Chapter 5 #2
“Fellas!” I turn to see a guy from the board walking toward me, his suit perfectly tailored, his silver hair obviously dyed an ebony black.
Throughout my life, I’ve been introduced to various members of the board during parties and events, and I have never once remembered any one of their names.
To me, they seem to replace each other and swap out like Lego men in a set.
“Good morning,” I say, turning to him and offering my hand. “Russell Burch.”
“I know who you are,” he laughs, shooting a look at Calvin like get a load of this guy. “You can call me Ronald.”
He shakes my hand, then punches in a code for the conference room and leads us inside. Ten minutes—and ten more handshakes—later, we’re all seated around the table. Everyone else has folders and materials they’ve brought with them, but I didn’t get the memo that this was show-and-tell.
“Alright,” Ronald says, lacing his fingers together, looking around the table with a quick glance in my direction. “Shall we just go ahead and tackle the obvious ticket here?”
Obvious ticket?
I’m in this meeting room to replace my father’s normal presence in this quarterly affair, as dictated by his will. His last will and testament dictated a lot, actually. Plenty of fucked up expectations for me to acquire an inheritance I have no interest in.
What do I need all that money for? I have plenty myself, and I’m not going to dance like a monkey for a few more dollar signs.
During the private reading, the lawyer—Mr. Grande—had even looked apologetic, like he realized how much of a hard ass my dad could be, even if the rest of the world only thought of him as some sort of untouchable saint.
No—he’s the kind of man who details marriage and involvement in BHC operations and a steady home base as requirements for me to get what he’s left to me. His house on the outskirts of the city, quite a huge lump sum of money, and holdings within the BHC empire.
When he got to that section, I’d laughed and asked Grande to move on. That brought us to his direction for me to take his place on the board. Something I was actually willing to do, but maybe the will should have included some sort of information packet. An instructional video.
I didn’t go to business school. I’m not used to conference table cadence.
“I actually have some thoughts on that situation,” Cal says, leaning forward in his chair and tapping twice on the little stack of papers.
Blinking at my cousin, I raise my hand slightly, interrupting his flow, “I’m sorry, what situation?”
There’s a hush around the table. If I was anyone else, they might just ignore me and continue on, I know that. I also know that not a single person in this room would feel comfortable ignoring the son of the late and great Franklin Burch.
“…the clinic downtown,” a woman at the end of the table says, in a voice so low it might as well be a stage whisper.
My father came into BHC working under his father.
While grandpa had been solely focused on growth and advancement—there was so much new technology coming out in his time—my dad had focused on outreach.
Establishing rural clinics, sources for those without health insurance.
Every October, for Breast Cancer Awareness, he organized free mammograms to anyone who couldn’t afford to obtain one otherwise.
That’s why people loved him so much—rich boy is publicly selfless. Gobble that shit up.
Even though I’m flippant about it, that clinic downtown has a special place in my heart. It’s where I first volunteered my time as a high schooler. Where I first saw the real implications of health and wellness on those who had never had it before.
Growing up as the fourth man in a line of successful surgeons, our family had money, which gave me access to health care, even if you ignored the fact that my father was literally a doctor.
Even if I hadn’t visited the hospital and made friends with nurses and doctors, I would have had no problem going to check-ups, getting tests done, and receiving my vaccinations.
But there are some kids—some people—who don’t have that privilege. Who have gone through their lives thinking of medical care as a sort of luxury, since food and shelter obviously came first.
That’s why the clinic is important. It helps to keep Chicago healthier, which benefits all of us.
“Right,” Cal clears his throat, and I see something close off in his face. I definitely don’t like that. “As you can see from the graphs I sent around this morning, I just don’t see any sort of budget change that’s going to reverse the negative trend.”
Negative trend?
“So, you’re suggesting…?” Ronald asks, raising his eyebrows, staring directly at Cal.
“It’s just good business,” Calvin says, tapping his pen against the table. “The clinic is nothing but a sinkhole. Donations have dried up, and frankly, this site has been hemorrhaging funds for a while now.”
All at once, it seems to click into place what’s happening.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not. I plant my hands on the table and stare directly at my cousin. “Forgive me if I’ve needed to catch up a bit. I know we’re not talking about closing Dad’s clinic.”
I throw out the capital D, just to remind these people who the hell is sitting in this spot. When I glance around the room again, all I see are dollar signs affixed to nice suits. Of course, Dad wanted me in this room.
We might not have always gotten along, but he knew I’d fight for something like this. Keep his legacy from turning to fucking stocks and margins.
“It doesn’t make any business sense to pour money into that clinic when we could be investing in something else,” Cal says, shrugging like we’re talking about tacos or wings for lunch.
I grind down on my molars to keep from standing up, walking over to him, and decking him right here. For some reason, I get the feeling that’s not going to help my case.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I drawl, leaning back, fiddling with a pen, doing my best to mask the fury I feel at the implication.
“Maybe I’m sitting in the wrong chair. Maybe I had it all wrong, and my dad was not a surgeon and a philanthropist, but actually a ruthless businessman?
It’s so weird, I seem to remember him saying something about doing no fucking harm… ?”
Calvin’s brow lowers, and he stares at me with a stony expression.
“That’s all well and good,” Ronald says, from the head of the table. “But BHC is not a charity. And if we want to continue offering any services, we have to be careful about how we allocate our funds.”
“How much?” I ask, and the room goes quiet.
“What?” Cal asks, narrowing his eyes at me. “What kind of question is that?”
I reach into my bag, pull out my checkbook—which I carry because of my father, so I guess he’s enabled me to be dramatic right now—and spread it out on the table.
“How much to keep the clinic from closing?”
“For how long?” Ronald asks, bewildered, his eyes on the checkbook. “For a month? The quarter?”
“Let’s go with a month. How much?”
Calvin lets out a low, annoyed groan. Very unprofessional.
“It would need at least fifty, if not sixty thousand,” a woman on the other side of the table says, tapping around efficiently on a tablet, then glancing up as though looking for clarification that there’s nowhere we can find that money.
“Great,” my heart thuds as I scrawl out a check. It’s a hefty sum—not necessarily to me, but even growing up the way I did, it’s not like I’ve really been a big spender. “Here.”
I slide the check cheekily down the table, watching as it flutters to a stop in front of Ronald, who picks it up, shaking his head, “Ninety thousand dollars. And what about next month, Russell? Are you just going to bankroll this thing? And how long until your accounts are clean and dry? I know how much the hospital is paying you, but even that isn’t enough for you to run this clinic single-handedly. ”
“My inheritance,” I say, stretching the truth. “I’m rolling all of it into the clinic. So, there’s no closing it without consulting me, first.”
Cal’s head jerks over to me, but I ignore it.
The woman’s mouth drops open slightly, and the others around the table are unable to hide their surprise.
It’s no secret that my father—even while being quite the philanthropist—invested in a lot of pharmaceutical and medical tech companies back in the eighties and nineties. His estate is worth a pretty penny.
Ronald looks at me through his bushy eyebrows. “Are you sure you want to do this, son?”
Bristling, I resist the urge to tell him not to call me that.
The resistance subsides, and I just nod, crossing my arms. What else am I going to do with the money?
I have my nice condo, my nice car. Steak twice a week, organic groceries, and a team of people to clean my place.
Tickets to hockey games and plenty for the occasional tropical vacation. What the hell else do I need?
“It’s a waste of his estate,” Cal spits, looking at me like he knows so much better.
Looking like he’s bitter about not getting an even share of my father’s inheritance.
After his parents died, my dad might have reached out a hand to my cousin, but he was sorely mistaken if he thought our dad might take from Alena or I to give more to him. “You’re just dumping it into a hole.”
“A good thing it’s my money, then,” I grind out, standing abruptly. I can’t be in this room for a second longer. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to see.”
“Russell, wait.” I pause in standing to turn and look at Ronald, who says, “There’s still the matter of your attendance at those events I emailed you about. This is a huge donations season, and your father—”
“I’ll go,” I say, though I definitely don’t want to. Not alone. But he’s right—the holidays are huge for donations, and if the clinic is already suffering, the last thing I want is to lose what money we would normally receive.
Without bothering to say goodbye, I turn and walk through the shining glass door.
The drive to the hospital is all highway, all fucking assholes who don’t know how to use their turn signals. I half consider canceling the rest of my appointments, rescheduling them so I can figure out what to do about the clinic.
But when I shrug into my doctor’s coat and head to the first appointment of the day, I’m pleased I decided to stick it out.
Because here’s Juliette Harper, sitting in a little chair with a phone to her ear, her son crisscross next to her, quietly playing with a toy triceratops.
“Oh,” she says, her eyes flashing when she sees me, her mouth making a perfect ‘o’ for a fraction of a moment before she fixes her face and hides her surprise. Quickly, she ends the call on her phone, thought the buzzy voice on the other end is trying to say something. “It’s you.”
I think couldn’t have said it better myself, but say, “Mrs. Harper, good to see you again.”
And when she corrects me, “Ms. Harper,” I get far too much satisfaction out of it for my own good.