Rabbit in the Moon Read online

  Opening her eyes, she caught sight of her reflection in the window opposite, then just as quickly turned away from it. All her life she’d avoided mirrors. That was when she saw the long eyebrows brushed like feathers over crescent-shaped eyes, the thick, lustrous, straight shoulder-length raven black hair, the tiny nose, and the golden skin. The fact that she was beautiful never seemed to register. It was being different that bothered her.

  Banana.

  Taunts from the old neighborhood: “yellow on the outside, white on the inside.” She hadn’t taped her eyelids like some of the Asian girls she knew, but she was American. Through and through. She didn’t even speak Chinese.

  “Dr. Varney, call admitting. Respiratory therapy to the ER. Dr. Clark to the OR.”

  She savored the familiarity of the page operator’s voice. Here, within the hospital, she wasn’t different. No matter what the Sandersons of the world thought, here she belonged. She’d worked hard to secure her place. Through college and medical school she’d driven herself to the limit. Now seven months into her final year of residency she had just one more hurdle: the geriatrics fellowship. With that experience she was virtually assured of a position on the faculty. Then maybe someday she might even make chief of medicine. Not impossible. Only Ed Baxter, the other senior resident, and of course, Dr. Trenton, department chief, stood in the way of her dream.

  “You forgot this.”

  “What the —” She turned to the tall, lanky figure beside her.

  “I don’t know which is more dangerous,” he said, handing Lili her Bioeffe helmet, “resurrecting bigots or riding motorcycles.”

  “The former, I assure you,” Lili declared, accepting the helmet. “So you heard?”

  “Dumb bastard doesn’t know how lucky he was you managed his cardiac arrest.”

  Lili studied Dylan O’Hara’s handsome all-American, blue-eyed, blonde-haired features for a moment, wondering how she could explain what she was feeling. They’d only met three weeks before. She hardly knew him well enough.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but don’t give it a second thought.” She shrugged, as much to convince herself. “Tell me, what’s a researcher doing on a medical floor?”

  “Looking for you. How about dinner tonight? Since we met at the housestaff shindig, I’ve been stuck in the lab all hours. The life of a resident isn’t much better, I’m sure. Thought we could both use a little time off.”

  “I don’t know —”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I usually just grab a sandwich from the cafeteria on my way home. I’ve been on call the past two nights.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’re prejudiced against first-generation Irish Americans.”

  “But you don’t —”

  “I don’t look Irish?” he teased. “My mother’s side was Norwegian.”

  “I see. And I suppose one of your long-lost relatives was a Viking.” Lili was just five foot four, so at six foot two Dylan towered over her.

  “Scout’s honor,” he said, smiling. “Now that we’ve got my genealogy out of the way, will you join me?”

  Lili found herself returning his smile. “Okay, but I need to get home early.”

  “Great. Pick you up at six.” Dylan’s stare was an intense azure blue.

  Lili checked her Timex to avoid his gaze. Feeling her cheeks redden, she knew he’d succeeded in manipulating feelings she’d just as soon keep in check. “Better get going. I’m presenting. Can’t keep the chief waiting.”

  “Sure. See you tonight.”

  “Six.” Lili nodded, then pushed past the double doors and entered the brightly lit corridor where nine other white-coated residents had gathered for bed rounds.

  Seoul, Korea

  One day earlier

  6:00 a.m.

  David Kim entered the modern glass tower that housed Kim headquarters, nodded to the drowsy guard behind the reception desk, and proceeded toward the bank of elevators at the rear of the lobby. Outwardly calm, he pushed the button with some trepidation. He had no idea why his father wanted to see him, but he suspected news of his gambling debts had reached the senior Kim’s ears. He only hoped he wasn’t in danger of losing his inheritance.

  The elevator doors parted. At six a.m. the car was empty except for the white-gloved operator. “Annyong haseyo, honorable Mr. Kim.” She performed the customary respectful half bow.

  Although beautiful, she was like all the other hundreds of white-gloved young women who worked at menial jobs within the company — simply a pretty fixture.

  “Good morning,” David replied automatically. “Top floor.”

  “Kamsa hamnida.”

  The ride in the Kim elevator was swift and smooth. In less than twenty seconds it had climbed to the forty-second floor. David barely had time to straighten his Cardin tie in the mirrored panels before the elevator doors opened.

  Another bow and the doors slammed shut. Alone, David stood at the oak-paneled entrance to the executive suite. No matter how often he visited these offices, they always filled him with awe, as though the rooms themselves reflected the enormous power of one man. Perhaps to punctuate that power, his father had placed a CRT screen just outside the suite. Already it was flashing the latest quotes on the South Korean composite. Kim Company was made up of private and publicly held entities, shares of which traded in Korea, though as with all Korean firms, foreigners were barred from direct ownership. Over all of this his father, Shin-yung Kim, exercised absolute control.

  David entered the outer waiting area — a large open space magnificently decorated with antique Oriental rugs, original French impressionist paintings, and chamois leather chairs. Each of two secretaries had a solid rosewood desk fitted with intricate intercom and fax capabilities and computers to download information in milliseconds from any one of the twenty-five Kim factories around the world.

  A private door led to a dressing room with cedar closets. Beyond was a tiled bathroom including a marble hot tub, stall shower, redwood sauna, and a fully equipped exercise area. Another door opened to a small private dining room, tastefully decorated with muraled walls, where David’s father entertained business associates. A third door led to Shin-yung Kim’s inner sanctum. Too early for either secretary, David passed through the outer area and entered his father’s private office unannounced, his heart pounding as he turned the brass handle.

  “Late as usual,” his father remarked from behind a hand-carved mahogany desk and without looking up from his stack of newspapers. Like his son, he was impeccably dressed, but his was a silk suit handmade by a local Korean tailor. One manicured hand rested on the Wall Street Journal and the Hong Kong Reporter, which had already been devoured.

  He was in the middle of the Korea Times when a petite young woman who could have been the elevator operator’s twin wheeled in a breakfast cart. The covered dishes contained bean paste soup, steamed and seasoned vegetables, roasted beef, pickled cabbage called kimchi, grilled fish, and rice. Despite his otherwise sophisticated tastes, when it came to dining, the senior Kim preferred exclusively Korean fare.

  “One cannot speak coherently of important matters on an empty stomach,” he said, staring directly at his son. Though a small man, his round face had a sculptured look, long forged into an intimidating hardness.

  David nodded, trying to relax.

  “Sit,” his father gestured.

  The white-gloved waitress prepared two place settings of Limoge china and polished filigreed European silver, then poured one cup of ginseng tea from an acid-etched silver server.

  “Tea for my son,” he ordered. “Then leave us. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  David took a seat in one of two easy chairs facing his father’s desk and waited like a dutiful son. When they had each finished a cup of the energizing brew, the old man pointed to the walls of glass through which they had a 360-degree view of Seoul. “Look,” he said.

  To the north, rose the lofty peaks of Bukhan Mountain, to the south, the
green hills of Namsan Mountain, while below the mighty Han River flowed west to the Yellow Sea. Down at street level over nine million people bustled like ants among the giant skyscrapers, grand hotels, and crowded highways.

  “What you see was ruin thirty years ago. In the time span of this world, that is but a single breath.” He paused to be sure David grasped the point.

  “Like so many young people these days, you are impatient for riches, without understanding short- and long-term goals. Success requires time; time to gain the trust of those with whom you do business. Think of a cat, quietly stalking a mouse, awaiting the right opportunity to pounce.”

  He grabbed a folder from the middle drawer of his desk. “These are checks drawn by you in the last month on South Korean Bank. Ten million won, twenty million two hundred thousand, five million and four million eight hundred thousand.” The balance came to eighty million five hundred thousand won or one hundred seventy thousand dollars. “And this,” he said, removing another document from the folder, “is the balance sheet and income statement from our MSG operations.”

  David’s discomfort swelled.

  “Last year we controlled almost two thirds of the foreign market. This year — even with expanded manufacturing capability in China — we have barely made any gains.”

  “We are meeting our projected quota.” David realized his protest was weak.

  “Meeting, but not exceeding. I moved those factories to China because of rising labor costs at home.”

  “Yes, but now that Deng has allowed some private enterprise, many Chinese are setting up their own factories — hiring away workers from our shop. They’re —”

  The senior Kim waved away his son’s explanation. “When you fall into the water, blame yourself, not the stream.” Shin-yung Kim stood up and walked to the window. “Like the phoenix, Korea has risen from the ashes.” His voice resonated with feeling. “Not because others helped us. It happened because people like me made it happen.”

  “I understand, Father.”

  “Do you?” The old man shook his head and sighed. “You young people have never known suffering. You never saw what they did to our cities.” He clenched his fist. “We took back our country from enemies and made it our own.”

  The senior Kim now turned to face David. “When I started this company, I knew nothing about business. I was a farmer from a village. But I did understand that once the war was over, our people would be hungry. Soon we expanded the small sugar refining plant into processed food and MSG. Within no time we became the number one food company in Korea. Five years ago I saw the Japanese steal the electronics market from the Americans. I knew nothing about electronics.” He laughed. “But I was convinced we could do even better than our former enemies.” His eyes burned with the brightness of a winner. “I appointed my sister’s son to head the division. Now Kim Electronics is the number one producer of microwave ovens.”

  “You have done well, Father.”

  “We have done well, but we are not finished. We must surpass other nations! We need young men of vision to take our economy beyond our borders. Otherwise, we are doomed to become dependent on others once again.”

  Shin-yung Kim inspected his son. After six daughters from two wives, he finally had a male heir — a gem in his father’s palm. All of Shin-yung’s dreams and hopes rested on the boy who, according to the Confucian tradition of familial hierarchical order, would have the highest priority for inheritance. He knew he’d spoiled this child of his middle years, given him everything he wanted. But he’d also enrolled him in the best schools, officially changed his Korean name to David, even sent him as a teenager to the United States to learn Western views of business. Now he expected a return on his investment. His tone was stern: “Hwankap comes in just three months. I will have completed my zodiacal cycle of sixty years.”

  “Yes, Father, I know.”

  “I want to celebrate this auspicious birthday knowing it has indeed been a fruitful life.”

  “You are still a young man. You will have many more years yet.”

  “Perhaps, but it is tradition that at sixty a man is considered to have completed the cycle of active life. I would like on this landmark day to turn over Kim Company to my only son and heir.” The senior Kim’s charcoal eyes were deep and lustrous as they bore into his son’s very soul. “Tell me how this is possible when you waste your time and money at the gambling tables in Macao?”

  “I know I have disappointed you, Father.” David lowered his head. “I promise to follow the correct path from now on.”

  Shin-yung Kim’s eyebrows lifted. He was no stranger to his son’s promises. But this promise must be kept. “The government is pressuring the choebels by raising our cost of capital. Unless we show greater profits, we’ll be forced to divest our unsuccessful businesses.” He placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “If in three month’s time you have improved our China operations, I will hand you the chairmanship of this company. If not, I’ll have no choice but to disinherit you and give the business to my sister’s firstborn.”

  David stood and bowed politely. “I understand, Father.”

  One last comment as David reached the door: “Of course I don’t have to tell you this is the last time I will cover your gambling debts.”

  L.A. Medical

  1:45 p.m.

  Although bedside rounds were part of the daily routine in every teaching institution, at L.A. Medical they had become a dreaded ritual. That was because Dr. Richard Trenton, newly appointed chief of geriatrics, was ex-army and fond of putting his “raw recruits” through their paces. He claimed this would make them better doctors. Lili thought it was a cruel form of hazing.

  Today the chief seemed in a particularly vindictive mood. As the young residents moved from bed to bed reporting their cases, Trenton grilled each one unmercifully, asking difficult questions, never satisfied with their answers. Now the group gathered outside the room of a patient admitted the night before.

  “Dr. Webster,” Trenton barked. “Did you by any chance look in a mirror this morning?”

  Several of the group laughed on cue. Lili watched sympathetically as beads of perspiration dripped from the poor resident’s brow.

  “Sir?”

  “Your clothes, Webster. They look slept in.”

  “Well, sir, I was on call last night and I had six admissions and I didn’t have time to —”

  “To what?” Trenton interrupted. “Groom yourself?” Trenton pushed his Ben Franklin half-frames further down his thin, aristocratic nose, as if viewing the wretched resident through a microscope. “Young man, a doctor must have the appearance of a professional. How can you instill confidence in your patients when you look like a handyman?”

  Lili thought the question all the more pointed noting the contrast between poor Webster and the chief. As always, Trenton was impeccably dressed. Today he wore a finely tailored blue suit that hugged his lean body. His graying hair was thick and brushed back from his high forehead. His demeanor was crisply rigid.

  On the other hand, Lili guessed that Webster’s normally unruly red curls hadn’t seen a comb for days and the stains on his short white jacket that only partially hid a growing paunch, probably contained a mixture of residue from patient body fluids and cafeteria fare. Not a pretty sight.

  “Look sloppy, think sloppy.” Trenton handed the first-year resident the patient’s chart. “We’ll skip this case until evening rounds. Webster, I want you to take a STAT shower. Then put on some fresh clothes, and get down to the clinic.”

  The disgraced resident seemed rooted to the spot.

  “On the double, Webster.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Watching poor Webster shuffle back toward the residents’ quarters while Trenton lectured the group on proper decorum and dress, Lili wondered how this form of ridicule could produce a better doctor.

  “Psst, Dr. Quan?”

  It was Sam Gould in the next bed. He was eighty years old and until this admis
sion, had never set foot in a hospital. “That’s how I made it to eighty,” he’d told Lili when she’d examined him four days ago. Then he had been full of false bravado. Now he was all smiles. “I know you skipped me since I’m getting out today, but I wanted to thank you for everything.”

  “You should thank Dr. Philips. He repaired your hernia.”

  “Sure, he’s a great surgeon, but you’re my doctor. You explained the procedure to me, so I wouldn’t be afraid. And it was you who sat on my bed after the surgery and held my hand.”

  “And I thought you were asleep,” Lili teased.

  Winking. “Can’t blame an old man for wanting to hold onto a beautiful young woman, can you?”

  “Come on, your wife can give me a run for my money.”

  The old man nodded. “Sixty years with my Sadie and she still makes my heart go pitter-pat. Three great kids, five grandchildren, and one great-grandchild.” He looked at Lili. “Family, Dr. Quan, is worth everything in this world.”

  Lili gave Mr. Gould’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You take care of yourself. I don’t expect to see you back here.”

  “You can count on it.”

  In the hallway, Lili smiled to herself, thinking of his words: You’re my doctor. Wasn’t this what medicine was really all about?

  Trenton’s voice snapped her back to reality. “Dr. Quan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Ready to present?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lili led the group to the next room and waited until the small, white-coated army had reassembled around the bed. Positioning herself so that Trenton could not easily see the patient, she began a recitation of the vital information, simultaneously monitoring the chief’s expression.

  “This sixty-three-year-old white female was admitted yesterday with a diagnosis of progressive change in mental status. Her symptoms included increasing lethargy, weakness, slowed speech, and depression. Physical exam was significant for a mini-mental status score of fifteen out of thirty, dry skin, dry hair, large tongue, and delayed deep-tendon reflexes.”