The Corporation

CHAPTER TWO

MICHELLE WAS SITTING in the cubicle that had been assigned to her for her latest gig—creating a data warehouse for a manufacturing firm—when her cell phone rang. She pulled it off her belt clip and answered. “Hello.”

“Michelle?” It sounded like Sam Greenberg.

“Speaking.”

“Sam Greenberg, Michelle.” She felt her hopes rise. “I’m calling to formally offer you the position. Is April 3 still a good start date for you?”

“Absolutely!” Michelle felt giddy with excitement. “I’ll be there bright and early.”

Sam laughed. “Wonderful. Let me be the first to welcome you to our team. I’m very glad to have you on board.”

“I’m glad to be a part of your team, Mr. Greenberg,” Michelle said. “Thank you.”

When she hung up she paused briefly, ignoring the flickering screen of the laptop in front of her. It was Friday, her last day on this assignment. She’d have a week off to relax and get things in order at home which she’d been wanting to do, then she’d start the new job bright and early the following Monday morning. It was the perfect transition. All that was left was to inform the consultant group she was working for now that she’d be unavailable for a while. Common par with contractors.

The rest of the afternoon flew by for Michelle Dowling.

SHE TOLD HER fiancé, Donald, the news when he arrived home from work.

“That’s great!” Donald said, sweeping her up in his arms. She hugged him, felt his sandpapery face rubbing against hers as he kissed her. “We’ll have to celebrate.” He headed toward the wine rack in the kitchen. He was still wearing his white lab coat, which he thought made him look more doctorly; she thought it made him look like a mad scientist. “Do we still have that bottle of Chablis?”

“Yep,” Michelle said. She’d arrived home from work an hour before and had already gotten dinner started—a casserole in the crock pot. “It’ll go with this casserole I have.”

“Good.” Donald found the bottle and was rummaging for the opener in the junk drawer. He found it and began fumbling with the cork, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. “So you really got it then. This is great news. And the pay is what they offered you in the first interview?”

“Yep,” Michelle began setting the table. “Seventy thousand to start, plus bonuses.”

“Wow!”

With this new salary she’d now be making as much as what Donald made at Crossroads Medical Group. They had talked about the possibility of her quitting her job and returning to her avocation—music and art—if Donald landed a position with a larger, private medical group. Such a position would push his earnings over the six figure mark and would be enough to sustain them for the life they wanted—a modest house in the country, enough money to not only pay the bills and mortgage but have fun with, and then, as they’d been discussing recently, getting married and having children.

The thought excited Michelle for reasons she couldn’t dwell on now. Things had to be taken one step at a time, and with this new job they were already halfway there. The house they were in was in a nice development in Lititz that had recently appreciated in value. Donald had bought it four years ago; it could easily be sold and, with the money from both their jobs, buy them that ranch house in the country they’d always dreamed of. Getting married would be a cinch—neither of them wanted to go through with a formal ceremony. There were few people in her family she’d want to throw a formal wedding party for anyway, and Donald’s parents were open-minded enough to accept whatever their son wanted. They could get married this summer, get the house shortly after and then maybe by fall—

“—it’s what you want?”

“Huh?” Donald’s voice shook her out of her thoughts. She realized she had already set the table. “I’m sorry, hon, I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, are you sure this is what you want?” Donald was leaning against the kitchen counter, his tie loosened around his collar, regarding her with those soft blue eyes. He had a neatly trimmed beard and his wavy hair was cut short and thinning a little along the top. He also kept himself in relatively good shape, too; they both did. Of course, Michelle thought she could lose thirty pounds, but Donald thought her weight was fine. Besides, as he jokingly told her whenever she complained about her figure to him, he liked her just the way she was, which just made her love him more even if she knew he probably silently agreed with her that she could lose weight.

“I do,” Michelle said. “It’s pretty much everything I’ve been looking for in a job.”

“Is it just computer graphics?”

“It’s that, along with some technical writing, designing and laying out technical documentation for both online and print publications, and creating financial reports.”

“So it’s pretty close then,” Donald said. Michelle knew what he was getting at now. Another reason she loved him fiercely. Donald was her biggest supporter when it came to encouraging her to leave the corporate world and strike out on her own with her computer graphics, at least on a part-time basis. She could then devote the rest of her time to her art. He brought the subject up every time they talked about their jobs. Correction: every time Michelle complained about hers. “You wouldn’t be bitching like this if you were doing what you really love to do for a living,” he’d told her one evening after a particularly bad day at one of her consulting jobs. “Granted, even I have bad days sometimes, but not to the extent that you do. If you were making your living with your art, the occasional headaches that arise would not be as big a deal.” She knew what he was talking about and wished she could be brave enough again to go out on a limb to try carving a niche for herself in her chosen vocation, but she did have to pay the bills.

“Pretty close,” she said, smiling. “Close enough that the Crystal Report stuff will be only a minor annoyance. I’m hoping to use the technical writing and design portions of the job to bolster my resume, maybe use them as a springboard to start my own business.”

Donald smiled back. “That’s what I like hearing!”

“I don’t know how it will help me in getting back into art again,” Michelle said.

“You could design CD covers, create advertising for magazines, write press-releases. The possibilities are endless.”

“Yeah, but — “

“Do enough work locally and let people know about your background, it might be enough to get you a couple of jobs,” Donald continued. “You know… some work for a cartoon or a commercial, maybe getting into teaching.”

Michelle laughed. “I need a degree for that!”

“Did you need a degree to produce commercial art for the Wynn Agency?”

“No, but—” Ten years ago, Michelle had become a client of the Wynn Agency, which represented commercial artists of all kinds—photographers, painters, graphic artists. One of their clients saw her portfolio and commissioned her for a series of portraits that now hung in all their corporate buildings around the world. It had been a good paying gig.

“There you go. Excuses, excuses. No buts, Michelle. You set up too many roadblocks for yourself without even trying things. If you put as much effort at directing your energy towards the things you really like to do, that you know you’re good at, instead of working at all these god-awful corporate financial firms, you’d be —”

Michelle felt herself growing a little angry with Donald and tried not to let it show. He was right of course, but he also knew she had no choice in the matter. She had to make a living, dammit! And making forty dollars an hour as a Business Intelligence Analyst paid the bills far better than an art teacher pulling in fifteen dollars an hour at some community center teaching retirees how to use watercolors. “I know, I know,” she said, heading to the refrigerator to finish getting the table set for dinner. “Swim with sharks long enough, you become one.”

Donald stepped up to her and put his arms around her mid-section. “Hey, I’m sorry, honey.” He kissed the back of her neck. “I didn’t mean to push you that hard. I know you hate working in the whole corporate environment thing, and I know you don’t need me to be constantly reminding you that your talents will be better used elsewhere.”

Michelle sighed. How many times have they—had she—gone through this? She knew he was right; knew that the corporate world was unsuited for her, but it was all she knew. Donald was smart enough to recognize it, and he cared enough to encourage and support her through his little pep talks. She also knew that if they were in the right financial situation she’d be able to leave the corporate world and pursue her avocation—art. She turned around and hugged him. “Thanks,” she said. She kissed his cheek. “I know you’re just looking out for me.”

“So stop it!” He finished for her. They laughed.

Donald helped her finish with the table setting, and when she began dishing out the casserole he joined her at the table. “I guess I wouldn’t have been so gung-ho about this if it hadn’t been what I went through today,” he said.

“Oh?” The change in direction of the conversation startled her. They’d started talking about what they were going to do this weekend and Michelle had completely forgotten Donald’s foray into pushing her to leave the corporate world. “Why’s that?”

“I met with Red Rose today,” Donald said. They were eating supper, the night outside was chilly and Michelle heard the heater kick on. “Remember that patient I told you about a few days ago who I diagnosed with testicular cancer?”

Michelle nodded.

“His blood tests came back showing that cancer was a possibility,” Donald said. “I started getting the ball rolling, contacted a Urologist I know at Lancaster Urological who specializes in this sort of thing, and started getting the paperwork going. Then this morning Red Rose informs us they want more tests because they want to rule out testicular cancer.”

“Rule it out?”

“Yeah.” Donald paused between forkfuls of food. “Bastards would rather pay smaller lab fees to run multiple tests rather than the surgical and biopsy fees that will not only make the diagnosis, but will determine the type of cancer. And in the meantime, letting Michael wait for surgery is just prolonging things.”

“It’ll spread, right?” Michelle asked. She’d listened to enough of Donald’s stories about Red Rose Medical Insurance to know they were run by the most incompetent morons in the universe.

“Sure. Let testicular cancer go long enough and even a seminoma type will spread through the lymph nodes and affect other parts of the body. Lymphoma could develop, certain lung and bone cancers. That’s what’ll eventually kill a patient.”

“And their rationale for wanting more tests is?” Michelle already knew the answer to this, but for some reason she had to hear it in order to grasp the absurdity of it.

“You and I both know that,” Donald said, continuing his supper. “They just don’t want to pay for the surgery. If we go ahead with the surgery anyway, they’ll deny the claim. But if they get Michael to jump through all their hoops in the name of their excuse for ‘determining the best level of care for their member’”, he emphasized the quotations with his fingers, “then they’ll eventually come around. In the meantime we’ll have wasted a few weeks, even a few months, and Michael’s condition could very well get worse.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Play hardball.” Donald paused, took a sip of wine. “One of the execs I deal with no doubt knows I’m on the case, and he might be inclined to convince his colleagues to pay the claim. If he doesn’t, I have a backup plan—Dr. Schellenger, a friend of mine at Lancaster Urological Group. He went through a similar case with another insurance company in North Carolina when he was working at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill Hospital. In his case, the insurance company wanted them to go through a bunch of bullshit and Peter strongly advised his patient to go ahead with the procedure and damn the insurance company. The patient was financially strapped and decided to stick it out. Four months later the cancer metastasized to his lower back and his lymph nodes. By the time the surgery was approved, his medical costs ran triple—probably even quadruple—what it would have been had the insurance company originally accepted the claim.”

“So his patient lived?”

“Oh yes,” Donald said. He was almost finished with the casserole, which he’d wolfed down. “It had quickly turned to stage four testicular cancer, nonseminoma, and had affected much of the lymph nodes and the nerves in the patient’s lower back. Peter’s patient went through three surgeries and two heavy trials of chemotherapy and was out of work for over a year. It was rough going, but he made it.”

“So you’re bringing Peter to your meeting with Red Rose?” Michelle didn’t know how Donald put up with the suits he had to deal with. She would have lost her mind.

“Yes. Peter took over the case and I think with him on board, Michael’s surgery will have a good chance of being approved. It just shouldn’t have to be this way, you know? If a doctor makes a quality diagnosis, he or she shouldn’t be second guessed by a guy in a three-piece suit who doesn’t know a thing about medicine or anatomy for that matter, a guy who, I might add, is more interested in preserving the corporate bottom line.”

Michelle took a sip of wine. “Yeah, well, welcome to Corporate America.”

Donald finished his wine, his gaze distant and far away. “Corporate America. What a scam.”

Michelle looked down at her plate. She felt a trifle embarrassed. She always did when talking about work with Donald. She admired him greatly—as a person, a lover, a physician. To be able to do something that improved and saved people’s lives… that was something to be proud of. It was something to be honored. She wished her work touched people’s lives. She’d read an essay by somebody, she thought it was Ray Bradbury, who said there were only two noble professions in the world: the physician, who heals the body; and the artist, who heals the soul. Might as well add the lawyer who could save the body and soul from a lawsuit, and the accountant who could save you from the IRS come tax time.

“Yeah, it is a scam,” she said, the words coming effortlessly. “And I apologize for having to stoop down to their level, but somebody’s got to do it.” She rose from the table and began collecting the dishes.

Donald looked up, the expression on his face indicating he’d said the wrong thing again. “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Michelle laughed. “You didn’t say the wrong thing. Really. You need to stop apologizing for ranting about corporate dolts. I do it enough myself.”

Donald chuckled and they embraced. “Well… I am sorry. Sometimes I feel bad that you have to conform to corporate standards to make a living.”

“I’m glad you realize I’m not like them,” she said, her eyes closed as they hugged. She felt his strong arms encircle her waist. “I could never be like them.”

“No,” he said, pulling away and looking into her eyes. “That’s why I love you.”

They kissed.

Just as the kiss was getting hot, she broke it. “Let me finish the table and then—”

“Forget the dishes,” he said, kissing her again, pulling her close.

She let him.

They left the dishes on the table, and on the kitchen counter, and went into the bedroom.