Discretion (24 page)

“So what do you make of the volatility right now with the VIX hitting a thirty-day high? Does this shake things up at SCG?”

“It doesn’t mean much. I pay attention to it, but only out of curiosity and the possibility that the market will make a mistake and give me a gift.”

“A gift?”

“Sure. Investors do silly things all the time based on emotions. They let emotions rule long-term financial decisions. If we let being mad at our bosses after a morning meeting determine how we see our jobs and we react like many investors do, we’d all quit our jobs and sit at home, wondering what to do. And when investors do things like that, it makes for an opportunity.”

Joe takes a moment to stop laughing before asking the next question. “So what’s your take on the health of the economy?”

“Strong balance sheets, lots of cash, lots of merger opportunities and many in the works, which will be good for everyone. Lots of opportunities overseas, where valuations are lower than they are in the US and dividends are considerably higher on average. I think investors who are sitting on the sidelines or in TIPS are making some very expensive mistakes.”

He laughs again, though I wasn’t trying to be humorous.

We wrap the interview on a positive note, joking about the future price of oil over the summer, and then the bright lights go out and the session is over. At least for me.

T
he interview took a little more than eight minutes. They will pare down my content for length, an advantage of doing the interview pre-recorded as opposed to a live feed.

The crew is thankful, but short on time, as I stand from my moment of fame and bid farewell to everyone who made it possible. I walk out of the conference room to a dozen staff members applauding me, mostly analysts but two consultants are there; presumably they will use this as marketing bait. Slaps on the back and high fives are in order. One goofball intern starts to dance in the hallway. Everyone has reason to be positive when the television network comes calling. They ask at least three times per year, wanting either Seaton himself or a portfolio manager.

I return to my office and feel as though paparazzi will be taking my picture any minute now.

My inbox still has work, which I attack fervently. A few messages to delete. A few quick, one-sentence responses. An acknowledgement message to IT on a new system update next week. A CE reminder.

I have sixteen printed reports on my desk for tomorrow’s labor.

Relieved, I grab my personals and leave the office, not neglecting my empty coffee thermos for tomorrow’s inevitable need. Marisa texts me as I’m walking in the garage; she’s wondering how my day went. I give her the lowdown once I’m in the car. She responds almost instantly with positive news. I text her back that I hope to see Jamal tonight.

The main road is wet from a light rain and I try to sing along with the radio. I play with the dial and settle on “Free Falling” by Tom Petty. As I’m singing through the second half of the song, it occurs to me how much this song connects with life. Must be why it’s still on the radio.

An incoming phone call disrupts my off-key singing. My mother. Why the hell is she calling me? I press Ignore and figure she’ll leave a message. I can endure it later.

The shivers take a long moment to subside. The last time I talked with my mother, it was one-sided and didn’t leave me feeling warm or fuzzy. Her unique ability to make me out to be a failure is amazing. Her talent is like none other.

I stop at a Starbucks and get a vanilla latte, iced. I finish it before I reach the hospital’s parking lot and grab the first spot I can find. Rejuvenated by caffeine and the desire to see my friend, I enter the hospital and navigate to his room.

The church folks are gathered about in the waiting area, standing around for a turn to see him, all in good spirits. Several are praying together, but more reserved than last night, since they’re not the only visitors.

A woman, all of twenty-two years of age, with short, frayed blonde hair and a face that looks as if she’s gotten an hour of sleep in the last seventy-two, sits in the waiting room by herself, away from the rest. She is dressed in black yoga pants and a white tank top.

Her name is Nadine Hals. She waits to see her child, Benjamin; his room is a few doors away from Jamal.

Benjamin is six years old and has complications she doesn’t yet know about. He is resting now, unaware of the decisions that await his mother, who lost her husband and her father this past year. Nadine’s heart is heavy in this fleeting moment, as she contemplates what to do next, expecting the worst. Where to go? How will he get treatment? Unfortunately, the doctors are overly optimistic about his condition.

The truth will hit when the lab results return tomorrow morning. Her spirit is weak right now. In a matter of hours, she will receive news she will not be able to accept without help; she needs an intervention.

Her path and mine are intertwined for a reason.

Go to her.

Christel guides me to give what no one else can. The private pain Nadine bears is known to Christel, and I am here for a purpose. In this instance, I must function as the hands and feet of the spirit that guides me; this is my calling. This is how I repay Christel: by obedience to her will. None are more in need than Nadine Hals, who has a six-year-old boy who loves baseball but has a small tumor in his brain.

It started with headaches. Minor at first, but progressed to severe over several months. They became more frequent and were no longer isolated to one time of the day, but came and went as they pleased. Or just stayed for what felt like forever. Painkillers were no longer working. He went to see a specialist, who provided some guidance, but the testing required to get a better grasp was outside the limited budget. Months went by and new symptoms emerged. Conditions worsened. Then the unthinkable: he collapsed while at school. That was a long three days ago for Nadine.

Now, more than resources, she needs support. People who will listen and will understand.

Nadine, like many others that call the valley home, is a transplant. She hails from Andover, New Jersey, where her mother and two sisters still lives.

Nadine will need her family tomorrow when the news comes. None of the family members know Benjamin is in the hospital yet, as Nadine can’t bear to tell them what she doesn’t know or understand herself.

So she waits. Alone. For the news she knows is coming.

It’s my job to get her family here, so she won’t be by herself when the doctor reports the diagnosis tomorrow. Three people need to board an aircraft and they are going to leave within hours to make it here, considering the three-hour time difference and five-hour flight time. There is a way.

Nadine sits, staring at the wall and tries to think about nothing. She has a diet Coke in her left hand she’s been nursing for the past ninety minutes. She wants a cigarette, but she’s been without one for the last few days as she’s trying to quit to save her health and money for upcoming expenses. She works two jobs, one in the early hours of the morning cleaning offices part-time so she can be home when Ben wakes up and is off to school. She goes to her day job doing clerical work after dropping Ben off and picks him up at three
P.M.
Then she is home and grateful as any to have the hours she has in the afternoon with her son until he goes to bed.

Benjamin loves cars,
Star Wars,
and board games.

Tomorrow she is going to get a diagnosis that will rattle all she has. I must bring family, who can hold her, comfort and support her in a way no one else can. Even though I’m a stranger to Nadine, I must do this.

There is only one way given the time allotment. I reach Marquis Jet on their toll-free number from my phone. I request a plane to be ready for three passengers from Aeroflex-Andover Airport. The rep takes the information on my travelers and I provide phone numbers for each of them, as Marquis will contact them to ensure they have everything they need before the flight. I hang up and walk over to her, choosing the seat across from her. I try to make eye contact, to make a connection with the short time available.

Now I must let Nadine know what is taking place. If I were to call or email her sisters and her mother myself, they would presume I’m running a scam and never show up for the flight. Nadine’s call is needed here. The instructions have to come from her, meaning she has to be convinced I’m not out to harm her, but a stranger who is inclined to spend a small fortune for her family to fly to Phoenix from New Jersey tomorrow—for reasons she doesn’t yet know.

Christel, I’m going to need a lot of help.

“Are you okay?” I say, though I am not entirely sure why.

She nods and forces a little smile, though I can see the pain in her expression. Her misery is so vivid, I can hardly refrain from suffering alongside her.

“Can I get you some coffee?” I offer, only to recall that it’s among the worst I’ve tasted.

“No…” she says, her voice faint. She lifts her head to face me and makes eye contact.

She thinks you’re an ambulance-chasing lawyer. Tell her your name; speak slowly.

“My name is Colin and…” I say, not knowing where to begin.

She nods and looks away, dismissive. “What can I do for you?”

“Nothing at all.” I pause a moment, hoping that will defuse her concern. “But I feel I need to help you. And this is going to seem…very strange.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so tired.” She rubs her eyes.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

She gives a laugh, the kind of a tired and weary person who is near the end. She says nothing in reply.

“Nadine.”

She stops moving. Stops breathing. And looks at me, her eyes wide. I can hear her heart pounding blood through her body from where I sit.

I say, “Don’t ask questions. Just trust me, as crazy as that sounds.”

She remains still, watching me in horror. I remove a pen and a napkin from my jacket pocket. I write the details for the plane flight with the time, location, and hangar number. I also put the full names of her three relatives, hoping it removes some doubt. I hand the napkin to her and she doesn’t accept it, but stares at my extended hand holding the square of white paper for a few moments in disbelief.

She thinks this is a sick joke or a con.

What is written on this napkin will change her life over the next few days and she sits there, looking at it, in my extended hand, as if it were a piece of trash, an old burger wrapper from the ground.

I don’t waver or try to force the offer. She reluctantly accepts the napkin and reads it, quickly looking at me and then the napkin. She reads it eight times over, as if she can’t understand it.

Her thoughts clutter over my identity, and what I want, since no one does anything generous anymore. She believes no one cares.

“Nadine…the plane will be ready at the time written on there for your siblings and your mother to fly to Phoenix tomorrow from New Jersey. Please call them and tell them where they need to be. They have already packed their bags and are ready to leave, but they don’t know where they are going yet.”

“My mother…” she says, her words nearly a stammer. “My mother doesn’t fly. She doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Well, her first flight is going to be with the best in the business.” I manage a smile. “Call her. She’s waiting.”

“Why? How?”

Tell her God sent you.

“God sent me.”

She looks away, ashamed. Then her eyes meet mine. She feels unworthy of such a gift. A remorse that she alone, as a recipient of such generosity, can feel. “So…are you an angel?”

I crack a smile. “Not exactly.”

“Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then how do you know my name?”

I shrug without thinking. “Divine inspiration?”

She manages a smile. “Will my boy be okay?”

I let the question linger, hoping Christel will tell me what to say next. Only silence occupies the space between her and me. “I can’t say.”

She nods and offers her hand to me. “I’m…Nadine.”

I accept her hand with care. “Colin.”

She looks at me in disbelief.
She thinks this is a strange dream, but she doesn’t want to wake up. She wants to believe.
“I guess…I should say…thank you.”

“You should get some rest.”

She smiles a little and a glimmer of hope rises in her blue eyes as she fights back tears. This is the first good news in a long time. “Why…did you do this?”

I can’t think of an answer.

This is how it feels to do God’s work. It never grows old. I never tire of it. Nadine is a task assigned to me. I feel privileged to share in the joy that only angels know of.

Nadine could use some company. For a while.

T
wenty minutes with Nadine, and she is ready to sleep. It takes that long to convince her. She wants to talk about anything. Everything. She feels at last she has someone who understands what she’s going through with her son’s medical problems—choosing to carry the weight alone rather than trouble others with it.

Benjamin’s room has space, a cozy blue seat at the corner, below the window where she can sleep. She’s close to her son. But perhaps being so close to him while he’s in this condition is torture. Like dying while still alive.

Joanna finds me and comes to my side, and gives me a hug. It’s time to see Jamal. She doesn’t have to say anything.

The sight of him is a shock, as I see the man lucky to be alive after surgery.

He’s awake. Weak. I can see it in his eyes and his face. His hair is the only component that is untainted by the accident yesterday afternoon. The nurse checks his vital signs and the instruments, and then gives me a firm but polite instruction not to excite him; his body was broken and needs all the energy he has to heal.

So much is damaged in his body, which, for a great deal of time in the past twenty-four hours, held on to life by a thread.

Jamal’s car was the beginning of the wreck, as an oncoming vehicle, from cross traffic, broadsided Jamal’s Denali and sent it sailing, knocking it over on its side in dense traffic, causing a pile of collateral damage. Like a chain of explosives tied to one another—like dominoes that collapsed in a nanosecond. Many casualties. The witnesses interviewed by
The Arizona Republic
described the event in today’s paper as a flash of horror. Complete chaos. It dominated the nightly news and detoured traffic for hours.