money, but the stock options he'll get in Whitestone Pharmaceuticals should be enough to keep this place functioning indefinitely.
'It has been a very long haul, but it is almost over. My biggest error when I started here was that I just never anticipated the depth of the man's paranoia or the extent to which he would go to protect his work from the very people who were funding it. It is good that I have found ways to work around his madness and to encourage his genius. Try to push my darling Joseph, and he is just as likely as anything to push right back.'
CHAPTER 19
The mind more often faints from the severity of study than from the severity of gymnastics.
Natalie wasn't going to make it through the session and she knew it. It was stupid to have agreed to get back into physical and pulmonary therapy so soon after the ordeal of the fire. She checked the elapsed time on the treadmill clock and then glanced up at the one on the wall just in case the electronics had failed. Seventeen minutes at zero incline. This is bullshit, she thought. There was no sense in prolonging the charade. Her lung wasn't working well. It was as simple as that. Rachel French could talk all she wanted to about healing burns and recovery of function, but it just wasn't going to happen.
Oh sure, Lefty, you're going to be pitching real good again before you know it — just as soon as that ol' missing arm of yours regenerates.
'Come on, Nat,' her therapist urged. 'Five more minutes. You're doing great.'
'I'm doing sucky, and you know it.'
'You're wrong. The pulmonary people tell me that your function tests have largely stabilized, and that there should be steady improvement in them for some time to come.'
'Nobody in medicine ever predicts improvement,' Natalie snapped, pausing to get an extra breath. 'In fact they usually go…out of their way to predict no improvement. That way they'll either look smart and tuned in…or they'll look like heroes when things do get better.'
'You know, you're not going to help yourself very much thinking negatively all the time.'
'Correction,' Natalie said, flicking off the power. 'I'm not going to help myself at all…Thanks for your time…I'll call when I feel ready to come back.'
She snatched up her warm-up towel and stormed from the unit, sensing the woman might actually be coming after her. She knew she was acting like a jerk, but in truth, she really didn't care. She had accepted the tragic loss of her lung with grace and spirit, and a positive philosophy. But at the moment, even though her mother and niece were alive because of her, and cards were continuing to flood in, and testimonials were being planned, there simply didn't seem to be enough grace or spirit remaining to undo what had been done.
She sped home, half hoping that a cop would have the temerity and bad fortune to try to ticket her. Perhaps with time, her feelings of despair and self-pity would yield to a renewed sense of purpose and perspective. Meanwhile, somewhere, some mathematician who probably couldn't get a job teaching in junior high was preparing to pull out his calculator to determine her lung allocation score.
Let's see, plus twenty two and she limps along indefinitely, stopping every few feet to catch her breath. Plus twenty-eight and she gets to wait on tenterhooks for the privilege of taking poison that will blot out her immune system, and make riding in a public elevator a potentially lethal off air…
Hermina, with two plastic bags of cleaning supplies at her feet, was writing a note to her at the dining table.
'Hi, baby,' she said. 'I didn't expect you home so soon.'
'Jenny here?'
'She's in the car. I was just getting set to drive her over to the new digs. I think we might sleep there tonight.'
'That's great, Mom.'
'Honey, I'm really sorry for all this. I know you're furious with me, and you have every right to be.'
'Things happen. I'm just grateful you and Jenny are okay. If you're feeling bad about what happened to me, you know what to do about it.'
'I know, and so far I'm doing it.'
'I hope so.'
'You want to come over?'
'Maybe tomorrow.'
'The rehab therapy go all right?'
'Terrific.'
'Pardon me for saying it, but you don't sound so terrific.
'I'm fine.
'Believe me, if I could turn back the clock and either stop smoking a year ago or just crawl into a closet during that fire and get burned up, I would.'
'That's nonsense. You've stopped smoking. That's what matters. And now, I want you to stop saying you wish you had burned up. That doesn't help anything.'
'Nat, please, come help me fix up the new place.'
'Mom, I'm fine. Really.'
'Did they say you're getting better?'
'Yes, they did. Steady improvement, that's what they said.'
Clearly sensing the truth, Hermina put her arms around her daughter, and Natalie made some pretext of responding.
'Baby, I'm sorry. I really am.'
'I know you are, Mom.'
'You sure there's not anything — ?'
'I'm positive. I need to get some rest, that's all.'
'Well…I don't want to leave Jenny sitting in the car too long. Do you think maybe you could come over later for dinner?'
'No, no. I have some studying to catch up on after I nap.'
'Thanks for the loan you gave us to get set up in the apartment. I'll pay you back as soon as the insurance comes through.'
'That's okay.'
'No, I really want to.'
'Okay, Mom. Pay me back whenever you want.'
Natalie stood for a time in the dining area even after the front door had closed. At some point she would surely end up in the shower, but she really hadn't even broken a sweat in rehab. Finally, she pulled off her tee, threw it onto the floor, thought about putting on some music, then just sank heavily into the deep recliner in her living room. Across from her, just above the ornate marble mantel of her small gas fireplace, was a large, framed color photograph, remarkable for its composition, clarity, and detail. It had been taken by a professional at the Pan Am Games in Mexico City seven years ago, just as Natalie was breaking the tape at the finish of the 1,500 finals. Her arms, fists clenched, were extended skyward, and a true description of the sublime exhilaration on her face would have defied words.
Never again. Not on the track. Not in the operating room. Probably not even in the bedroom, for chrissakes…Never again.
She reached across with her left hand and massaged the still-sensitive scar on the side of her chest. What did that song from M*A*S*H say? Suicide is simple? Suicide is painless? Maybe it was suicide is easy. Simple… painless…easy. Hardly words anyone would ever apply to pulmonary rehabilitation after burning up your only
