night would remain so. It was common for a front to surge down Lake Michigan from the North Pole and drop the temperature 30 degrees in an hour. Well, make that half an hour now as abrupt and violent climate change was accelerating and aggravating our weather patterns.
As I got even closer I could see some demonstrators on the sidewalk across from the entrance the reception-goers were using. I’d read about these protests not only in StreetWise, but also in the big Chicago papers. The people of the neighborhoods surrounding the university wanted a trauma center to be included in this multi-million dollar medical skyscraper. Nightly shootings in these areas took lives that might have been saved if there had been an adult trauma center close by. And so far there was no adult trauma center planned here, or anywhere in the hospital complex that I knew of. Signs read “Save Our Youth” and many were wearing “Trauma Center Now” tee shirts. I knew negotiations had started, but if demonstrations were still going on, no trauma center deal had yet been struck.
I just stopped walking and looked at the faces. I wondered how many of the older African American women and men who were demonstrating had lost children to gun violence. Their faces were grim, and determined. A small group of what looked like students, many of them white, stood behind them, partially hidden by the signs carried by the front line of demonstrators. Good for them. They knew where to stand, too, behind those who were literally on the front lines of this battleground. But they were up against not just the money and power of this particular hospital, but a whole national shift toward health as a profit center. And if it wasn’t profitable, death of the unprofitable was clearly the preferred business plan. I made a mental note to check if these protestors had a website, see how I could help.
Finally, I turned in at the marquee and approached a reception table. I presented my invitation. Much to my amazement, the young woman behind the table in black sheath, pearls and a vacant face plunged her hand into a large cardboard box next to her chair and pulled out a white construction helmet with the words “Anderson Building” printed across the front in maroon letters. She handed this to me, showing no embarrassment at all. I took it from her, too bemused to do anything else. With my construction helmet dangling from my hand along with my tiny evening purse, I walked into the building. I stopped walking again, my stomach churning from the contrast between the needs of the demonstrators outside and the obvious luxury here.
Nearly a hundred people in formal wear carrying hard hats in one hand and drinks in the other were milling around. Waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, but there were few takers. Unless the waiter dropped the crab puff or bacon-wrapped scallop into your construction helmet, there was no way to get the food and hold a drink as well. That was currently fine with me, and with my upset stomach.
The area where the reception was being held was obviously going to be the main lobby of the new hospital building. It was several stories high—and it seemed from looking up that this would continue—and was an impressively large space. Of course, the lack of walls helped with the sense of immensity. The concrete floor had been swept and all the construction equipment pushed back behind ropes along what would be the outer wall of this area. Above this atrium-like lobby, I could see floors rising in tiers—ropes had been strung along them to keep people from falling off. The effect was rather like the back of a huge doll hospital, a Barbie-becomes-a-brain-surgeon set. Now that the toy manufacturers had Barbie stop saying she hated math, there might be a chance of that. I stood still and marveled at the size of this lobby. The architect must be aiming for a Hyatt-hotel kind of effect. I’d heard, in fact, that this atrium would contain a Starbucks coffee shop, a decent restaurant and even a few shops. Now that airports are virtually indistinguishable from malls, maybe hospitals would also begin to resemble malls. The future promised that the whole country would become one giant mall called “Everywhere U.S.A,” though since more than half the country couldn’t make a living wage, how all this buying would take place with no money was a mystery. I pulled myself away from these morbid cultural reflections and began to look for Tom.
I was amazed to actually see him. He’d made it. I’m tall, but Tom is taller still and it’s relatively easy for us to find each other in a crowd. Tom was standing with a small group of men, listening.
Tom’s ability to listen continued to move me—his tall figure bent toward whoever was speaking, giving them his full attention. Even though I was too far away to see him distinctly, I knew his clear blue eyes would be focused in thought behind his wire-rimmed glasses. The skin at the corner of his eyes was permanently crinkled from that intent look. His sandy hair, graying a little at the temples, was too long and fell forward over his forehead when he bent his head. Tom’s gaze was total—he was never, like many doctors, or academics for that matter, obviously mentally elsewhere. He was more like a cop in this. He was always present. And his look made you (or at least made me) want to trust him and tell him everything, a trait I’d found uncomfortable a couple of times already. I felt the rush of pleasure I always have when I see him. I wondered if I would continue to feel it.
I approached the group quietly and slipped my arm through Tom’s. He gave it a squeeze and continued listening. I glanced over at him and noticed his bow tie appeared to have been tied by a monkey. An inept monkey.
The man holding forth in the group could only be an administrator. He was so smooth he appeared to have been lacquered. He was short and his baby smooth, pale face, immaculate hair, and buffed nails positively glistened in the glare from the bare bulbs strung over our heads. His bow tie, I noticed, was perfectly symmetrical. Of course, he probably slept in formal wear and therefore had a lot of practice tying the tie. He looked remarkably like Fred Astaire; I hoped he didn’t dance.
“The additional beds will not ever be a financial drain—they are a wonderful source of revenue,” he was saying with that palms up, ‘trust me and buy this Edsel’ gesture that dishonest car salesmen have. His speech was audibly italicized.
“But why are there nineteen operating rooms? The original plans we saw called for forty,” said an older man with a completely gray head, his stoop and his tired eyes labeling him a surgeon. His tone wasn’t hostile, but it was not a tone I’d like used to me. It conveyed very clearly that he knew he’d been lied to, he was being lied to now, and he expected to be lied to again in the future. It was both weary and contemptuous.
“I’m sure the hospital planning committee took all the departments’ needs into account,” said Fred the Administrator, doing a little administrative two-step. I was wrong. He did dance. He looked around the circle, making excellent eye contact. The gray-haired doctor gave an audible groan.
I looked around the group as well, since I couldn’t quite make out what they were talking about. Next to Fred the Administrator was the tired doctor, then another older man, this one heavy-set and running to fat in the stomach area. This is not the physique that men’s formal wear flatters. His cummerbund looked like it was a large bandage around his middle, keeping his stomach from exploding. Despite his weight, his carriage was very erect, almost stiff. This rigidity extended to his face. His lips were pursed so tightly they were white and his eyes behind his authoritative black eyeglass frames stared straight at Fred. He was probably struggling to hold on to some very choice words.
And holding on to the rigid guy’s arm was a stunning young woman, easy half to a third of his age. A trophy wife? Her long blond hair flowed like a veil down her back, nearly reaching the hem of her tiny little black skirt. Below the skirt, tanned, slim legs led gracefully to high-heeled sandals. Her spaghetti strap top revealed she was thin, way too thin in that anorexic fashion model way that’s come back into style to encourage girls like Kelly toward depression and eating disorders. I know it threatened me and I’m supposed to be a grown-up. I sighed. She was exactly the kind of woman, well, girl, really, who had always made me feel like I was a hundred-foot-tall freak. She was none too subtly pulling on the rigid guy’s arm, trying to move him away from the circle. He was plainly having none of it. The fact that he wasn’t budging, and that none of the other men appeared to be drooling over her,
