Legacy - 52. Searching for David - Jeremy Kimball

One of the worst things about being a former U.S. president is that you can’t be spontaneous. Once you’ve sat in the Oval Office, you’re subject to Secret Service protection wherever you go. If you want to go to the theater, for example, you have to reserve a box and the Secret Service has to thoroughly inspect the place, well in advance of your visit. If there are any concerns, they’ll actually bring in bomb-sniffing dogs! And unless there is a separate, secure entrance you can use, you cannot arrive until everyone else is seated and you have to leave before anyone else does.

There’s no real freedom when you’re a former president. Not that most of us didn’t try to exercise a little of it now and then. I once tried to take off in search of a strawberry banana smoothie at three AM. I talked my driver into taking me, sans the Secret Service. It wasn’t hard to find a diner open in the East Village at that hour, but the moment I entered, we were mobbed. We ended up having to be escorted out by the NYPD and I had to endure an endless lecture from my personal Secret Service agent.

The fact that I couldn’t just up and go somewhere had been making the search for my David particularly difficult. Making arrangements took time and I didn’t really have time. More than a week had passed since Sammy asked me to search for David and, unless I found a shred of evidence that he was still alive, Sammy would expect me to return to New York this Friday so I could be with him when he left his ‘bubble’ to die.

Since the discovery that Bruce Warren actually met with David and wrote a book about his final days in the mountain retreat, I had done nothing but read and sleep. Basically, I’d read until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, taken a nap for a few hours and then repeated the cycle. Day and night held no meaning and I only became aware of my hunger as I reached the end. I also became aware that I had a lot more than just stubble on my face, and I stank! A shower was even more of a priority than getting something to eat and so I headed to the small bathroom off my office in the Library. While I was in the shower, I gave thought to Bruce’s writing and to my next move.

Bruce had met with David for weeks at a time, several times over the course of six years. David had kept his promise to meet with Brad, and it was very likely that it was Brad who talked David into allowing Bruce to meet with him. It was important that David write his memoirs, but a third party could provide a unique and valuable perspective. Besides which, Bruce was Brad’s best friend and had been since their teens. Brad trusted Bruce and Bruce had never abused that trust.

Bruce documented David’s decline over the course of their meetings, to the point that David was confined to a wheelchair, incontinent and barely coherent. It was difficult to picture my David like that, given the strong athletic man he had once been. The image literally brought tears to my eyes and, yet, I knew I that had I been there, I would have loved him just the same.

At the end of the manuscript Bruce suggested that David’s days were very short indeed, but he never actually wrote that David had died. I found that to be curious, particularly given that David had lived far longer than expected - more than twice as long. In doing so he had easily lived long enough to be around for the initial trials of the cure of his disease. Surely he must have known about it. If he chose to ignore it, why did he . . . but, if the didn’t, might he still be alive now? I had to find out.

After getting dressed, I had the Secret Service bring me a hearty breakfast from the concession downstairs. I could have probably sent for something much nicer from one of the many restaurants in nearby downtown, but I was famished and couldn’t wait.

As I ate, I gave serious thought to my next move. The obvious thing would have been to contact Bruce, but he’d died of a brain tumor two years ago. Brad had been devastated but, as they say, life goes on. It’s tough to lose a close friend, particularly a best friend.

Bruce left behind a wife, a sister and two adult children. In the hope that they might know something, I did a quick query into their whereabouts. His wife had moved to Melbourne, making visiting her virtually impossible within the timeframe I had left. If I found other evidence that David was still alive - evidence that could convince Sammy to hang on a little longer, then I might pursue her. Otherwise I needed to find a lead closer to home.

Sadly, Bruce and his sister had been estranged from each other and hadn’t had contact in nearly thirty years. What a shame that was - they had a shared history together. In desperation I did give her a call, but she only confirmed their utter lack of contact. She had been saddened by his death but, apparently, not enough to mend fences.

Bruce’s daughter, as it turned out, had moved back to Indiana and lived a short drive away. I thought I might invite her to have dinner with me but, when I called her home, I got no answer and her mobile went straight to voice mail. When I called her office, I found out that she and her family were on a backpacking trip in Escalante Canyon out in Utah, one of the most remote regions in America. Searching for them by helicopter would not have been a good way to keep the low profile I was trying to maintain.

That left Bruce’s son as my last and perhaps only hope. It seemed that Harold Warren, named after his grandfather, whom I remembered so well, now lived in Atlanta. Going to Atlanta was definitely doable but, as with all of my travels, involved coordinating a hundred different things with the Secret Service.

Arranging a commercial flight into Atlanta would have involved more hassles than it was worth. The airlines for unfathomable reasons were loathe to kick people out of first class so I could have the first class cabin all to myself. Actually, so was I. The alternative was to charter a plane, something I would consider as a last resort, to take a high-speed train or to drive.

Amtrak had a rapid rail line from Chicago to Miami that passed right through here and through Atlanta. It ran twice a day and the afternoon train would get me into Atlanta just ahead of 6:00 PM. Of course that was being overly optimistic, as we would have had to have our own rail car and arrange for added security, and that took time.

It took far less time to arrange for a Secret Service limo and an escort, so we ended up driving down, arriving just ahead of midnight. I slept the whole way.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~

“Mr. President, it’s an honor to have you here,” the young Secret Service agent greeted me as we entered the Carter Presidential Library through a side entrance. For security reasons and expediency, it turned out to be the most practical location for my meeting with Bruce Warren’s son. I’d last seen him at Bruce’s funeral and imagined he hadn’t changed much in the last five years.

Unlike my library, the Carter Library was only two stories with a significant portion of the archives located underground. The presidential office suite, intended originally for the former president during his visits and later made available for visiting dignitaries, was located in a secluded section of the building on the first floor, with a completely private terrace and garden through a glass door. Bruce’s son was waiting for me inside, wandering around the office and looking at the numerous items of memorabilia to be found there.

“I’m always in awe when I visit a place like this,” I started to say as I entered the office. “Actually coming into contact with items that played a role in history . . .”

Unfortunately, I startled poor Harold, causing him to nearly drop the glass bust of Brezniev he was holding.

“Mr. President!” the younger man said as he regained his composure. “I did not hear you come in. I’m sorry, but you startled me.”

“The apology should be mine,” I responded as I extended my hand and Harold put the bust down where he’d found it. “It’s nice to see you after all these years, Mr. Warren,” I continued. “You know, I remember meeting you when you were just a young boy . . . maybe eight or nine. And now look at you! You must be about thirty now.”

“Thirty-one,” he confirmed, “and please, just call me ‘Harry’. My father was Mr. Warren and I wouldn’t even want to try to fill his shoes.”

“He was an outstanding news writer,” I agreed, “but I hear you’ve made your mark in your own way. I’ve heard you’re one of the best civil rights attornies in Atlanta and already being considered for partner.”

“That may be exaggerating things a bit,” he replied.

“Don’t be so modest,” I countered. “Making partner at such a young age is a real accomplishment. If you aren’t willing to toot your own horn, how can you expect anyone else to?”

“Point well taken, I guess,” he responded, but then got a more serious expression on his face.

“Mr. President,” Harry asked, “Please don’t take this the wrong way but, why are you here? One thing I learned from my dad and from Grandpa is that politicians don’t just show up on your doorstep without a very good reason, and I doubt that you’re trying to get my vote.”

“I’ll explain in a moment, Harry,” I replied, “but first, since I asked you for lunch, is there anything you’re allergic to or cannot eat?”

“Eggplant,” he replied. “I’m highly allergic to eggplant.”

“What a pity,” I responded. “I’m a vegetarian and eggplant is a staple of vegetarian cooking.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry replied. “I’m pretty much a meat and potatoes kind of guy.”

“I hope that seafood is to your liking,” I noted. “As a politician I have to live with a broad variety of people’s tastes but, when I have the choice, I try to avoid strong meat smells as they kind of make me nauseous. I long ago lost the enzymes needed to digest red meat.”

“Seafood’s fine,” Harry replied, “in fact, it’s one of my favorite things . . . as long as it’s cooked.”

Chuckling, I responded, “Then I guess I’ll have to send back the sushi sampler. . . . Seriously though, you don’t know what you’re missing . . .”

But Harry interrupted, “Yeah, I do. Believe me, I’ve tried it. Raw fish is just so slimy.”

“Do you like lox on your bagels,” I asked out of curiosity.

“I don’t particularly care for bagels,” He answered, causing me to place both of my palms on my chest and stagger backwards as if I’d been mortally wounded.

“As a New Yorker who’s part Jewish, I take offense at that,” I responded with a laugh.

With a laugh of his own, Harry replied, “I know . . . I know. It’s totally un-American not to like bagels, but I could really take or leave them. They’re just no match for pancakes with bacon and real maple syrup, eggs, hash browns and toast. And as far as lox is concerned, I can tolerate it in a and lox-cream cheese spread but, otherwise, it’s positively vile.”

“I’ll try to ignore youre sacrilege,” I remarked, “but I think you’ll like the food I’ve arranged for us. It should be here in a few minutes.

“So while we’re waiting for lunch to arrive,” I asked, “Tell me, Harry, didn’t you used to date my brother-in-law’s son?”

With a smile on his face, he answered, “Yeah, at one time we were quite an item. We moved to Washington after Dad covered, well, the assassination. Dad was offered a job at corporate. Of course Brad Reynolds became the vice-president and so he moved his family to Washington as well. We ended up at Sidwell Friends together and we dated all through high school.”

Then with a momentary flash of pain on his face, Harry continued, “Letting Chris go was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. We were both so young and naïve. I thought I was too young to settle down with just one guy. I wanted variety and even talked Chris into bringing other guys into our relationship . . .”

“I don’t particularly want the details,” I interjected.

“Nor do I really want to give them,” Harry responded with a smirk. “Suffice to say that I threw away what may well have been the best thing I ever had or ever will have, all because the thought of commitment scared the shit out of me.”

“It scares the shit out of most people,” I replied. “It’s always easy to look at what might have been, but what might have been, seldom would have.”

“Words to the wise, Mr. President,” Harry responded.

“So is there anyone special in your life now?” I asked.

With a sigh, he replied, “No. It’s just that I keep comparing my boyfriends to Chris and there’s no comparison. I’m finally at a stage in my life where I’m looking for a lot more in a relationship than sex. I’m just not finding it.”

Just then there was a knock on the door and a server wheeled a table into the room, with an assortment of salad items, some exquisite looking deserts, a pot of coffee and an assortment of bottles of white wine. Centered at each of the two place settings were two covered plates. Harry immediately peaked under each of the covers and exclaimed, “There’s no way I can eat all of this.”

Laughing, I replied, “You’re not expected to. We just wanted to be sure you didn’t go away hungry.”

“Well there’s no danger of that happening,” He remarked.

As we each sat down across from each other, I looked under my own plate covers to see that we had steamed scallops and shrimp, steamed asparagus and broccoli, wild rice, a small salmon fillet, a baked potato, sweet potato fries, sautéed mushrooms and peppers, and puréed squash. In addition to the salad items, there was a turreen of heavenly-smelling lobster bisque in the center of the table.

“Would you like some wine, gentlemen?” the server asked.

“I’ll have a glass of the Chardonnay,” I responded and Harry indicated that he would have the same. The server poured each of us a glass, then ladled some of the bisque into our bowls before leaving the room.

As we started to dig in, I mentioned, “You know, Harry, Christopher Reynolds is single himself.”

With a look of astonishment, Harry replied, “I thought he was still with that super model, what’s his name.”

“Like you, Chris has had a string of boyfriends. He’s the son of a former President and has had a steady stream of suitors, but he’s still searching. I’m not sure you could pry him away from New York, though,” I commented.

“For him I’d move to New York in a heartbeat . . . if I could find work, that is.”

“If you really want him,” I added, “really, really want him, why not go after him?”

“Why not indeed?” Harry responded. “More food for thought . . .”

“And with your reputation and with Chris’ relationships with two past presidents, New York firms would be tripping over their feet to hire you. But I warn you, if you’re a gold digger or you do anything to break my nephew’s heart again, no place on earth will be safe for you.”

Swallowing hard, young Harry replied, “I could never hurt Chris. Not again . . . I was such a fool.”

After about five minutes of silence as we continued to eat, Harry asked, “So, Mr. President. You never did answer my original question. I know you’re not here to talk about my dating habits, so tell me, why are you here?”

Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Do you remember a time back in the mid-to-late forties when your dad traveled a lot to Idaho?”

“Actually I thought it was Washington state . . . Spokane as I remember it,” Harry answered and I nodded. “Boy do I ever. Dad was gone for weeks at a time. Whenever I asked him about it, he said he was working on a big project but it involved an exposé of a highly secret government operation and he couldn’t tell me anything more about it. I guess after all that, it didn’t work out, because he never published anything remotely related that I’m aware of.”

Of course I didn’t expect Harry to have intimate knowledge of what his father was up to, nor did I want him to, so I used an oblique approach. “What if I were to tell you that your father was writing a book on the final days of a prominent political official . . . someone who wasn’t supposed to be in the United States at all. He had a very serious illness for which he was getting treatment, but were his presence to be known, there could have been dire consequences.

“Your dad was granted access only by agreeing that the book would be published posthumously. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, the political figure was ultimately cured of his disease and so the book may not be published for some time.

“Wow, that sounds totally '007',” Harry exclaimed. “So who was it?” he asked.

“I can’t tell you that any more than your father could have,” I replied, “particularly since he’s still alive.

The problem is that I have a critical need to reach him, but he’s seemingly disappeared from the planet. We do know he’s alive, but that’s all we know. He could be anywhere and we think your father may have known where he is.”

“I hardly think so,” Harry responded.

“But maybe your dad kept some records of the interviews,” I suggested. “Maybe some voice recordings, or stuff scribbled on a tablet, or perhaps good old-fashioned paper notebooks.”

“When it came to technology,” Harry replied, “he was pretty much an early adopter. I don’t think I ever saw him use paper for anything in my life. He was reluctant to get an implanted phone when they first came out, which it turned out was a good thing, given the problems they had with the earlier models. Otherwise he made use of the latest gadgets of the day.

“If he did these interviews as you say he did, he would have more than likely kept voice recordings and digital notes.”

“Where might he have kept those?” I asked.

“He recorded everything on holocards and then transferred them to nano-drives at home.”

“Where might they be now?” I asked hopefully.

“When Dad died, we erased all the nano-drives securely, just in case, and gave them to the Salvation Army. We felt there was no use letting them go to waste.”

“You saved nothing?” I asked incredulously.

“What would have been the point?” Harry asked. “It wasn’t like the information had any value. Everything useful had already been published. Dad already had his Pulitzers.”

I could have told Harry the truth - that the notes from a Pulitzer Prize-winning author could be worth millions after he’s gone, but what would have been the point indeed. If the notes had been securely erased and the drives sold in a thrift shop, that data was gone, unless . . .

“Did your father keep any backups?” I asked.

“Of course,” Harry answered, “but we got rid of those as well.”

“Did he subscribe to any off-site backup service?” I asked in desperation. It was my last hope.

“Yeah, I think he did,” Harry answered.

“Do you know which company he used?” I asked.

“Something like Kryptonite, I think,” Harry replied and although he’d totally mixed up the name, it was enough for me to know which service he’d used. Their motto was that they never threw anything out, ever, so there was an excellent chance Bruce’s interviews with David were still intact. They would likely be encrypted, however and, for that, I’d need Trevor.

It was obvious I wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of Harry and so I had a pleasant conversation with him about some of the people he’d represented as we finished our lunch. Afterwards I thanked him for his help and admonished him to stop by when he was in New York.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~

“Daddy!” my lovely daughter squealed as she threw her arms around my neck and squeezed the living daylights out of me.

“Grandpa?” I heard a boy’s voice from inside the house. Then a ball of energy, my six-year-old grandson, Tommy, flew into my arms.

“How are you doing, sport?” I asked as I ruffled his hair.

“I’m doing good,” he replied as his sweet angelic face looked up into my eyes.

“Grandpa!” my other grandson, Cliff, said as he approached a bit more passively. Cliff was ten - almost eleven - and quite precocious for his age. He was already showing all the behaviors expected of a burgeoning teenager, yet his teens were still more than two years away.

“You looking forward to starting middle school next fall?” I asked as I ruffled his hair but, unlike his younger brother, he squirmed and backed out from under my hand as if I’d touched his head with a blow torch, and shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t hide how he really felt, however, as his smile shone through.

“Granddad!” I heard a girl’s squeal as my eight-year-old granddaughter, Cindy, came into view. She wasn’t shy at all and she pulled me into a hug and kissed me on the cheek. It had been too long since my last visit and I couldn’t believe how much they’d all grown. I have five grandchildren now - three boys and two girls.

As we prepared to leave Atlanta to travel up the coast to Washington, where I would meet with Trevor, I realized that we would pass right through the Raleigh-Durham area, where my daughter and her family now lived. Sandy was a brand new assistant professor in Neurology and Molecular Neurobiology at the Duke University Medical Center. She had both an M.D. and a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology, and had done her residency in Neurology. She also completed a fellowship at the prestigious Hallet Neurobiology Center at the National Institutes of Health.

Interestingly, Sandy hadn’t originally planned on a career in the neurosciences. Her initial plan had been to study Molecular Biology as it applied to the treatment of cancer. It wasn’t until she was nearing the completion of medical school and should have been applying to residency programs in Internal Medicine, that she announced she’d changed her mind and intended to do a residency in Neurology instead. She never did explain why.

Her husband, my son-in-law, Dan, had a Ph.D. in Biomedical Engineering and was an associate professor in the Department of BME at Duke. They’d met when they were both graduate students at Stanford University, in California.

“Where’s Dan?” I asked.

Rolling her eyes, Sandy answered, “He’s teaching a Monday-Wednesday night class this semester that lets out at ten. A tornado could pass through and he wouldn’t wake up before noon.”

“How’s your schedule looking for today?” I asked.

“I have a lecture at nine and a lab at ten, but the TAs will have it covered. I was planning to meet with some of my graduate students this afternoon to go over their most recent experiments, but that can be rescheduled. No clinics until Monday . . . so I can basically spend the day with you,” she replied.

“Can we stay home from school?” Tommy asked.

“No you cannot,” Sandy answered. “You have a test today, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” he reminded himself.

“And the same goes for the rest of you,” Sandy added as she looked at her other two children. “You’re nearing the end of the school year and you can’t afford to take time off now.”

“But Mom,” Cliff whined as only a ten-year-old can.

“No buts,” Sandy responded. “Now get going,” she admonished her children. “You’ll be late for school and I’m not about to drop you off if you miss the bus. Miss the bus and you’ll be walking!”

Sandy was a strict parent, but she loved her kids as much as anyone could. So did I. Having children while in medical school and residency had been a major struggle. Cliff hadn’t been planned but, once conceived, the young couple had decided to make the best of the situation and ended up having two more children even as Sandy continued her studies. Fortunately, Dan had completed his dissertation by the time Cliff was born and was able to play the role of the stay-at-home dad and part-time professor until the kids were all in school.

“Would you like something to eat, Dad?” Sandy asked as we sat down to talk after the kids had departed.

“Thanks, Honey, but I already had a full breakfast before I got here,” I answered.

“How about some coffee?” she asked.

“Coffee would be great,” I replied, and she got up and started making a fresh pot.

“So what is it that brings you our way?” Sandy asked. “Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, but it’s not like you drop in very often, and never without warning. You’re just not that spontaneous, Dad, so what gives?”

“I just happened to be passing through,” I answered honestly. “I was on my way from Atlanta to Washington when I realized Raleigh-Durham was right on the way. I know I should have called you, but I just wasn’t thinking about it and by the time we got here last night, it was a bit late to be calling.

“I couldn’t very well pass through here without visiting my favorite daughter and her family . . .”

“I’m your only daughter, Dad,” Sandy pointed out.

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re not still my favorite,” I quipped. “Anyway, I thought I’d get up early and surprise you, getting here early enough to ensure you and the kids were still home.”

“Well you certainly did surprise us,” Sandy commented, and then she asked, “So what were you doing in Atlanta?”

“I was doing some research at the Carter Library,” I answered.

“What kind of research,” she asked, seemingly with interest in her eyes.

Again, I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I stretched things a bit so that at least I wasn’t lying. At least that was what I told myself. “I have some theories and I wanted to gather more data to support them,” I answered.

“Can you tell me a little about those theories?” she asked.

“I could if you wanted to sit here all day and most of tomorrow,” I replied. “Seriously, there’s a lot of background information you need to be able to understand the basis behind the theories. It's the background information that would take time to explain but, someday, we will discuss it.”

“And you’re headed to Washington now?” Sandy asked.

“Yeah,” I answered. “Some of the data I got from the Carter Library is encrypted, so I’m going to need Uncle Trevor’s help with it.”

“Encrypted? That sounds a bit unusual for data stored in a presidential library,” Sandy commented.

“For the most part it is,” I answered truthfully. “This is just a special case, and that’s all I can really say about it at the moment.”

“Ooo . . . a little intrigue,” Sandy replied.

After sipping our coffees together in companionable silence for a few minutes, I asked, “So how’s your work going, Honey?”

“It’s going pretty well, Dad,” she answered. “Really well. In fact, I think we may be on the verge of a breakthrough.”

“A breakthrough!” I exclaimed. “That really is a cause for celebration. So you think you’ll soon have paraplegics walking?”

With a perplexed look on her face, she scrunched up her nose, just as she always had as a child, and then her face lit up. “Ah, you must have heard me talk about spinal muscular atrophy or spinal cerebellar degeneration and thought I was talking about paraplegics.”

“I suppose it was something like that,” I answered.

“No, Dad, that’s not it at all. Paraplegia is usually caused by trauma or sometimes by a tumor, but my studies involve the neurodegenerative disorders. These are inherent genetic disorders in which the brain starts to deteriorate for no good reason. Alzheimer’s Disease is a classic neurodegenerative disease but it’s incredibly complex and we’re really no closer to solving it than we were thirty years ago. My interest is in neurodegenerative disorders of the basal ganglia . . .”

“Sorry to interrupt, Sandy, but I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re talking about.”

“Sorry,” she said with a laugh, “but this stuff is so basic to me that I sometimes forget that most people don’t know the lingo. Anyway, the basal ganglia are very primitive structures in the brain that we basically inherited from lower animals. They’re involved with muscle function and they modulate it rather than controlling it.

“It’s like you’ve got this very sophisticated system, the cerebral cortex and the cortico-spinal tract in the spinal cord, that controls all the muscles in your body with the utmost precision, but then you’ve got an old, primitive system in parallel with it that has an effect on how muscles function without any kind of precision or fine control.

“Here’s an analogy,” Sandy continued. “Imagine you bought a 200-year-old Victorian house, an historic landmark, with the original hot water heating system still in place.”

“First thing I’d do is rip out the old hot water system and put in a new, modern nano-conductor heat transfer system,” I interrupted. “The energy savings would pay for the upgrade in a few years, and I’d get air conditioning too.”

Shaking her head, she responded, “The Historic Preservation Board won’t let you do it. They rule that, with working hot water heat systems being so scarce, retaining those that are still functional is a top priority. You’ll have to make do with what you have.”

“How short-sighted of them,” I mused, but then continued, “I suppose we can retrofit the original system with nano-conductors, retaining the original appearance without sacrificing too much.”

“Nope,” Sandy replied, “the Board soundly rejected your proposal. The most they’ll let you do is add a computer control system and upgrade the plumbing, but the original method of heating the house with a boiler in the basement and circulating hot water must remain intact.”

“Crap,” I responded. “How do you add computer control to such a system? That would be like putting an electric drive on a horse-drawn carriage.”

“Thermostatically-controlled valves have been around almost as long as that house, Dad,” my daughter answered, “and Wi-Fi enabled thermostats and valves have been around as long as I have, or perhaps even longer. Set up a home network with a central computer controlling the boiler and all the individual valves and you’ll have a surprisingly effective system, so long as one of the valves doesn’t stick or the boiler spring a leak. The central computer can only do so much to compensate for mechanical failures.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing we have in the human brain,” she went on to explain. “The cerebral cortex is able to control all the muscles in your body with precision most of the time, but when something goes wrong with the basal ganglia, your motor control is screwed up and you can’t move very well. A classic example is Parkinson’s disease, in which a certain type of cell starts to die off in middle age, leaving you with difficulties initiating movement. People with Parkinson’s have trouble getting up or going through doors, they turn like robots and they develop a tremor that goes away the moment they initiate a movement. Parkinson’s disease is the best known of the diseases of the basal ganglia, but there are many others . . .”

The words, “like Shy Drager Syndrome,” left my mouth before I even had a chance to think about the consequences.

“What in hell do you know about Shy Drager Syndrome?” Sandy asked. Fuck! “ . . . Daaad?”