up of young to middle-aged professionals, but the similarities stop there. We represent every religion and political outlook. Gretchen, a Reese Witherspoon look-alike, is a professional fund-raiser for the Republican Party. Brown-haired ordinary me assembled campaign literature during both Obama campaigns. Black-haired Talya is a Conservative Jew; red-haired Margaret planned to shut herself away with the Carmelites until she fell madly in love in her senior year of college. The other four women we were meeting at the restaurant are just as diverse, one from China, another who grew up on a farm in South Africa.
I wasn’t looking forward to a confrontation with Kris when we both got home, but I was looking forward to conversation and a meal with my friends in the meantime.
Two hours later, as we stood up to leave the restaurant, I was sorry I had come.
On the way out the door Talya and Gretchen were still locked in the conversation that had consumed them throughout dinner. I had been sitting beside Talya, but we had hardly exchanged a sentence. She and Gretchen had discussed their jobs, volleying questions and responses back and forth across the table. Talya, who is now managing a small local theater, wanted Gretchen to give her tips for their next fund-raising drive.
On my other side Lynn, who had once been my favorite tennis partner, had chatted with another woman about camps their children might attend next summer. Margaret, across from me, spent a large portion of the evening texting a colleague, apologizing for texting and then texting some more.
Our lives are now separate. My neighbors are moving forward without looking back. The common ground we once shared is giving way under our feet.
Halfway through the meal I’d finally admitted to myself that I was the only one at the table with nothing new to say.
In the parking lot Gretchen unlocked the car, but instead of sitting in the front passenger seat, as I had on the trip there, I opened the rear door.
“Robin, I’ll be happy to sit there again,” Talya said.
“No, you sit up front with Gretchen. You two haven’t finished your conversation.”
Talya looked puzzled, as if she heard the undertone to my words. I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you and I both sit back here so we can catch up? We hardly had a chance tonight, and I never see you anymore.”
How differently the evening would have ended if I’d said yes. But I didn’t. I remember smiling. I remember that the smile felt like aerobic exercise. I remember the seconds the exchange took, seconds that later might have made all the difference. Then I remember shaking my head and gesturing to the front. “We can talk another time. You go ahead.”
Talya and I had been friends for so long that she knew I was hurt. Recognition flashed across her face, but she smiled, too, as if to say, “We have a date,” and climbed into the passenger seat beside Gretchen.
Ten minutes later Talya took the brunt of the impact when a driver streaked through a stop sign and plowed into the right side of Gretchen’s car. I think I remember seeing the small SUV inexplicably heading for us. I do remember terror rising in my chest, like the bitterest bile.
I don’t remember the crash itself. When I came to in the hospital a doctor told me Talya was gone.
Talya died instantly, and I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering what might have changed if she and I hadn’t traded seats.
Kris
After my conversation with Robin I turned off my cell phone. Turning it off was stupid, spiteful and weirdly satisfying, but after she hung up I figured we had nothing else to say to each other. And if I was wrong about that, I didn’t want to know.
Even though our call had ended, I know Robin well enough to imagine how she must look at that moment. Her round blue eyes would be shuttered, as if somebody had extinguished the light. Her lips wouldn’t be pursed, since that’s too obvious a signal, but tension would pull at the corners.
Robin hides emotion well, which only makes sense. If you know you’ll be challenged or punished for everything you feel, you soon learn to make sure those feelings are private. After thirteen years of marriage, most of the time I still have to guess what’s going on inside her.
This time, though, there would be no guessing. My wife asks for very little. Tonight I’d made certain even that was too much. But knowing this, I’m still powerless to fix the situation. I’m at a critical stage in my career, and nobody will benefit more than my family if things go well for me at work.
Lately Robin has seemed preoccupied, even distant. If I sometimes feel I’m on a treadmill that’s speeding 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,
