Damage Control Read online

  For four generations, the Meyers family had personified the American dream in Seattle. Meyers’s great-grandfather had emigrated to the Pacific Northwest from Sweden with little more than pocket change and taken a job as a logger for Weyerhauser, the lumber giant. His son founded Meyers Construction and built it into the largest developer of homes in the Pacific Northwest; he had also used his financial resources to become active in civic affairs, becoming Seattle’s mayor. His son graduated from the University of Washington with engineering and architecture degrees and transformed Meyers Construction from a builder of homes to a leader in the construction of Seattle’s skyline. During the economic boom of the 1980s, Meyers Construction cranes and banners flew atop nearly every high-rise being built. Meyers III’s political success also reached greater heights. When he became governor, he passed the company on to his son, making Robert Samuel Meyers IV the chief executive of the largest construction company in Washington state. Then the recession hit and the cranes stopped building. It was a recipe for disaster, but Meyers had the foresight to divest the family fortune, founding Meyers International, a venture capital company that invested heavily in the high-tech and biotech craze sweeping across the Pacific Northwest. The deals turned the family’s millions into billions. Armed with a family name that appeased Seattle’s blue blood, and a reputation as an entrepreneur that appealed to the young, Meyers was uniquely situated to take the family’s political ambitions still higher. At thirty-six, he successfully campaigned for a seat in the United States Senate, where he employed the same youthful vitality, work ethic, and vision to carve his name on the national political scene. When one Washington, D.C., publication referred to his Senate campaign as “a return to Camelot,” other national publications pounced on the theme, and the American public became wistful, thinking of the possibility. Meyers became the poster boy for the next generation, much like John F. Kennedy had been for his.

  Meyers stepped to a podium adorned with multiple microphones. Cameras whirled and clicked, and film crews jostled for a shot of Meyers with the fountain and the glass facade in the background. Meyers draped both hands over the top of the podium, relaxed in the spotlight and content to give them that shot. He addressed Bill Donovan, the correspondent for ABC’s affiliate in Seattle. “Bill, you better put on some suntan lotion. You’re liable to get burned standing out here in this bright sunshine.”

  Donovan rubbed the top of his balding head. “It’s not the suntan I’m worried about.”

  The crowd laughed. Meyers liked to remark that politics were in his family’s genes. “A person does not choose politics,” his father had been fond of saying. “Politics choose the person.”

  Meyers pulled his hands back and straightened. “Thank you all for being here today. My family and our friends suffered through the illness that befell my father and appreciated your caring support. Although my father’s illness will help to heighten public awareness in the battle against cancer, his death taught us we still have a long way to go. His battle was both valiant and courageous, and when it was over, it was a sad time for our family. But through that sadness, this addition to this incredible center has risen. Elizabeth and I are proud to dedicate the Robert Samuel Meyers wing of the Fred Hutchison Cancer Research Center. Let it serve as a declaration that our fight against cancer did not end with my father’s death. It began.”

  The crowd applauded.

  “Cancer took my father too young, but with funding for centers such as this, we can find a cure. And we will. People say we are winning the battle to treat cancer. I say that is the wrong battle. I say we need to eradicate the disease.”

  Again the crowd applauded.

  Meyers brushed his hair from a face that maintained much of its boyish charm. “As most of you know, my father was a religious man like John F. Kennedy and he too believed in the verse from Luke quoted by our former president: ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’ My great-grandfather came to this country a poor immigrant. But he came with a dream—the kind of dream many Americans once had. He dreamed of a better life—for himself, for his family, and for the generations to follow. He realized that dream through hard work in a country that believed it could be the best in the world. My grandfather and my father were blessed with that same work ethic and that same desire to serve others, particularly the people of this great state that has for too long been ignored on the national political scene.”

  The applause grew, the anticipation building.

  “The issue is service, stewardship, and vision. The future should not scare the next generation of Americans. The future should excite them, as it once excited the generations that came before us.” The anticipation reached a crescendo. “America needs fresh ideas to solve old problems. America needs leaders who see the future of America, not its past.” His comment was a not so subtle reference to the age of the Republican Party’s leading presidential candidate, New York governor William Andrews. “I see that future as clearly as I see that range of mountains in the distance. And like those mountains, the future is closer than it appears. The future is now.”

  A roar erupted. The crowd cheered wildly. Signs emerged from seemingly nowhere as Meyers shouted, “Today I am proud to announce that I am a candidate for the Democratic nomination for president of the United States.”

  He raised his wife’s hand overhead and soaked in the adoration, allowing the photographers to snap their front-page pictures. It was the perfect way to whet the public’s appetite without infringing upon the speech he would give Saturday evening at a gala to officially kick off his campaign and fund-raising. Meyers stepped from the podium, and an aide handed him an oversize pair of scissors. Meyers stepped to the front doors and cut the ribbon across the entrance to a building that would stand for his father’s legacy. Then Robert Meyers took his wife’s hand and together they walked inside to see the future.

  16

  DANA LOOKED DOWN upon the crowd gathered in the courtyard. She recognized the man at the podium; everyone in Seattle knew Senator Robert Meyers and deduced from the red ribbon and bronze letters across the front of the brick structure that Meyers had donated a substantial sum of money to the Research Center.

  “Ms. Hill?”

  Dana turned from the window. A nurse beckoned. Dana followed her to a patient consultation room, where the woman took her vitals before departing. This time Dr. Bridgett Neal did not keep her waiting. A minute after the nurse left, Neal stepped in. “I hope you didn’t get stuck in the traffic out there.”

  “It wasn’t too bad.” Dana did her best to sound casual but felt her heart thumping.

  Neal opened a file. “I’m very sorry it took this long. I don’t like to keep patients waiting for their results, but because the biopsy section was small, the pathologist chose not to do a frozen section, which would have provided an immediate diagnosis.” Neal put on a pair of glasses. “He chose to do a more thorough assessment, and it takes several days to process permanent sections of tissue for examination in greater detail. The distinction between benign and cancerous cells can be subtle. Dr. Kapela wanted your results reviewed by a second pathologist.”

  “I’m sensing this is not good news,” Dana said.

  “They’ve both concluded that the cells are malignant. I’m sorry.”

  Dana felt a lump in her throat. Her eyes watered, but she took a deep breath and exhaled, and though she fought against it, tears rolled down her cheeks. Neal handed her a tissue.

  “The good news is that you detected it very early, and it is not considered an aggressive cancer. We have a number of different options available to us.”

  Dana swallowed her anger. She refused to become hysterical or to panic. She would not begin the “why me” lamentations. She would not be one of the statistics, one of the women who died every twelve minutes—a .20 on somebody’s goddamn time sheet. She was just thirty-four. She had a daughter to raise. She asked the question dutifully, feeling the need to maintain professional composure and demean
or in front of another female professional. “What are those options?”

  “You can have a mastectomy, in which case—”

  “No.” She thought of her mother.

  Dr. Neal nodded. “And I don’t recommend a mastectomy in your case. I recommend what is referred to as BCT, breast-conserving treatment.”

  “It sounds like a pleasant acronym for a not so pleasant procedure.”

  “Basically, we remove the lump, along with some normal tissue surrounding it, for further examination. It would be combined with level-one axillary dissection, which is removal of a pad of tissue and lymph nodes under your arm, followed by radiation therapy.”

  Dana rubbed her forehead and took another deep breath, exhaling. She forced a smile. “I don’t suppose there’s a door number three with a trip to an exotic island, is there?”

  Dr. Neal shook her head, her smile equally tight-lipped. “I’m afraid not.” She let Dana absorb the information for a few moments.

  Dana tried to calm herself and think of questions. “Why pull the lymph nodes if we don’t know whether it has spread?”

  “Good question. My consultation with other doctors indicates it would be prudent because of your family history—your mother’s breast cancer. And it can also be done in a single operation.”

  “When would you want to do it?”

  “As soon as possible. How much time do you need to get other things organized?”

  Dana laughed to herself. “Six months wouldn’t help me get things organized. My brother died last week. Things are in a state of turmoil and likely to remain that way for a while.”

  “I’m so sorry. Was it sudden?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Dear God.” Neal paused. “He was the man on the news, wasn’t he? Oh, Dana, I’m so sorry. I didn’t put it together. That was your brother.”

  Dana nodded. “You don’t expect these things to happen to you. They always happen to other people, don’t they? My father used to say bad news came in threes. For my sake, I hope not.” She regrouped. “Where do we start?”

  “I’d like you to meet with the surgeon I’m recommending for the lumpectomy, as well as the radiation oncologist and therapist who will monitor your radiation treatments. They can help relieve some of your anxiety. I can also put you in touch with organizations of women who have gone through what you will be experiencing. They can tell you what to expect. You won’t be going through this alone.”

  “How long will I be out of work?”

  “The surgery itself is done with a local anesthetic. If all goes well, you’ll be released the same day. We can schedule it for a Friday afternoon so you’ll have the weekend to recover. The length and dosage of your radiation treatment will be decided by your radiation oncologist, but it is usually five days a week for five to six weeks, though the actual treatment in your circumstance should take just a few minutes each day. There’s a very good facility not far from your office. They could schedule you late in the afternoon.”

  Dana wrapped her arms across her body, suddenly cold. “Could I have the lumpectomy without the radiation?”

  “You could. But I wouldn’t recommend it. The procedure is contemplative of all three treatments for maximum effectiveness. And that is what we’re seeking here. Over ninety percent of women who find and treat their breast cancer early are cancer-free at five years.”

  Five years? Five years was nothing. Molly would be just eight years old, still a baby. Who would take her to school and pick her up? Who would tell her all of the things she needed to know? Leaving her alone with Grant would… Dana dismissed the thought before she could finish it.

  Dr. Neal sat forward, hands folded. “There are more than two million breast cancer survivors living in the United States.”

  “How many aren’t?” Dana asked, already regretting it.

  Dr. Neal sat back. “Forty-four thousand last year.”

  17

  AS SHE DROVE FROM the medical facility, Dana could not dismiss the thought. She was going to die. Malignant. Cancer. Malignant. Cancer. The words ran through her mind as if on a continuous reel. As brave as she had been in Dr. Neal’s office, she was crumbling under the onslaught of her relentless mind. She had cancer, and no matter how Dr. Neal dressed it up with smiling office personnel, pastel colors, and optimistic statistics, she could not deny that breast cancer remained a killer. Dana looked up at the billowing white clouds. As a girl, she used to believe angels lived on those clouds, and beyond them were the gates to heaven. She wanted to believe James was up there, sensing she needed him, as he always had in life. She wanted to ask him to help her. She wanted to ask God to help her. But she had fallen out of touch with her faith. Before James’s funeral, she couldn’t remember the last time she had set foot in a church or had a heart-to-heart discussion with God.

  There are no atheists in foxholes, her father had also liked to say.

  Could she ask for divine intervention? Would it make her a hypocrite? God was benevolent, wasn’t He? She was no longer certain.

  She made a left on Fifth Avenue and followed it to Olive, driving in the direction of her office, her body on autopilot. “I could use some help down here,” she said to the clouds.

  She pulled the car to the curb and sobbed, her shoulders shaking. It was too much for one person. She picked up her cell phone and rummaged through her legal pad, looking for the number she had copied from the piece of paper on the refrigerator. She punched in the number. When the hotel receptionist answered, she asked to be connected to Grant Brown’s room. It rang once.

  A woman answered.

  Flustered, Dana hung up. She checked the number and reentered it. When the receptionist answered, she specified that she wanted Grant Brown’s room. “I don’t want the suite that the law firm is using. I want his room, his private room.”

  “There’s just one room under that name,” the woman said.

  Dana froze.

  “Would you like me to connect you?”

  Dana couldn’t speak, the back of her throat dry. “Check if there is a room reserved under the name Maxwell, Levitt and Truman,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s my husband’s law firm.”

  After a moment the woman replied, “Nothing under that name. Would you like me to connect you to his room?”

  “Yes,” she said, and she closed her eyes as the phone rang. The same woman answered. Dana gathered herself. “Is Grant in?”

  A pause. “Um… he’s not here. He’s in court. Can I leave him a message?”

  “No,” Dana said. “You can’t.”

  She disconnected, gripping the phone. Tears of sorrow now mixed with tears of frustration and anger. She threw the phone on the passenger seat and slapped at the steering wheel. “Stupid. Stupid. So goddamn stupid.”

  The late nights, the softball games and pizza that Grant never invited her or Molly to attend. Grant coming home smelling like smoke and beer. It had all started at the same time, when the firm hired the twenty-six-year-old Demi Moore look-alike with the perky breasts and tight butt.

  Bad news always comes in threes, she heard her father say, and she hated him for it.

  SHE SAT FEELING numb, letting the day pass, not caring. Her cell phone rang. The caller ID indicated it was the law firm. She took a chance, thinking it was more likely to be Linda than Crocket.

  “Are you coming back today?” Linda asked. “Crocket is looking for you.”

  Dana exhaled, frustrated. “Yeah. I’m on my way back. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t immediately answer. She stared out the windshield at the clouds floating overhead, thinking again of her brother. Finally, she said, “I’m fine,” disconnected, and put the phone down on the legal pad. When she did, she noticed the name she’d written while going through James’s financial records. She picked up the phone and dialed 411. “Montgomery Real Estate,” she told the operator. “It’s a business.”

 
A moment later, she pulled from the curb, continued down Fifth Avenue, and turned right on James Street. At the bottom of the hill, just before the pergola at the corner of First Street, she found a parking place and pulled to the curb, taking a moment to check her appearance in the rearview mirror. Mascara shaded her eyes. Her nose was rose red. She fished in the glove compartment for her makeup bag and did her best to clean herself up. Then she stepped from the car, put two quarters in the meter, and walked across a cobblestone courtyard lined with tourists waiting for a guide to take them on the underground tour. After a turn-of-the-century fire destroyed much of the city, Pioneer Square, a district of redbrick buildings home to bars, restaurants, art galleries, and many of Seattle’s downtrodden and homeless, was built atop the rubble, including buildings that had not been destroyed. An entrepreneur had turned it into a business.

  A bronze plaque on the side of the building declared the old Pioneer Building an historical landmark. Dana didn’t bother to read it. She climbed up the marble steps and pulled open the door into a lobby of mahogany paneling that looked like the entrance to an old hotel. A directory mounted on the wall indicated Montgomery Real Estate was a tenant on the third floor, Suite 326. She stepped into an old-fashioned elevator and closed the cage door. The elevator jerked and ascended. An open atrium rose six stories to a glass-reinforced roof. Vines from potted plants hung from the ceiling and the wood railings of the upper floors.

  Dana found Suite 326 and stepped into a small lobby. A black woman with elaborately manicured nails greeted her at the counter. Three minutes later, a woman dressed like a cruise-ship director in white slacks, red blouse, and blue blazer introduced herself as Bernadette Georges. Georges led Dana to an office with two brick walls and a window that opened to allow in fresh air and the sounds of cars, birds, and voices. Dana declined a cup of coffee and sat across the desk. A computer screen on the credenza traced geometric images.

  “I apologize for not calling,” Dana said. “I was in the neighborhood and decided to just drop in. I’ve been handling my brother’s papers, and I’m curious about the monthly checks he was writing to your company.”