it was used to restore the balance of bodily humors. I’m sure you had to be there for that to make sense. But when men of science, capable of some deductive reasoning, got involved, how come they didn’t notice that draining someone’s blood never made him feel any better? The only use for it that makes sense to me is, say, if there was an area that was swollen. I guess if I knew nothing about the human body and was practicing medicine in ancient times, I might find a logical reason to let blood out of a swollen body part. I suppose it’s not that different from lancing a boil.

You know what else is really funny? That barbers were surgeons way back when. Did you know that the red-and-white barbershop signpost was also the sign for a surgeon? I’m sure they teach all that crap in medical school. Even now, a barber must have steady hands and is trusted with a very sharp blade. If I were a man, I’d never let a barber give me a straight-razor shave. I always hate that procedure when I see it in movies. You’d think there’d be more barbershop murders than there are.

How are you doing? And please let me know if you can think of any condition in which bloodletting made sense.

Kate

TO
: Kate Smirnoff

FROM
: Anna Fury

RE
: Bloodletting

Hi. Your new obsession is intriguingly macabre. Most ancient medicinal practices were more likely to kill you than heal you. Then again, some ghastly measures, like leeching, turned out to be rather useful. Hirudotherapy (the fancy word for the medical use of leeches) made a comeback recently because it can aid postoperative patients who run the risk of blood clots from venous congestion. I’m not sure why bloodletting lasted so long, but there are surely things we are doing right now that one day might seem barbaric. I’d like to say it’s inserting bags of silicone into the chest wall. But I think big tits (or
proportional breasts
, as they were described in my plastics rotation) are here for the duration.

Enough about medieval medicine. Have you thought about my offer? Why don’t you come for a visit and you’ll see.

Anna

After medical school in St. Louis, Anna was accepted into a residency program in Boston, and so she returned to the cold embrace of her family. Colin was there, which helped, but it wasn’t like she ever saw him. Within six months, she met a man who’d come into the ED after being bitten by his girlfriend’s dog. She looked at his chart. Nick Charles was the name he gave. He must have shown ID and proof of insurance at registration, but she still didn’t believe it.