Richard Powers - The Echo Maker

“Hey,” Robert scolded. “Easy. Maybe we need to get you some of this stuff.”

She succumbed to bleary laughter. She told Robert about the olanzapine lawsuit Daniel had discovered, pretending she’d found it herself. Karsh made notes in his agenda.

“We keep a stable of lawyers. I’ll have somebody see what they can find out.”

Just talking to Karsh reassured her, more than it should have. Of course, he was every bit as biased as Daniel. None of them knew what was best for Mark. But just hearing his counterarguments was liberating. A wrong decision would no longer come down on her head alone.

Karsh took his pulse. “You know, if you do go this route, there’s still a problem.”

“Namely?”

“Getting Mark to comply.”

“Get Mark to take pills? A problem?” She snorted in pain.

“Getting him to stay on it. Or to tail off properly. He wouldn’t be the most reliable of patients. If he gets it into his head to stop suddenly…”

She nodded, one more thing for her to stress about. Each had reached their coffee limit. It was time to leave. Neither moved.

“I should head to work,” she said.

“So you’re really a volunteer Sandhill Helper now?”

She returned his smile, slash for slash. “Believe it or not, they’re actually paying me.” She still couldn’t quite believe it herself. Over a few weeks, racing to make herself worthy of being hired, she’d read every report the Refuge had issued. And right out of the gate, the Refuge had entrusted her with genuine responsibilities. In some incriminating way, her new duties lifted her from the trough of helplessness she’d lived in since Mark’s accident. Some place that actually needed her energies; some useful definition to her days. Like Daniel, she now worked at least fifty hours a week. Mark couldn’t blame her: impostors owed him no loyalty. She now knew more about the effort to protect the river than any trainee should know. Information Karsh would kill to learn.

“Really?” he said, eyebrows up. “Paying, as in cash, American? That’s great. So what exactly are you doing for them?”

She did everything: stacked boxes. Proofed copy. Made cold calls to local politicians and prospective donors, employing that rich, mezzo, reassuring, consumer-relations voice that was her greatest asset. “Robert. You know? I’m not supposed to say.”

“I see.” Those aqua eyes glinted with hurt innocence. The old Robert. The one who could dismantle her without an owner’s manual. The Karsh she could no more evade than she could escape herself. “Closely held secrets of the wetlands protectors. I understand completely. What’s our personal history, compared to preserving the four-billion-year march of evolution?”

Two years ago that month, she’d lain with this man in the pouring rain, naked in the sloppy riverbanks, licking his armpits like a kitten. “Jesus, Karsh. What can I say? It’s the most fulfilling work I’ve ever done. Bigger than myself? How about bigger than anyone. I’m working through some papers…Did you know that we’ve changed that river more in one hundred years than in all the ten thousand years prior…?”

“Sorry…papers? What kind of papers?”

“Photocopies from the County Office, if you must know.” Already too much. But surely he’d guessed. She watched him faking calm. She’d often seen that look, but had never before been able to cause it. The sight was nothing short of mood-altering.

“You’re right, you probably shouldn’t tell me anything.” Pouring on the charm, charm more weirdly boyish now that he was graying. “But you’ll tell me if I guess, right?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“On what you tell me in return.”

Hands spread on the table. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

“Anything?” She snickered. “How’s family life?”

He sat back against the booth and surrendered, too quickly. “The kids are…really great. I’m just so glad I got into this whole father thing. Something different every week. Skateboarding, amateur theatrics, industrial-scale software piracy. No, really: they’re fantastic. Wendy and I are another story.”

“Another story than…?”

“Listen. I don’t want to lay this on your doorstep, Rabbit. This has absolutely nothing to do with your coming back home. It’d been in the works for months before I saw you.”

Not, apparently, another story than the one he’d told her for years. But it couldn’t hurt her now. Like one of those pieces of junk mail stamped Urgent: Dated Material. Please Respond. “I’m sure, Robert. My comings and goings would never affect you.”

“You know that’s not what I mean. But I’m going to show great psychological acuity by letting you attack me.” Retaliating, she salted the half strip of bacon left on his plate. He popped it in his mouth, contrition. “This is exactly what I’m saying.” He waved his arms, beaming. “Do you know the last time I felt this free? Wendy and I drag through that disinfected Colonial, appraising each other like insurance-fraud investigators after a fire. We are so over each other. We’re at the point where we have to split up for the sake of the kids.” He gazed out the plate-glass window, onto Central.

“Anything you like out there? Good morning talent?”

He just nodded. “I like everything I see a little bit more. When you are around.”

Most dangerous pitch of all. Someone who made others happier to be who they were: that was all she’d ever dreamed of being. And this man alone knew her fatal weak spot. She listened and indulged him, nodding at his details — the escape apartment he’d lined up, the lawyer who promised reasonable protection. She let him go on about his emerging future. At least he had the decency not to ask whether she was interested in filling it. And all that this brief escape cost her was a peck on the cheek and the surrender of her breakfast tab.

He grabbed her by both elbows as he said goodbye. “I think your brother might be right. You have changed.” Before she could cry out, he added, “You’re better,” and disappeared down Kearney’s recently renovated main drag.

That evening, Dr. Weber called. “How are you holding up?” he asked. He sounded genuinely solicitous. But she would not be analyzed. She did not need his help: only her brother. She scrambled to find her list of new questions about the proposed treatment and began to ask them. He gently cut her off. “I’m going back to New York tomorrow morning.”

The words silenced her. She started two confused objections before she understood. He was signing off again, even faster than last time. She would not see him anymore, whichever option she chose.

“I’ll be in touch with Dr. Hayes at Good Samaritan. He’ll have my full write-up. I’ll give him all the material I’ve found, bring him up to speed on where you are.”

“That’s…I don’t…I still have questions…” Searching through a pile of paperwork for the Refuge, she tipped the stack and knocked it to the floor. She cursed brutally, then covered the receiver.

“Please,” Weber said. “Ask anything. Now, or any time after I get back home.”

“But I thought we were going…I thought we’d have another chance to talk about choices. This is a big decision, and I don’t have…”

“We can talk. And you have Dr. Hayes. The hospital staff.”

She felt her control slip and didn’t care. “So this is doctor-patient compassion,” she said out loud. Things needed letting out, for her own and everyone’s good. The man’s professional composure enraged her. Why bother coming back at all if this was what he planned? Going home to his family, his wife. Suppose he walked in his front door and his wife wouldn’t recognize him? Threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave. Antipsychotic. “You don’t know what this is doing to me.”