When We Were Sisters. Emilie Richards
up with every step, Robin seems to feel her own treadmill has slowed to a standstill. She has too much time to look at the view, and I don’t think she likes what she sees.
I worry. She may not think I notice, but her happiness is important to me. Still we planned our future together, and now we just have to weather this storm.
In the next hours I sat through a dinner I didn’t want to eat with a man I didn’t want to talk to. But increasingly that’s what my job at Singer, Jessup and Barnard has come down to.
I’m not one of those people surrounded by admirers at every party, and I can’t tell a joke or a funny story without mutilating the punch line. I’m not a glad-hander or a hand holder, but I do seem to inspire trust in potential clients. I make them feel our firm will do everything possible for them, and better than any other firm. I also seem to know how to get the best outcome from the time I spend marketing, and my contacts pay off. Consequently I’m getting a reputation for bringing in high-value clients, a rainmaker. Senior partners have noticed.
Singer, Jessup and Barnard is a large firm, with multiple offices in multiple countries. I specialize in complex civil litigation, and I work closely with our product liability practice group, one of those attorneys who makes sure defective or dangerous products are discontinued, or conversely, and much more often, makes sure they stay on the market and the makers escape liability for any resulting harm. It all depends on who’s paying us and how much.
Last night’s client falls into the latter category and will have to pay the firm big-time to win his case. Mervin Pedersen is the CEO of Pedersen Pharmacies, a small chain of compounding pharmacies that allegedly produced an injectable antibiotic that was so contaminated, six patients were hospitalized and one, as he put it, “succumbed.” When Pedersen Pharmacies refused to admit blame and recall their other so-called sterile products for FDA testing, the FDA warned doctors and hospitals to avoid everything they make.
Now Pedersen wants to sue the FDA.
According to good old Merv, the young woman died from complications of her original illness. And the contamination? That occurred after the drug was manufactured, thus placing all blame on the distributor. The problem is that the contaminant was also found in product samples at the company’s labs. Merv made sure I understood that those few bad samples had been set aside for destruction after undergoing stricter testing than they’re required to do by law. And hey, the contaminant was discovered in only that one small batch.
In Merv’s unbiased opinion no other product or sample was ever contaminated. The Pedersen facilities are pristine, sterile, unsullied.
Uh-huh.
I did my job. If Pedersen decides to go ahead with the lawsuit, I’m almost certain my firm will be chosen to represent his company. I just hope someone else is assigned to the case, because in my heart I know Merv Pedersen is scum. He’s the kind of guy who would piss on his factory floor if he could get away with it. I’ll do my best to convey my opinion when I report what was said at dinner, but how can I justify rejecting a lucrative client just because talking to him spoiled my appetite?
I dropped Merv off at his hotel downtown, and only then, still at curbside, did I remember to check my phone. I flicked it on and saw I had a call from, of all people, Cecilia, the diva with no last name—because, let’s be honest, a last name would make her an ordinary human being like the rest of us.
Cecilia never calls me. We only agree on three things. We are both Democrats. We both love Robin and my kids. We dislike each other.
Cecilia is the only human being who can reduce me to muttering under my breath, and tonight was no exception. “To what do I owe this honor?” The sentence emerged as one long word.
I scrolled through my recent calls, but there were none from my wife. I thought maybe Robin had called to provide clarification or warn me what was coming. I did see an unfamiliar number with a Virginia area code, and hoped Pedersen hadn’t gotten up to his room and remembered something else he wanted to discuss.
I considered ignoring Cecilia, but I know her too well. She’ll continue to call until we finally speak. Cloudy skies had just turned to rain, and I didn’t want a conversation on the road during a storm. For the most part I don’t think phones and cars belong together anyway. That makes me hopelessly old-fashioned, but I can live with it.
Cecilia answered immediately. “How is she?”
For a moment I wasn’t sure who she was talking about. “How is who?”
The pause was pregnant. “You don’t know, do you? What, Kris? You haven’t checked your phone all evening?”
I turned off the engine. “How is who?”
“Robin was in an accident tonight.”
For a split second the world went white. I wondered if I tossed my cell phone out the window, would everything immediately return to normal? I would drive home. Robin and I would probably argue, and I would go to sleep with her fuming safely beside me.
I pulled myself back into the moment. “What happened? Is she okay?”
“She’s at the Inova Loudon Hospital. Where you should be. I’ll be on my way there as soon as I make arrangements. But the doctor says she’s going to be all right. Moderate to severe concussion, dislocated shoulder, maybe mild whiplash. They want to keep her a night or maybe two to do more tests. As a precaution.”
I’m no expert but that didn’t sound too bad. My heart began to slow. “Do you know what happened?”
“She was in a car with three other women. She had that dinner—”
I wondered how Cecilia knew about Robin’s dinner. “Go on.”
“The police think the driver of the car that struck hers might have had a heart attack at the wheel. He ran a stop sign and hit the passenger side of Robin’s car. He died.”
“Robin was driving?”
“No, the car she was riding in. Somebody named Gretchen was driving, and she was injured, too, but not badly. So was a woman named Margaret. She was taken by helicopter to a trauma center.”
I knew these women, had known them for years. My heart began to speed again. “You said four?”
“Talya was in the car, too.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Kris, but Talya was killed. She was sitting in the death seat.”
“Death seat?”
“Passenger seat. That’s what Donny calls it.”
I don’t remember exactly what I thought next. Maybe that tonight Michael Weinberg was trying to deal with the worst news of his life. That the unidentified call on my phone was probably from the Loudon County Sheriff’s Office or the hospital where Robin had been taken. That my children were now at home with somebody—who?—and I needed to get to them immediately. That my telephone had been turned off while all this was happening because I’d had an argument with Robin.
And finally that my wife, who I have loved since the first time I saw her taking photographs across a crowded room, was in a hospital grieving the loss of our next-door neighbor. Talya, the young woman who had shared so many good times with our family, the young woman who Robin was closer to than any other woman in the world except Cecilia.
Cecilia had remained silent so I could absorb this. I made my way back to our call. “Why did they call you? How did they know who to call?”
“They checked Robin’s cell phone. I’m listed under her contacts as her sister.”
And then I said something supremely stupid. “You were foster sisters.”
She snorted. “I have a flight to arrange.”
“You don’t have to—” But Cecilia had already disconnected.
She didn’t have to fly in. Who knows what she was leaving and who would suffer, but Cecilia would come anyway. Because in her heart, and in my wife’s heart,