Clear and Convincing Proof (4 page)

When he heard the papers slap down on the table, he turned to regard David, who was scowling fiercely. Thomas knew exactly what was in those bylaws. He and William McIvey had spent a great deal of time on them, and he had reviewed them all thoroughly during the past few days.

“What exactly was Mother responsible for?”
David asked in a tightly controlled voice. No emotion was visible on his handsome face, no anger, no disdain, no disbelief. Nothing.

“As vice president, she was in charge of fund-raising. We have three major campaigns annually, as you probably know. She wrote letters to contributors, donors, escorted them on tours of the facility, a garden tea party every June, an annual auction, things of that sort. As secretary she kept notes at all our meetings and put them in order for the annual audit, as required by law. It wasn't too onerous, but exacting. There are formulas, rules that must be followed.”

“Annette could do those things,” David said after a moment.

“Not unless she's a shareholder and is elected to office by a majority vote.” Thomas returned to the table and sat down.

“David, there's no money in this clinic. In fact, for years we ploughed money back into it from our practices. We never intended to make money with the clinic, and we wrote those bylaws in such a way as to ensure that our mission would remain true to itself if one or more of us became incapacitated, or just wanted out.”

“I could assign some of my shares to Annette, let her assume those duties that way. Another husband and wife team. You'd have no grounds to oppose that.”

“You would have to give her the shares outright,” Thomas said. “No strings attached. And she would
have to abide by the bylaws just like everyone else. No, I would not oppose that.” He sipped his water, then asked, “Why do you want to stay in, David? This is far removed from your field.”

“Exactly,” David said. “What I can see here is a surgical facility, neurosurgery, cardiovascular surgery. You have fifteen beds upstairs, and room for twenty more, room to expand, rooms to convert to surgery.” He leaned forward, and for the first time ever, Thomas saw a flare of passion in his eyes, heard it in his voice. “Thomas, I'm the best neurosurgeon on the West Coast. We would have people come here from all over the world. A specialist's specialty, dedicated to those two areas. We could do it together, you and I.”

Thomas realized how seriously he had misjudged the young surgeon. He had thought David wanted control in order to sell out to one of the health organizations, or to change to a for profit facility. This had not occurred to him, that David had his own compelling vision. Time was on David's side, he thought with a pang. At that moment David looked almost exactly the same as William McIvey had years ago, when he and Thomas first conceived of the idea of the rehabilitation clinic. They had been driven by the plight of their young patients ravaged by polio. After the vaccine came along, they had changed to a general rehabilitation clinic. But he remembered with startling clarity the fierce passion that had seized them both, remembered the determination William McIvey had demonstrated, the not-to-be-denied drive
that had compelled them both. Now he was seeing that same determined look on David's face, in his eyes.

David was still talking. “Rehab can happen anywhere. It doesn't need a special clinic. You could rent space in a dozen different buildings tomorrow and be set to go. It's insignificant compared to what surgery demands. That's one thing. The other thing to consider is what you do here and what I propose. You see people in wheelchairs, people on crutches all the time. They don't get special care. They learn to manage without all the trimmings you give them. You tinker with them, a little bit better is good enough, but I go in and fix them. I cure them. That's the big difference.”

 

When Erica finished reading that day she found a group of people in the staff lounge: Greg Boardman, Naomi, Annie, Darren, another therapist, Stephanie…Naomi motioned her in. “We're having a high tea,” she said. “Of sorts. Crackers and cheese and punch, at least. Have some.”

Her gaiety was forced, and Greg wasn't even pretending this was a party. Stephanie held out a glass to Erica and said, “Now I'm off and running. Feeding time upstairs.”

She hurried out and a moment later David McIvey stood in the doorway. “Annette, let's go.” He didn't wait for any response, didn't speak to anyone else, turned and left. With hardly a pause, Annie put down the glass she had lifted to her lips, picked up her
purse and followed him without a word. Her cheeks flared with color, and she held her head unnaturally high.

Erica, facing Darren, was startled at the expression that crossed his face and vanished. Stricken, furious, but more, he had looked deeply hurt for that brief moment.

T
he week before Labor Day Darren moved into the apartment, and parked his truck in the newly cleared garage. His son, he said, would bring some things over during the Labor Day holiday.

“Usually we go camping or something when I have a couple of days off, but he's excited about having his own room. He wants to pick out the color and paint it himself, hang his posters, make it his room.”

Erica straightened up from weeding a flagstone patio outside the kitchen door. Finding it had been another surprise, hidden as it had been under a layer of dirt, weeds and spreading grass. Sometimes she felt that a miracle had taken place: the house was in decent shape, and they were starting to tackle the job
of taming the jungle in the yard. It was turning into a real home. She rubbed her back.

“You said he's eleven?” she asked.

“Twelve in February. He has a half brother, who is six, and a creep, according to Todd. They share a room. And there's a half sister, who is ten, and a spoiled brat, again according to Todd. He's looking forward to his own room, his junk left wherever he puts it down.”

Erica laughed. “The mess on the floor will be his mess. That's different.”

“Right. Anyway, we'll be in and out, around, all weekend.” He took a step or two, then paused. “I heard that you asked Bernie to give a copy of the book you've been reading to Glory. That was good of you.”

Feeling awkward and even a little embarrassed, Erica said, “Just a cheap paperback, used. Glory mentioned that she would be leaving before we finished
The Canterville Ghost
and she'd never know how it came out. Sort of like following a serial for nine episodes and missing the tenth and final one.”

“Yeah. And I bet no one in her house has ever owned a book before. Anyway, that was good of you. We're going to grill salmon tomorrow. Want to come?”

She caught her breath and nodded. “I'd love to. I can make a pretty good potato salad.”

“Deal,” he said, and moved on around to the side of the house and the stairs to the upper apartment.

Trembling, she returned to her weeding with re
newed energy. She could finish before dark, tidy up for a cookout. Later she would make the potato salad; it was better if made a day ahead of time. Maybe a cake. She didn't know if the oven worked; she had not tried it. If it worked, she would bake a cake. She would have to go shopping for ingredients; she knew she had no chocolate, little butter. Cake pans? No matter, the stores were open late. Her thoughts raced, making plans, making a mental list of what to buy. Napkins. Paper plates. Ice cream. They were having a cookout, she, Darren, his child. They were having a cookout on the patio. She was too self-conscious to sing out loud, but under her breath she was singing.

Years before, as a new teacher, she had learned to make a long-range school-year plan, nothing too specific, then a more detailed monthly plan and, finally, a very detailed weekly plan. Year after year the plans had served her well. She laughed to herself when she realized she was still doing it. She was now planning to bake a cake although she had never baked a cake in her life. No matter. She would buy a mix. Even her fifth graders had been able to make cakes with mixes.

 

Greg and Thomas were in Sid Blankenship's office the Friday after the holiday. Sid was shorter than either of them, and rounder, fifty years old, with a pink face as smooth as an egg. He had gone to work for his father years ago, and when his father retired, he had inherited the office, furnishings and many of
the clients, including Thomas Kelso, who to Sid's eyes looked to be a hundred years old or older.

They had just concluded the transfer of Thomas's shares to Greg, which left him out in the cold, Thomas thought morosely. But that was step one.

Sid had filed the petition for a change of the power of acceptance, and they had to wait for the court to get around to it. It was out of their hands, Sid told them.

Now Thomas leaned back in his chair and said, “I keep thinking that what I can't afford to do is wait around very long. David will have his own attorney go over the bylaws and search for loopholes, of course. Sid, are all court orders open to public scrutiny? Is the power of attorney I have open to scrutiny? Is the power of acceptance?”

He was not reassured by the guarded look that came over Sid's face as he considered the questions.

“One more,” Thomas said. “Is there anything in the bylaws that would prevent us from forming a nonprofit foundation to ensure a succession of directors without altering our mission statement?”

Sid gazed into space with a thoughtful expression, then said, “Most people assume the power of attorney gives you absolute control, to vote, sell, dispose of, whatever. Likely, David McIvey has assumed that. But you're right, if an attorney goes digging, he'll find the documents. As for the foundation idea, I'd have to do a little research. It might require another petition to the court, but off the top of my head, I think it can be
done. It would adhere to the original intent of the founders, but it would probably take a majority vote, Thomas, and you don't have it. Fifty-fifty. Remember? McIvey could simply say no, and that would be it.”

“David can't handle the workload and has no intention of trying,” Thomas said. “He'll turn a few shares over to his wife and hang the work around her neck. And the minute he does that he won't have fifty percent of the shares to vote.”

Sid regarded him soberly for a moment, then said, “I may have limited experience in such matters, but it seems to me that wives generally go along with what their husbands demand unless they're engaged in a custody battle or a messy divorce.”

Thomas looked at Greg. “You tell him about Annie.”

“Well,” Greg said, groping for a starting place, “she's pretty special to us, to Naomi and me, I mean. Almost like a daughter. I feel as if I know her pretty well. She grew up on a dairy farm over at Tillamook, then went to college in Monmouth and got out when she was still only twenty-one. She answered an ad in the newspaper for a job at the clinic. Very shy, a little afraid of Eugene, the biggest city she ever lived in, pretty…She was so innocent, not like most kids her age. Anyway, we gave her the job and let her stay in the guest room at the residence for a couple of months. She loves the clinic, the patients, what we do there. After she got married, she began coming as a volunteer. She's there most days for several
hours. I don't think she'd want the clinic to be turned into a surgical center for wealthy clients.”

Although Sid thought that was a naive view, one which did not answer the question of whether she would cross her husband, he did not voice this opinion. “Okay,” he said. “Let me look into the foundation idea. I think it's a good one if you can get the majority vote for it. And I think the court would agree. The law approves of an orderly succession of directors, maintaining the status quo. Let me get back to you in a week or two. McIvey isn't going to do anything until he consults his own attorney. Then you'll have to have another board meeting to elect Annie McIvey to office. Say she's in by mid-October. You'll have to allow another month for McIvey to consider your proposal before you can insist on a vote. Mid-November. Hang on, Thomas. Everything takes time. That's just the way it is.” He put aside his usual caution then and added, “I think you've got him, Thomas. I think you've come up with the way out.”

 

Erica sat in the clinic kitchen with Stephanie one afternoon sipping coffee while Stephanie kept an eye on her prep cooks and the two volunteers.

“So what's with this Dr. McIvey?” Erica asked. “Every time his name comes up it's as if a cold front has passed through.”

“That's good,” Stephanie said. “That's what it feels like, all right. I'll give you a couple of examples why he's loved by all. A few years ago, five
or six maybe, this kid comes in with McIvey's referral for hydrotherapy. She was on the basketball team at the U of O and began having terrible leg pains. Diagnosis—stress fractures, shin splints. Hydrotherapy ordered. And if that didn't work, McIvey was going to operate on her back, a disk problem or something. Anyway, that isn't how it works here. Darren and Greg examine every new patient, take a history, do a complete workup, and if they decide therapy is needed, they decide what kind, schedule it, everything. If they decide they can't help a prospective patient, they say so. Darren said no for that girl. Her mother protested, and he advised her to get a second opinion. Well, McIvey hit the ceiling. He said Greg was a medical hack who couldn't make it in private practice, a know-nothing who should be turned out to pasture, God alone knows what all. And he called Darren a voodoo doctor, a shaman, an ignorant, superstitious laying-on-of-hands fraud who should practice in a tent at revivals or something.”

Her face was flushed at the memory, and her eyes were flashing with anger. “The mother took her kid up to Portland, to the Health and Science University Hospital, and got another opinion. It turned out the girl had a tumor that was causing pressure on her spine. A doc up there operated, and a few months later she was playing basketball again. McIvey knew it was Darren's call. He's the one who knows what will or won't work. Greg backs him up every time, but it's Darren's call.”

“Wow,” Erica said. “McIvey made a bad diagnosis
and got mad because they knew it? I thought people got second opinions pretty often.”

Stephanie nodded. “I guess he didn't make the original diagnosis. First the coach said shin splints and sidelined the kid. A GP said shin splints and got some X rays and tests to confirm it. McIvey just went along with the diagnosis, didn't bother to order more tests or look further. Darren said she'd had shin splints, but being out of action for six weeks or longer had let them heal. They weren't causing pain anymore. And neither was a disk problem. No physical therapy would help her. Most doctors welcome a second opinion, but God doesn't. And McIvey thinks he's God.”

“You said a couple of examples. What else?”

“It isn't quite as dramatic, I guess, but telling. After that, a few months maybe, McIvey came over one day and wanted to go through the personnel records. Naomi said no. She called Greg and he said no and called Dr. Kelso. Dr. Kelso came right over and told McIvey that the records were not open to the public, that only the directors had the right to examine them. McIvey said the only records he wanted were Darren's, that he didn't believe he was qualified to treat patients, and he wanted to check his background, his training and references, before he referred another patient to the clinic. Dr. Kelso made him stay out in the waiting room while he and Naomi collected some of the file and took it to him. McIvey said he wanted the whole file and Dr. Kelso said he had given him all he was entitled to see. Of course,
Darren's education, training, all of it is impeccable. He's recognized as the best physical therapist in the Northwest, maybe on the whole West Coast. They say he has magic in his hands. They can tell him more than a dozen X rays. Anyway, McIvey was furious. See, he was out to get Darren. Still is, I suspect. The day he gets control here, Greg, Naomi and Darren will all be out before the sun goes down.”

Erica finished her coffee, then said, “But he still sends patients here, doesn't he?”

“Sure. He knows this is the best facility for hundreds of miles, maybe all the way to Los Angeles.”

“I don't understand any of this,” Erica said. “Why would he try to drive out the best therapist
and
get control? Be second-rate or something.”

“That's the stickler,” Stephanie said, nodding. “No one here understands it. But that's how she blows. I've got to get back to work.”

It was a glorious late summer, Erica thought when she left Stephanie to walk for a few minutes in the garden. Dahlias, zinnias, marigolds, chrysanthemums…too many flowers to name were riotous, defying the calendar. Back in Cleveland there would have been a frost by then, but here in Eugene, it was a golden time of color everywhere. Working in her own yard one day, she had asked Darren when to expect the first frost. He had laughed and said Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or maybe not at all this year. Of course, she had thought he was kidding, but it was the end of September and flowers were still in bloom.

She had made friends with Darren's son, Todd, who had been shy and silent at first, but she had known hundreds of boys his age over the years and had known not to push. Still more child than adolescent, with sun-bleached hair and high color on his cheeks, he had the grace and directness of a child, but responded like a serious young adult to a serious adult who treated him with respect. She was very respectful with him.

When he offered to show her his collection, she had rejoiced. His collection had turned out to be an assortment of posters. He had painted his room forest green with cream trim, and on the walls he had mounted his posters: lava fields, high mountain lakes, totem poles. She had been puzzled until he said, “We collect things, Dad and me. This year it was totem poles. I take pictures and we get them made into posters. Last year it was volcanoes. I think we'll do trees next summer. You know, the biggest, the oldest, like that. I'm supposed to do the research.”

She had decided his Christmas present from her would be a bonsai tree.