Gone Before Goodbye

Chapter Eight

Maggie stares out her bedroom window and watches the guests arrive. A long tent-like walkway has been put out between the helicopter landing pad and the front door. The snow, which was still falling, is strategically gone, though she has seen no one shovel it away. She’d asked Ivan Brovski how they cleared it away.

“Heat coils under the ground,” he told her.

But of course.

Other guests are pulling up in big black cars, either stretch limos or oversize SUVs. The men wear tuxedos. The women wear formal gowns.

Maggie’s bedroom is, no surprise, larger than most apartments. Ivan had shown her the way to her room. The first thing he’d done when they arrived was open her walk-in closet with, she estimated, somewhere between thirty and forty outfits.

“All in your size and style,” Ivan informed her, “including...”

He gestured to the three formal gowns suitable for, well, a ball.

Maggie shook her head. “I’m not even surprised anymore.”

“I assume you like them.”

She did. Very much. She pulls out a navy blue dress nearly identical to the one she’d worn at Johns Hopkins a few days ago. Same shoes in her size too. “Weird,” she says. “I have this same outfit at home.” Then it dawns on her: “But you already knew that.”

Ivan shrugs. “Not me, personally. But yes, artificial intelligence made the selections — a new software program that scours the internet for all your photos and videos, sees what you wear to various events, and creates a wardrobe based on what it believes is your taste.”

“Terrific.”

But there is no way they could have done all this in, what, twelve hours?

Someone has been watching her.

For how long?

“There are a few nice diamond pieces on the bureau. Tasteful, I’m told. Feel free to borrow them.”

“Okay.”

“How about if I stop by at eight? We can go to the ball together.”

She nods. He leaves. Maggie remembers what Nadia said about bugs and cameras. Not much she can do about it, she supposes. The room is fully stocked with a potpourri of dream products — Chanel perfume, Christian Dior makeup, every top-of-the-line skin product imaginable, all touting promises of youth via peptides and collagens. She takes a shower, letting the hot water steam up the room just in case of cameras, throws on a robe, lies in bed. She closes her eyes. No time for a nap. Instead, Maggie starts visualizing and even acting out the surgery. Her father had told her about Colonel George Hall, a Vietnam War combat pilot who spent over seven years in the notorious Hanoi Hilton prison. To maintain his sanity in the face of starvation and torture, Colonel Hall imagined himself playing golf in his tiny cell. He would feel the sun on his face, smell the green grass, take each swing with care. He would see the ball go up in the air, watch it land on the fairways and greens of his favorite courses. Supposedly he did this every day and actually improved his game just through this visualization. Maggie didn’t know if that last part was exaggeration or myth, but that didn’t matter. She got it. She lies back now, closes her eyes, raises her hands into the air, and uses the scalpel to make the first incision. In her mind’s eye, she goes through the entire operation — her own virtual world of surgery. She does this a lot — or used to when she was licensed. It is her way of both meditating and preparing.

At eight p.m., there is a knock on the door. Maggie opens it. Ivan’s eyes widen when he sees her all dressed up. He swallows back whatever comment he was about to make about her appearance, and says, “You chose the navy.”

“Yep.”

“It suits you.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you ready?”

Ivan looks stiff and uncomfortable in his tuxedo, the bow tie wrapped tourniquet-like around his neck. The house is oddly silent when they leave the bedroom. It’s not until they leave the wing that she starts to hear voices, occasional laughter, string music. They stay on the third floor and enter the ballroom from a balcony above it. The ballroom is polished white marble with gold leaf. It is huge, the approximate size of a college basketball arena. Relief carvings of baby angels, a look Maggie never understood, line the ceiling’s perimeter. There are probably three, maybe four hundred people mingling below. As she heads down the stairs, Maggie notices what appear to be food stations, a worldwide tour de cuisine on steroids. She wanders around and, for a moment, lets herself be a guest. She tries the abalone with liver and uni dipping sauce from Sushi Yoshitake, a three-star Michelin restaurant in Tokyo’s Ginza district. Lung King Heen, another three-star Michelin restaurant in Hong Kong’s Four Seasons Hotel, offers a scallop and prawn dumpling. Talula’s from Asbury Park provides pizza slices with Calabrian soppressata and local honey. Fromagerie Cantin, the renowned Parisian cheese shop, offers Aisy Cendré, a semisoft cow’s milk cheese buried in oak ashes for a month.

A voice interrupts her midbite. “I know it’s a cliché, what with being here in Russia, but you have to try the caviar.”

The voice has a decidedly haughty American prep school accent to it. Maggie turns. The handsome man offers her a boyish aw-shucks grin. His tuxedo looks sculpted on, graceful, draping exactly where it should be and fitted where it shouldn’t. The midnight-black fabric seems to absorb light more than reflect it. No need for a flashy tie or patterned cummerbund when you’re seemingly fitted by a deity, just the shine of onyx studs against the pure white of his starched shirt.

He looks soft, pampered, privileged.

As the man and his polished shoes glide toward her, Maggie notices a moistness in his blue eyes, perhaps from drink.

“I’m Charles Lockwood,” he says with a crooked grin, sticking out the unblemished, manicured hand.

She hesitates, not sure whether she should give her name. He picks up on it.

“And you’re Doctor Maggie McCabe,” he says for her.

His stubble is curated and on point. His black hair is long and wavy, the kind of unruly and ungroomed that often requires too much product. It all works in its own way, she presumes. Charles Lockwood cuts a striking figure, which is clearly the intended effect.

“Have we met?”

“No, but I knew your husband a bit. I’m terribly sorry.”

“How did you—?”

“I dabble” — Lockwood lifts a manicured hand and shakes his fingers — “in cardiothoracic surgery too.”

“No one ‘dabbles’” — she imitates his finger gestures — “in cardiothoracic surgery.”

“Fair enough. I don’t say this with false modesty, but next to your husband? Yes, I dabble. Marc seemed a good man, maybe even a great man, I don’t know. But he was the greatest surgeon I’d ever seen.”

Maggie feels her throat start to close. She pushes on. “So what brings you to Russia, Doctor Lockwood?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Yeah, but I asked first.”

“Probably the same reason you’re here,” he says.

“Hey, Charles, there you are!”

Two giggling women, both young and blonde and straight out of an influencer’s social media page, call out to him in Russian and approach on either side. One takes one arm. One takes the other. Both look at him adoringly. Charles replies to them in Russian. Both women pout, let their grips slip, and sulk away.

Charles turns back to Maggie and gives her a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug of the shoulders, palms up.

“Yeah, I don’t think we’re here for the same thing,” Maggie says.

He chuckles. “Sorry about that,” he says.

“Don’t let me keep you from your friends.”

“They’ll be around later.”

“I bet. You speak Russian?”

“I dabble.”

“Dabbling seems to be your modus operandi.”

Charles Lockwood gives her what he is sure must be the most winning smile. “I spend a lot of time here. I enjoy the lifestyle.”

“That lifestyle being?”

“A tad hedonistic. Nothing wrong with fun, Doctor McCabe, is there?”

She tries not to frown. “None at all.”

“Perhaps you and I can get together during your visit.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think so.”

“Come now, Doctor McCabe, there is always time for a little fun along with our fundraising. Where are you staying?”

She ignores his question. “What’s that about fundraising?”

His expression says he knows that she’s dodging. “That’s not why you’re here?”

“No, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“For?”

“A medical startup specializing in cutting-edge longevity treatments.”

Again with the cutting edge, Maggie thinks.

Lockwood peers over her head. “Have you met our host?”

“Yes.”

Charles Lockwood makes a face to indicate he’s impressed. “Have you seen Mr. Ragoravich at the party?”

“It’s a ball, not a party.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.” Maggie’s eyes scan the ballroom. “No, not yet.”

“I’m hoping to meet Oleg Ragoravich tonight.” Charles Lockwood turns his attention back to her. “Your turn.”

“Turn?”

“Why are you here, Doctor McCabe?”

“Maggie.”

“Why are you here, Maggie?”

“I can’t really talk about it,” she says.

“Why not?”

She shuts him down with a face.

“Oh, my bad. I won’t push.” He throws up his hands in mock surrender. Again, Charles Lockwood probably thinks it’s a charming move on his part, and maybe for others, it is. Maggie hates this kind of faux charisma, the playboy blend of privilege and drink and good genes and people around you telling you that you are God’s gift.

Then Lockwood says, “Is Trace Packer here too?”

Maggie doesn’t bother hiding her surprise. “You know Trace?”

“Let’s just say we partied a few times together in our day.”

“I bet.”

“Trace knows how to party.” He looks around. “I figured you’re both here to fundraise.”

“Our charity closed down.”

“I’m aware,” Charles Lockwood says.

“You seem aware of a lot of things.”

“I like to be in the know.”

“Do you know where Trace is?”

“No, why would I?” When Maggie doesn’t reply, he asks, “So are you here to, what, thank your old benefactor?”

“I told you I can’t talk about it,” Maggie says. Then, realizing what he said: “What benefactor?”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Charles Lockwood moves a little closer. “Aren’t you one of the founders of WorldCures Alliance?”

“Yes.”

“And who was your biggest donor?”

“The Kasselton Foundation.”

“Operated by?”

“I don’t know. I mean, the financial stuff was more Trace’s area of expertise. I met a few board members—”

“Oleg Ragoravich,” Charles Lockwood says.

She almost takes a step back.

“You really didn’t know?” Charles seems amused now. “The Kasselton Foundation is funded by none other than our host.”

Maggie just stands there and tries not to look surprised. She isn’t sure what to say and doesn’t want to make the mistake of saying more. She doesn’t know Charles Lockwood. She doesn’t get what’s going on or why he’s here or if she should believe him. In her peripheral vision, she spots Nadia making her way toward them, wearing a shimmery silver gown. The crowd parts Red Sea — like as she strides with runway grace toward them. All heads turn and follow.

Charles Lockwood leans closer to Maggie and whispers, “Take care of yourself, Maggie. Stay alert.”

Then he slips away.

Maggie debates going after him, but Nadia arrives before she can make a move. Maybe that’s for the best. What else is there to know? Charles Lockwood would have no reason to lie about Ragoravich. Or would he? And if he wasn’t lying, well, what did that mean? Was Oleg Ragoravich the man who gave the original seed money for WorldCures Alliance? And if he is a former supporter of WorldCures, does it matter?

Yes, it does.

Because if he is, it means Maggie’s being here — her being chosen as their personal surgeon — is not a coincidence.

But maybe that makes sense. Maybe Ragoravich and Brovski already know and vetted her work with WorldCures. She would have been a known entity to them. Maybe that’s why she was hired — a surgeon they had some knowledge about, some connection to and familiarity with, would be a comfort, no?

Nadia arrives. “Ivan says you have questions about me.”

“I do,” Maggie says. “About your health records.”

She nods, her wide eyes scanning the room. “Can I ask a question first?”

“Of course.”

“How long do I need to fast before the surgery tomorrow?”

“Twelve hours would be optimal.”

A hint of a smile crosses Nadia’s face. “So that gives us time to eat a little, no?”

“It does.”

“Let’s start with the caviar. But also? Gesture a lot. Like we don’t speak the same language.”

“Got it.”

“And pretend you’re speaking to other people when you can. Like don’t always look directly at me.”

Maggie agrees. For the next half hour, she and Nadia peruse the various tasting stations. The Tajimi-ushi-variety Kobe beef topped with Alba white truffles — the bite-size portion probably cost more than Maggie’s car — melts in the mouth, forcing both closed eyes and some kind of involuntary vocal reaction. Maggie bides her time. She doesn’t immediately ask about the kidney donation. There are two reasons for that, though they are somewhat closely related. One reason, the most obvious, is that she and Nadia are bonding in perhaps the oldest way known to mankind — breaking bread together. They enjoy the rare delicacies, relish them, close their eyes and savor every bite. Nadia’s joy in the experimental tasting is childlike and endearing. Maggie can feel Nadia’s trust grow with each bite. Maggie lets herself get immersed in this experience as well — Reason Two — channeling her father, who expressed his appreciation for modern life with gusto and enthusiasm.

“We live in the greatest era in human history,” her father would tell his daughters. He would then explain that there was less war, pestilence, disease, crime, starvation than any time ever. Then he would move on to food. “The vast majority of humans have known very little variety in taste. Empires rose and fell, people were conquered and slaughtered, merely to add spice and flavoring to their palates. Think about it. A hundred, two hundred years ago, only the most elite of elite got to experience one or two other cultures’ food. Now all of us can walk through any city and within a mile you can eat Chinese, Indian, Thai, French, Italian. You can have lamb from New Zealand, pompano from Florida, barbecue from Texas. If you told even the richest king that would be possible, he would have never believed it. What we take for granted is nothing short of a miracle.”

So, keeping that in mind, Maggie and Nadia laugh. They share. They analyze the various delicacies. They stay with food, skipping the stations with “pharmaceuticals” and “gurus” to guide you through whatever psychoactive drug experience you might imagine. They also bypass the various alcohol tastings, though a few of the vodka ones tempt Maggie more than she wants to admit.

Finally, Nadia says, “Ask your questions.”

A waiter takes Maggie’s mother-of-pearl spoon. “Tell me about your kidney transplant.”

“Why?”

“Because it could be relevant to your medical clearance.”

“I was already cleared medically.”

“Then humor me.”

“It was for my brother,” Nadia says a little too quickly.

“How old is he?”

“Now? Thirty-one.”

“Is he your full sibling?”

“Yes.”

“What did he have?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Your brother needing a kidney transplant at age twenty-five is pretty rare,” Maggie says. “His illness is most likely something genetic.”

“So?”

“So there’s a decent chance that you, as his full sibling, especially one who was a genetic match for a transplant, might be susceptible to a similar illness.”

“I’ve been medically cleared,” Nadia says again. “The rest doesn’t matter.”

“I’m your physician. I need to know your complete medical history.”

“No, you don’t,” Nadia says, and there is a little bite in her tone. “You’re here to give me a boob job. I donated a kidney. That has nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not sure why you’re so defensive about this.”

“And I don’t know why you’re so nosy,” Nadia replies.

“This isn’t idle curiosity. If you donated a kidney to your brother, he was obviously very ill. Like I said before, since you are a genetic match—”

“Stop please.”

Nadia shuts her eyes and keeps them closed. One tear escapes and runs down her cheek. Maggie takes Nadia’s hand and leads her through the room. Men stare at them, openly looking them up and down, inspecting them, nodding their approval. Maggie doesn’t like it, but now is not the time to care or get caught up in the rich-man version of street catcalls. When they get out of the ballroom, Maggie turns left and leads Nadia to a quiet area down the hallway.

“Nadia?”

Her eyes are shut tight. “I’ve told no one.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s been six years.”

Nadia finally opens her eyes. They’re wet and red.

“It’s okay,” Maggie says again, putting a gentle hand on the girl’s arm. “I’m on your side. Always.”

“You’ll tell Oleg. Or Ivan.”

“Never. Do you hear me? Never. I won’t tell anyone. That’s a promise.”

Nadia releases a long deep breath. Maggie waits, gives her a little space.

“They gave me a totally new identity. Nadia isn’t my real name.”

“What is your name?” Maggie asks.

She shakes her head. “I can’t tell you. I might trust you, but that doesn’t mean my family has to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m Nadia Strauss now. That’s all that matters. Please. I want you to call me that.”

“Okay, sure, no problem.”

“And I do have a thirty-one-year-old brother. And a mother. I had three other siblings and a father, but they’re long dead. We were poor. Not poor like Americans. You Americans don’t really know poor. You have no idea what poor is. We wouldn’t eat for days, until it feels like your stomach is stuck to your spine. We literally had nothing but each other.”

“Where was this, Nadia?”

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes stare past Maggie. It’s a look Maggie sometimes saw in combat. The thousand-yard stare. Nadia’s voice is distant now, detached.

“I was sixteen years old. My mother loved me. No one forced me. You do what you do to survive. You in the West think you have problems. I see it on social media now. People seeking” — she spits out the next words with pure contempt — “self-help, whatever that means. Self-care. Searching for, ugh, fulfillment. Whining, complaining, not feeling satisfied with their perfect lives.” Nadia shakes her head in disgust. “How come starving people never need self-help or self-care? If you really want to cure your sleep anxiety over... over I don’t know what... try not eating for five days in a row. Try sleeping on a dirt floor in the winter with no heat. Then let’s see how much you worry about ‘fulfillment’ in your big house with two cars in the driveway.”

Nadia turns her gaze back toward Maggie. Maggie stays still.

“You can figure out the rest, can’t you, Doctor McCabe?”

Maggie probably can. “Tell me anyway.”

“My mother woke me up one morning. She took me into the concrete building. No warning. No time to think or prepare myself. Probably for the best. They’d already run blood tests on everyone in my village. I was a match. They flew us out. They laid me down on a table. My mother took my hand. I had two kidneys when they put me to sleep. When I woke up, I only had one. Don’t look at me like that.”

Maggie tries to keep the horror off her face, but she doubts she’s successful.

“You think my mother forced me.”

“I didn’t say—”

“She didn’t. I understood. Even if they’d given me a choice, I would have done it.”

Maggie swallows. “Your family sold your kidney.” She doesn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but if she offended Nadia, she can’t see it from her expression.

“You don’t understand,” Nadia says. “We had nothing. Our family was mostly dead. That was our fate too. Starvation probably. Maybe slaughtered in war. My brother, my mother, maybe me. Or maybe my fate would have been worse. I don’t know. So we made a choice. I gave up something I didn’t need. In return, we were saved. We were given a new life. Money. New identities. They sent us... I won’t tell you where exactly. But look at my life. Look where I am now. My mother and brother, they live in an American city. In the Midwest. I won’t tell you which. My brother is in law school. My mother has her own apartment. Can you imagine? A real apartment with electricity and running water. She has a refrigerator and freezer. Do you know what she does every day?”

Maggie shakes her head no.

“She keeps a chicken in the freezer, and every night before she goes to bed she opens the freezer and just stares at the chicken. She can’t believe it’s real. She’s worried one day she’ll go to sleep and wake up and it will all have just been a dream. So you see? All of you who live in comfort can afford your ethics and morals. You want to judge me by them. How, you wonder, could I sell my own kidney? And I am here to tell you that it was the best thing that ever happened to me — and my family. My kidney is in someone else now. It probably saved a person’s life — who knows? — but I know selling it saved three other lives. So don’t you dare judge us.”

“I don’t judge,” Maggie says softly.

But of course, it isn’t that simple. Maggie knows that. You don’t buy and sell human organs. It’s immoral. It’s exploitive. Selling organs commodifies human bodies, reducing individuals to their monetary value. It leads to trafficking and corruption and kidnapping and abuse.

And yet.

“I’m going to bed,” Nadia says.

“Why are you here, Nadia?”

“What?”

“Why aren’t you, I don’t know, in the Midwest with your family?”

“My decisions are none of your business.”

“That’s true.”

“You’re not my psychiatrist or spiritual advisor. You’re just a plastic surgeon.”

“But I want to help.”

“You can’t,” Nadia says. “I told you already. You don’t know my life. Just do your job and leave me in peace.”