This Is Not Over Part 28

"Really?" I appreciate the change of subject.

He shakes his handsome head, and a medium-brown forelock flops forward boyishly. "It doesn't have the best reputation, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

"I was exploring a lot of different industries, and I didn't know which way to go. I had a chemistry minor, and someone knew someone, and I talked to this incredibly genuine guy who understood my reservations. He actually liked that I had reservations. He knew that I was like you, and that once I'm in, I'm in all the way, so I have to choose carefully. He liked that I think before I just drink the Kool-Aid. And what he said to me was, 'We make medicines that improve people's lives. Sometimes we even save them. Are we a charity? No. But we make a difference.'"

"That's just what I want! To make a difference."

"That's who we need around here." He leans in. "I don't actually do the hiring. That's for the district managers, and you'll still have to get the seal of approval from Artie, go out for dinner or a drink or something with him, but I know he's going to love you. Professor Myerson told me I ought to meet you, that you're special. I see what he means."

I find myself blus.h.i.+ng, though there's no seduction in Sean's gaze. But it is direct. He's looking right at me, and still, I did it. I pa.s.sed! He wants me!

So why is there this feeling in the pit of my stomach, like it's too good to be true?

Because I distrust happiness, I always have. For good reason.

"There's a lot of compet.i.tion for these jobs," he says. "Mostly, it's because they pay well. Pretty girls want to memorize some drug data and bat their eyelashes at doctors. They think that's all there is to it." I don't love that he said "pretty girls" rather than women. It seems a touch s.e.xist. "There's a lot more to it than that. You have to be a person of conviction. You have to believe in our products and what they can do, that they're going to help people, and that you're the one to get the doctor to see that. It's a mission."

"Get the doctor to see what?" I'm a little confused. Professor Myerson said that I would be educating the public on vaccines. I thought that was my mission.

"You're making sure the doctors are armed with the latest medical research so they can do the best for their patients."

"Don't doctors already know about vaccines?"

"Right, the vaccine project. That'll be about ten percent of your time. The rest, you'd be out in the field, building relations.h.i.+ps with the docs. We've got a new antidepressant coming to market. It's going to be exciting. Transformative."

I stare at his widening smile and I get it. Sean's been selling me. On a sales job. But why? He already said pretty girls are lining up. "What would my job t.i.tle be?"

He laughs. "You'd be a pharmaceutical sales representative. Is that t.i.tle enough for you?"

"More than enough," I say quietly.

"Let's be real here. It helps that you look the way you do. Everyone likes to talk to attractive people. But you're more than that. There's a quality to you, an intangible, that's what Professor Myerson called it, and what it means is that doctors will also want to listen to you. They'll want to be persuaded. That's why I like a communications major more than a biology major. You're bright, you'll learn the science. But you can't teach hunger, right?"

I should be flattered. I've got a successful executive from one of the top five pharmaceutical companies in the world sweet-talking me. But going into doctors' offices to "educate" them, when I don't even have a science background myself . . . sounds like I'm going to be trying to persuade them with my intangible quality.

Sean thinks I'd make a great wh.o.r.e.

Is that what Professor Myerson sees, too? I know what my dad thought. So what about Rob? And Thad?

Maybe I haven't been pa.s.sing at all.

46.

Miranda

The Joshua Stanwyck Foundation exists to fight medical malpractice. It focuses on education, advocacy, resources, and lobbying, because the medical profession needs to be held accountable for its actions.

The foundation was started by Kevin and Martha Stanwyck after the tragic death of their son Joshua. He was a bright, beautiful seventeen-year-old who went into surgery for appendicitis and never woke up, due to the actions of an anesthesiologist who had been awake for twenty straight hours. Joshua was robbed of his future, and Kevin and Martha want to be sure this never happens to any other children, or their parents.

I have to fight to return my attention to Lex. His name is st.i.tched on his pocket, orange thread on a brown canvas s.h.i.+rt. I just keep thinking of young Joshua Stanwyck, and his poor parents. Larry destroyed their family, and then he destroyed the reputation of an anesthesiologist to save himself. There's no other explanation, is there?

"The system is armed. Can you see the lights?" Lex is speaking slowly. He clearly thinks I'm a dotty old woman, still in my pajamas and robe at two P.M.

"It looks like it's armed," I say, "but someone's gotten in before. I don't have to remind you about the rat, do I?"

"Beverly Hills has a rat problem," he begins, but I cut him off.

"And in Santa Monica the rats wear muddy men's shoes?"

"I'll run some more tests," he says, resigned.

"I'd appreciate that."

I step back and let him work. I don't care if he's humoring me. Being alone in the house while Larry's away had the makings of a fun adventure, for about a half hour. Then I ran into Gail, and I was reminded that terrible things happen to good people all the time. During a long sleepless night, something possessed me to Google Joshua Stanwyck and I realized that sometimes people you thought were good have done terrible things, or maybe they're not good people at all. If Larry could lie to me about something like that-could turn a seventeen-year-old boy into a seventy-year-old man-then he could lie about anything. I'm truly and utterly alone.

Yet all day, I've had this feeling like I'm being watched, like Dawn's thugs are biding their time, waiting to pounce.

It sounds crazy, I know Lex thinks I am, but I can't shake it.

At least I heard back from Thad. The money smoked him out. He told me he's fine and I should stop "blowing up" his phone.

Meanwhile, I've been jumping at every noise and rechecking the alarm panel. But it's not helping. I can't relax.

I never did send Dawn that e-mail. Who am I kidding? I'm not about offense. Never have been. My entire life has been orchestrated around not giving offense, just as my mother taught me. What would she do in a situation like this, if she were pushed to her breaking point? Would even she have to push back, or would she just break?

I wish there were someone here with me, but it can't be Larry, not after what I've found out. I need to decide if I ever want him to come home again. Maybe I can go live in the Santa Monica house by myself.

The thought terrifies me. I went straight from my parents' house to a home with Larry. I've never been on my own, and I don't see how I can start now, when someone's after me, leaving their bathtub rings and muddy footprints.

I want to forgive Larry. I want him to explain it all away. But how can he? As much as I'd like to believe that Larry really didn't screw up that surgery, that it was the sleep-deprived anesthesiologist, in my heart, I know the truth. Larry must have framed that other doctor. He had the autopsy falsified or convinced someone they saw something other than what really happened or paid someone off, something. Because Larry was guilty. He killed that man-no, that boy. I saw it in his eyes, through his tears. Larry was truly remorseful, truly in pain. Yet it wasn't enough to make him take responsibility for his actions.

Larry's capable of framing someone because he could rationalize it. He'd think that he had more potential than the anesthesiologist and would ultimately help more patients. He's always looked down on his colleagues at least a little (sometimes more than a little, like The Ignoramus). He's always judged them and exalted his own medical ac.u.men.

He probably decided that the anesthesiologist would eventually kill someone with his incompetence, it was just a matter of time, while he, Larry, would go on to do great things, to save many lives. And he has, hasn't he? Or so I've thought. Are there others who've died at Larry's hands, other cover-ups?

No, that's not possible. He must have learned his lesson. He stopped drinking before work, I'm sure of that.

If he was just going to lie to me, why did he even tell me at the time? He must have been seeking absolution. Or no, he needed me to tell him how amazing and brilliant he is, what a great doctor he'd be, that the world needs men, needs doctors, like him. I said all those things, and I believed them. Perhaps he thought he might need me to stand by him if it didn't go his way, if the frame job didn't work, if he needed someone to lie for him. It could have been all of those.

When the incident happened-no, I need to call it what it is, when Larry killed that boy-I closed my eyes and ignored any inkling that something else might be going on. Sure, there was no Google, but there were other ways to gather information. I just preferred to take his word. Some part of me knew it was better not to ask too many questions. Not only to protect Larry, but to protect Thad, and myself, and our seemingly perfect family.

"It's working," Lex says, turning to me. "If anyone tries to breach your perimeter, our company will be here within five minutes. You've got nothing to worry about."

He can't begin to know my worries, but I thank him, profusely. I'm sorry to see him go. I'd let someone condescend to me all day, so long as they stayed. Officer Llewellyn didn't even return my last call.

I peer through the curtains out to the street. There are a few cars, unoccupied. I don't see any pedestrians. Yet I have the sensation that I'm being watched, that someone knows I'm all alone here and they're going to capitalize on it. I reset the alarm, just to be sure, staring at the pattern of lights, seeking rea.s.surance.

Lex promised no one will breach my perimeter, but I no longer know if the greater danger is within or without.

47.

Dawn

How'd the interview go?

Okay.

Do you think you got the job?

He pretty much offered it to me.

That's great! I'm proud of you, baby!

Thanks.

We should do a getaway to celebrate.

Maybe.

See you tonight! I love you.

I'm supposed to take a job I don't want, and have a baby I don't want, and the inducement is to go on a getaway that could very well be disastrous given the current state of our relations.h.i.+p?

My husband doesn't get me at all. I don't think he even wants to anymore.

I'm still in my interview clothes, marching across campus. I need to find Professor Myerson before I lose my nerve. I want to tell him what I think of him. No, I want to tell him what he thinks of me, and how that feels. I want to tell him he's wrong while I'm fired up enough to believe it.

I knock on his office door, and part of me is hoping he won't answer. Part of me just wants to go home and cry. But I drove all the way here for a reason. Because I still have my pride, if nothing else.

I looked up to Professor Myerson. I sought his recommendations, his contacts, and above all, his approval. Maybe the cliche is true, and I wanted a father figure. Unfortunately, he was a little too much like my real father.

Here he is, standing in front of me, smiling. "How did it go?" he asks.

"Sean's a nice guy." There's an edge to my voice that the professor either doesn't notice or pretends not to. "He thinks Big Pharma is G.o.d's work. I guess that's what his mentor told him back in the day to get him to drink the Kool-Aid."

Professor Myerson adopts a look of mystification. It could be genuine, I don't know anymore, about anyone.

"Do you think it's the best I can do?" I ask, and the edge is still there, but with an underlying plea. Please, think I'm worth something. Think more of me than my own father did.

"They pay a great starting salary. Great benefits, too. A lot of people are after those jobs."

"That's what Sean said." You didn't answer my question, Professor. Just tell me the truth.

"With the whole vaccine thing, I thought it might be right up your alley."

"The vaccine project is an afterthought. Ten percent of the job. The rest of the time I'm schmoozing doctors." Persuading them with my intangible quality. Does that quality smell like p.u.s.s.y?

He doesn't look as surprised as I would have liked about the 10 percent figure. He nods solemnly. "You can't get everything when you're first starting out."

"I'd be a sales rep. Did you realize that?"

"I don't think Sean said that."

"You don't think." I never expected anything of Dad. But Professor Myerson-he teaches ethics! Was it ethical for him to send me to a job interview knowing that I'd be getting 10 percent of what I asked for? Ten percent making a difference, 90 percent whoring myself. Again, is that the best he thinks I can do?

"Come in. Let's not talk about this in the hallway."

I shake my head. There are tears in my eyes.

He notices, and he reaches an arm toward me. I step back. "I was trying to help you. I thought it would be a great opportunity. You wanted money, above all, and then the chance to do something meaningful-"

"That wasn't my priority list!" But maybe I did say that. Maybe I do feel that. I didn't know I was so transparent, or that Professor Myerson knew I was so willing to sell out. The truth is, if Artie and I have that drink and then he offers me the position, I don't think I can say no. A lot of pretty girls would kill for this job. It probably is the best I can do, especially with my background.

I'm not even sure who I'm most disappointed in anymore.

"Thank you for this opportunity," I say. "I've learned a lot. I'll see you in cla.s.s."

He doesn't have time to answer as I flee the scene. In my car, I'm deciding which man to text.

It's been one f.u.c.ked-up day.

Tell me all about it, Beautiful.