Chapter One
The Kindness of Strangers
Was Matthew Connelly a bad man? He’d never once asked himself that
question. Make of it what you will. Of course it would have surprised him
to know that, as he walked toward the bridge that night, a little boy was
asking the question for him. Because Matthew didn’t notice people like
this boy, he never wondered what they were thinking about, or if they
thought at all. They were as invisible as the ants he’d crushed under his
feet as he walked through the streets of Grand Cayman the weekend before,
with Amelia and Ben, the happy couple, deliriously grateful to have found
each other, all demons of the past behind them – and all thanks to him.
His matchmaking was a good deed from their point of view, pure and simple.
To Matthew it was something else entirely, something he didn’t dwell on
but accepted as another delicate operation in an extremely complex job.
The boy watching Matthew, who gave his name as Timmy or Jacob or Danny,
depending on the situation, was only ten years old, but his mother said he
was closer to forty in his harsh judgments of other people, by which she
usually meant his harsh judgments of herself. And it was true; the boy
took an almost instant dislike to Matthew Connelly. It wasn’t just that
the guy looked too young to be so filthy rich, with a fancy topcoat that
had to cost more than it had cost to feed Isabelle for her entire life, or
even that he was obviously in a hurry, striding up Walnut Street like he
had somewhere important to be, though it was way past midnight. It wasn’t
even the loud, idiotic singing the man was indulging in as he walked, as
though no one could possibly be outside on that frigid November night in
Philadelphia except Connelly himself, who no doubt considered the journey
a reason to pat himself on the back that he was always up for a little
exercise. No, the real thing that condemned him, from the boy’s
perspective, was the position of his hands, which were jammed so far into
his pockets that all you could see were the tops of what surely were the
most luxurious leather gloves sold on the planet. So he wasn’t cold, which
meant there was only one reason his hands were like that. He was a selfish
person, the kind who wouldn’t lift a finger to help anyone else. The kind
of person his mother called a “natural-born Republican bastard,” even
though she didn’t believe in her son’s hands theory, preferring instead
the simpler principle that all rich people were bastards.
Still, the boy, who ended up naming himself Danny that night, had no
choice; he had to try. He grabbed three-year-old Isabelle in his arms,
groaning under her weight, and ran up the concrete stairs as fast as his
scrawny ten-year-old legs would carry him. He had to be standing on the
bridge when the man got there, blocking his path. As the guy came closer,
Danny proceeded to yell and scream and cry: “Help! Please, mister! My baby
sister! Help!”
The tears weren’t real because he never cried, but the fear made his
frozen hands shake harder. Isabelle had been throwing up all day and his
mother had told him a million times that if you throw up for too long, you
can die. Protecting Isabelle was his sacred duty and he would do it no
matter what, even if he had to die himself. It was part of the code of
honor he’d adopted a few months after his sister was born, when he’d sworn
himself in as a knight. This was after he’d read a book about King Arthur
and the Knights of the Round Table, which his mother had stolen for him
from the library, but he wasn’t playing some stupid pretend game. Even the
book said that knights weren’t only in the past, and anyone could be one.
True, the boy had never met another knight, but that wasn’t surprising
since knights had to sacrifice everything to uphold the code, and that was
hard, even for him. But whenever he wanted to renounce his knighthood and
go back to being a regular kid, he remembered his honor and how no one
could take it away from him – not his mother, not the cops, and certainly
not this selfish asshole who wasn’t going to stop, Danny knew, no matter
how much he begged.
That Danny turned out to be wrong had nothing to do with his ability to
judge men like Matthew Connelly. On that particular night, there was
something about Matthew that even a very wise, very hardened ten-year-old
boy/knight couldn’t guess from the man’s appearance. The rest, Danny had
gotten right, uncannily so. It was true that Matthew was what most anybody
would call rich, given his upper-six-figure salary; his stock options at
Astor-Denning, the pharmaceutical company where he was a VP; the
top-of-the-line Porsche 911 he’d bought with last year’s bonus; his
property investments across the city – though he was leasing the loft
where he’d lived for the last two years, an upscale but not intimidating
place, perfect for his friendships with scientists. It was also true that
he was walking quickly, not because he had a flight to Tokyo in the
morning, which he’d put out of his mind, but because it felt good to move;
not as wonderful as it had on the dance floor, but still good. The idiotic
humming was a carry-away from the club he’d just left, a way of
remembering the woman he might have taken home with him if this were a
normal night, yet it had been anything but.
At seven-thirty he’d gone out to dinner with a nationally known med school
professor who’d agreed to testify before the FDA on behalf of
Astor-Denning’s new diabetes drug. Matthew’s goal was to make this guy
happy, to give him the right food, the right wine, the right conversation,
even, if necessary, the right women. But the only thing the good doctor
really wanted was to try MDMA: ecstasy. He was recently divorced; he
thought he needed a drug that would “release” his emotions about his
ex-wife. Matthew agreed to make a few phone calls, though he hoped he
wouldn’t have to listen to the guy’s emotions as they were released. When
the doc insisted that they try the drug together, Matthew’s first reaction
was to smile and nod and decide he wouldn’t swallow it. The illegal part
didn’t bother him, but he didn’t want to lose control of the meeting. But
then the doc said they’d know they were “tripping” when their pupils
dilated, and Matthew realized it might not be easy to fool this doc, even
if the guy was high. Whatever happened, he could not let this important
contact decide he was a liar. What the hell. The E was pure, according to
his source, and he had a brilliant medical professor at his side. What
could go wrong?
The fiftysomething, fat, balding doc had had the time of his life, running
around the club, groping one woman after another, telling each of them, “I
know I’m on X, but the way I feel about you is so intense, it has to be
real.” Matthew was much more subdued, but he enjoyed the experience, too.
And he felt proud that he’d forced himself to leave the club alone – after
the doc left with some blonde – even though the pill was still
working, knowing it would give him a cheerful walk home, which, damn, he
needed for a change. The trip to the Caymans last weekend, meetings and
conference calls and putting out fires all day, wining and dining research
partners five nights out of seven: all of this was making him feel
unusually tired, though he was determined to prove that nothing had
changed, despite the fact that he’d just turned forty. He was in great
shape. He could always party like it’s 1999, even if that particular
phrase was one he kept to himself, fearing it would date him with the hot
twentysomethings he invariably found himself attracted to rather than
women his own age.
With the pill’s help, he floated painlessly down thirty-one blocks from
Old City to the bridge, no side effects except a little teeth-chattering.
He lived on the West Philly side of the river to enhance his intellectual
cred with academics, but the loft scored him points for being hip, too,
because uptight people were afraid to live there even though the building
was more like a suburban gated community than an edgy inner-city
neighborhood, and his Porsche was probably safer there than anywhere in
the city. Walking on the Walnut Street Bridge at night did make him a
little nervous, which was why he usually took a cab home, but now nothing
bothered him, not even some screaming kid standing near the stairs to the
river.
When he reached the kid, he noticed the boy was holding what looked like a
bundle of clothes, except that it was making sounds like a kitten (or were
they words? Whatever it was, that sound was so sweet), and Matthew found
himself bursting into a smile. “Can I hold it?” he said, pointing at the
bundle.
He just wanted to see what could make that brook sound, but the dirty boy
wasn’t cool. He frowned and said, “What? Are you a perv or something?”
Matthew wasn’t sure why, but the question made him feel so happy he
started laughing. “No, I’m not,” Matthew said, still grinning. “Am I
supposed to be?”
The boy cursed under his breath. “You’re drunk.”
“Wrong again,” Matthew said, and then he blurted out something he would
never have told another adult, especially in his condition, given his
strict policy of avoiding emotional entanglements. “I’ll have you know
that my father died of cirrhosis of the liver. I am not now and have never
been drunk. So there.” He stuck his arm out, pointing one finger playfully
at the kid. “Take that!”
The boy looked away then, lost in thought, but Matthew was too busy trying
to see over the top of the bundle to care what the dirty kid was thinking
about. Even if he’d known the kid was thinking about drugs, he wouldn’t
have cared. What was the boy going to do, have him arrested for swallowing
his first-ever tab of E? After a minute, Matthew said, pointing at the
bundle, thrilled that he’d figured it out, “It’s a little girl!”
“Duh,” the kid said. “It’s Isabelle, my sister.” He pulled the blanket
down just enough to expose the largest blackest eyes Matthew had ever
seen. Doll eyes.
“She doesn’t look like you,” Matthew said. The little girl was a light
brown color, while the boy was chalky pale, even under the dirt. “She’s so
adorable. Can I touch her?”
Before the boy could answer, the bundle shook and heaved like a volcano
about to erupt, and Matthew took a confused step back as the little girl
let loose with a stream of vomit that covered the boy’s hands before
spewing all over the ground, with one big splat landing on one of
Matthew’s handmade Italian shoes.
“She’s sick,” the boy said, sounding depressed. “That’s why I stopped you.
I’m sorry.”
Matthew smiled at the humanness of it all. Puke. It happened to everyone,
didn’t it? It had happened to him a few hours ago, right at the beginning
of his trip. “I know what she needs,” he said, before he could stop
himself. “Emetrol and Gatorade.”
“Where do I get that?” The kid’s tone was much lighter now, sweet even.
“All the stores around here are closed.”
Matthew thought for a moment. He was happy, but not stupid; yet he didn’t
see how this scrawny kid could pose any threat. Not to mention the
downstairs guard at the loft: a 275-pound former boxer who would rush to
his aid at the push of a button. He could give the beautiful baby the
Emetrol and Gatorade and send them on their way, with cab fare for
wherever they usually go at night, which he didn’t want to think about. He
wanted to stay happy.
“All right, come on.” He looked up at the dark sky and laughed. “I haven’t
got all day.”
“Great,” the kid said. “Just give me a minute.” He pointed below the
bridge, presumably to the riverbank at the bottom of the stairs. “I left
something. I have to get it or Isabelle will cry.”
“We don’t want that,” Matthew said, though he was thinking that maybe he
should go ahead and walk home without waiting for them. He’d just
remembered the plane to Tokyo at 8:37 in the morning. His plan had been to
be in bed by one-thirty, then up by five-thirty, showered, packed, and on
the road to the airport by six-thirty. He’d sleep on the plane, too, but
the four hours would buy him the energy to do the packing and stand in the
annoying line at airport security.
He was still working out the details in a fuzzy-minded way – he could
easily make it to the Philly airport by seven, but he’d have to take a
cab, so he didn’t have to park – when the kid handed him the bundle.
“Just hold her. Stand right here.”
The kid’s voice was reluctant, and so was his expression each time he
looked back while he rushed away, but Matthew didn’t care. All night he’d
felt like touching everyone, but holding this baby was like having a
little bird in his hands, a beautiful bird that cooed delightedly every
time his finger stroked her cheeks. This sound was better than dance
music, better even than the Bach playlist on his iPod. It was like the
voice of heaven, he thought. Why didn’t the radio play this child cooing
all day long? Why wasn’t it being broadcast from the loudspeakers at
Franklin Field right now?
When the kid returned, dragging a garbage bag – and a skinny woman – with
him, Matthew was still talking to the baby, listening to her sweet,
lilting babbles that seemed to be answers in another language, though he
was pretty sure he heard the word yes and positive he heard multiple nos.
But still, he felt better when the boy told him the woman was their
mother. This made him feel peaceful and warm, knowing these two kids
weren’t out at night by themselves. They had a mom, though she was sick,
too, obviously. During the short walk to the loft she puked twice, dry
heaves, quick and quiet and over before the boy had time to stop. Unless
he had no intention of stopping. He shot his mom several dirty looks,
which struck Matthew as pointless. She couldn’t help it if she was sick.
Puking was human and oddly touching. The simple act of retching made
anyone seem vulnerable.
They finally made it to Matthew’s building and went up the elevator into
his apartment. Matthew found the Emetrol in the guest bathroom medicine
cabinet and told them the Gatorade was in the fridge; then he headed to
his bedroom, just planning to change his shoes because the smell of vomit
was bothering him. Somehow he ended up on his bed. What happened after
that wasn’t strange, since he’d swallowed two Ativans on his walk home,
knowing E was an amphetamine and afraid he wouldn’t get to sleep for
hours, but it was extremely unfortunate, since he passed out before he had
a chance to get rid of the boy and his mother and even the beautiful-voice
baby, who he knew he wouldn’t want to see in the morning. Without the
pill’s effect, music was just music and puking babies were an annoyance.
And strangers looking for handouts were worse than annoying; they were
weak and irresponsible and, nearly always, absolute believers that they
were morally entitled simply because they were victims.
What Matthew thought of as the victim mentality taking over America was a
perpetually sore subject for him, and never more so than in the last month
when, as his boss so colorfully put it, Matthew had been driving a hundred
miles an hour, in a convertible, trying to outrun a shit storm. The
potential disaster had surfaced on an ordinary Thursday night when he was
in bed with a woman, dozing after sex while she watched inane TV. Later he
would wonder why no one on his media surveillance team knew that this
pseudo news show was going to mention Galvenar, but at the time, his
reaction was more primal. He went into the bathroom and punched the wall
hard enough to make his knuckles bleed, though the wall, embarrassingly
enough, was absolutely fine.
By every standard, Galvenar had been Astor-Denning’s most spectacular
success, and one of the most successful launches in the history of
pharmaceuticals. The medicine was approved by the FDA for chronic pain,
but it also had a stunning array of off-label uses, which had led to AD’s
stock climbing steadily ever since the drug had come on the market two
years earlier. In the last quarter alone, its sales had reached 1.32
billion. Matthew had no intention of letting some idiot who fancied
himself an investigative journalist ruin all this, especially with the
non-news story that two men had died of heart attacks while taking a long
list of meds that just happened to include Galvenar, which this jackass
journalist had the nerve to suggest could be “the next Vioxx” and have to
be withdrawn from the market, like Vioxx, for the “safety of the public.”
That same night, Matthew started making damage control phone calls. First,
the AD legal team threatened the network with a lawsuit if they didn’t
issue a statement that Galvenar had been specifically tested for cardiac
side effects and judged absolutely safe, even in doses sixteen times larger
than either of the men had been taking, which was all true: Galvenar wasn’t
even in the same drug class as Vioxx. After the retraction aired, Matthew
had his staff reach out to journalists, suggesting they might want to
ring in on the “scare tactics” used by this network to boost ratings.
More than a dozen had taken the bait, including a handful who wrote
for prestigious newspapers. In the meantime, the PR firm drones were
planting more testimonials for Galvenar on sites like patientsays.com
and manufacturing outrage in pain community chat rooms about television
shows that didn’t understand suffering, with frequent references to
Galvenar, the gave-us-our-lives-back miracle drug. Then, over the last
few weeks, Matthew had personally contacted all the scientists who’d
signed on to the research results, just to gauge their reactions, but
few of them had heard of this TV report and those who had thought it
was another example of the public’s ignorance about cause and effect.
Finally, he’d gone with Ben and Amelia to Grand Cayman last weekend,
without telling anyone about the trip, even his boss. His boss didn’t
know anything about that situation, but even if Matthew had forced
him to hear every detail of the last twenty years, all the way back
to when he and Ben and Amelia were in college, the boss might still
have concluded that Matthew was being so careful it bordered on
paranoid. But to Matthew, there was no such thing as too careful.
Not when billions in profit were at stake.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Cure for Modern Life
by Lisa Tucker
Copyright © 2008 by Lisa Tucker.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Atria
Copyright © 2008
Lisa Tucker
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7434-9279-9
