My mind and body are humming. This has to mean something.
The entire wait and search must have taken only two to three minutes, but I feel like I’ve been in this office for hours. I know it’s time to leave.
I put my ear to the door and listen. I don’t hear anything at first, but then I pick up voices coming down the hallway, followed by a polite knocking on what must be the bathroom door.
“Morgan, are you alright,” Nurse Molly’s muffled voice says.
Shit, I think, and wonder if my estimate of time was more accurate than I’d thought. I consider just sauntering out of the office with purpose, as if I was meant to be in there, but dismiss that idea on the grounds of it being balls-to-the-wall nuts. My eyes fall on the one window of Dr. Koftura’s office, and, as I make my way over there, I find myself praying for the umpteenth time today that the odds be in my favor.
The hospital building and its adjoining offices are older construction, meaning that they were built pre-central air con, and that most of the windows can still open. There’s a lock on the window, and I hope the frame hasn’t been painted shut by the same ham-fisted maintenance workers who “fixed” Dr. Koftura’s door. I reach over, unlock the window, and push up.
The window moves freely, and a burst of cold air rushes into the room through the opening. There’s no screen on the window, and since Dr. Koftura’s office is on the first floor I can easily boost myself out the window and into some ancient yew bushes outside the building. A few scrapes from the untended branches of the bushes—again, I blame the maintenance crew—and I’m able to reach up, close the window, and make my way out to the parking lot.
I text Annie to tell her that I’m out, and wait to meet her at her car.
It’s later, after Annie’s given me the dramatic play-by-play and we’ve devoured a bucket of KFC, that I consider what leaving Dr. Koftura’s office window unlocked will mean.
For both of us.
31
“Are you hungry,” Annie asks when we are back at my apartment, chucking the greasy bucket of chicken bones in the garbage. It’s as though she’s added to that old adage “Starve a fever, feed a cold,” and force fed me into submission chronic trauma. I tell her as much, and she gives a voluptuous cackle.
“Maybe we can write an essay on chicken soup for the psychopath’s soul,” she calls out from the kitchen. I’m sitting in my bedroom at the foot of my bed, staring at the wall. Annie’s account of her performance in the waiting room almost made up for the fact that I hadn’t found anything about Justin in Dr. Koftura’s office. According to Annie, after getting my text confirming my nurse’s name, she’d bolted up in the waiting room, shouting, “I need Nurse Molly! I need Nurse Molly!” as loudly as she possibly could. She’d recounted all the details as we’d driven back.
“I don’t know what symptoms of which disorder I was spazzing out with,” she’d said, tapping her hands on the steering wheel as we waited for our extra crispy thighs in the drive-through. “But I do know that I properly freaked everybody out.”
The drive-through cashier, hair net billowing in the December wind, gave Annie a steely side-eye as she passed back our change.
Apparently a nurse who’d just entered the room to call a patient went running for Nurse Molly and a few other staff to help out, giving me the clearance to get into Dr. Koftura’s office. The kindness of the nurses stretches only so far, though, and after too many minutes of indistinct chattering on Annie’s part she overheard one of them mumble the word “ambulance,” followed quickly by “psychiatric unit.”
“It was time to shut it down,” Annie said, reaching for a thigh as she winged her car into a parking spot outside my apartment building. We sat there in the fading light of the day, eating greasy chicken, proud of ourselves beyond belief.
“So I looked straight into Nurse Molly’s eyes and, serious as you please, said, ‘I knew you would help me. I feel so much better now.’ And she just melted, I swear. Come to think of it, she is probably a pretty wonderful nurse. I don’t know how anyone else could have dealt with five full minutes of my screaming her name and flailing around.”
“But how did you get out?” The high of our pseudo-heist was waning, and the chicken tasted too salty and pungent on my lips.
In our planning, we’d assumed that Annie would have to at least go in for an assessment with a doctor after her episode, and I was supposed to wait for her at the car in the hospital parking deck.
“Once I’d calmed down, they really wanted me to go meet with a doctor, but I told them it was just a panic attack—was that the right thing to say?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer and plows on with her story, reaching to finish my picked-apart piece of white meat. “It must have been, because that, plus my announcement that I didn’t have health insurance, seemed to do the trick.”
“God bless America,” I’d said.
I hear Annie pressing the buttons on the microwave to make me a cup of tea—the woman won’t use the kettle to save her life, as she insists it’s a fire hazard—and I brace myself for the next step. I pick up my phone, half-expecting to see another text from Justin’s phone, but finding none move back into the kitchen area.
Annie seems to have already read my mind, because she has two steaming cups of tea, the marker board, and a pack of whiteboard markers.
“Alright, Dr. Kalson. Let’s figure this out,” she says as she proffers a marker to me, and grabs one herself.
“I’m going to write down everything that you tell me, starting with the day of the accident, and you can add anything that you want to add to, or expand on. Okay?”
I nod, and for the next thirty minutes I sift through all the details of what’s happened to me over the past four days. Afterwards, Annie and I both sit back and survey what we’ve accomplished.
At the top of the board is his name: “Justin.” Underneath are his parents’ names, “Ron” and “Jean,” with “Estranged” and “History of violence” added in the surrounding areas. Annie wrote in Professor Farak’s name, and then I asked her to create a hatched line that she labeled “Faked Being a Student.” I also had Annie add “Max,” with an X through the name. We both gave that one a long look before moving on. It’s funny how knowing someone hurt other people is more tolerable than knowing someone hurt an animal. I should care more about Justin holding that baseball bat above his mother’s head, but I don’t. Most people wouldn’t. Which is why animal shelters have volunteers and foster parents have to be paid.
I can’t stop picturing Justin, all dark hair and deep eyes, walking his dog outside, and the poor dog following because he trusted him.
Just like I did.
“ACCIDENT” is written in capitals, and underneath there are the words “Police,” followed by “Ormoran,” “Miller,” and “Hospital,” which has the tags “Holdren” and “Koftura.” Below the detectives’ names, Annie and I listed their evidence against me. Dr. Koftura’s “testimony” (Annie fake-gagged herself with the marker before writing that) and my “history of violence” (Annie wrote #fakenews for that one).
Annie’s treading that fine line between humor and despair, and even as I’m so grateful for her being here with me, I can’t help feeling like something is off. Her outrage is just a little too loud, a little too big.
I haven’t told her about what happened with Maria in my classroom. And I don’t think I’m going to.
Underneath “Holdren,” we’ve written only “Believes me” and “Dislikes Koftura.” For my neurologist of almost two decades, I’ve added “Thinks I did it,” “Treated Justin,” and “Has two prescription pads.”
We circled the last two entries and put big stars next to them. Stars mean follow-up.
“I do the same thing in my e-mails,” Annie says, sinking onto the couch. She doesn’t look at me as she says it, though.
One more category: “After the accident.”
Below the title, I ask Annie to write: “Visitor to the car. Who took the phone?
” And then “Who the fuck is texting from Justin’s number?” I don’t have to tell her to underline the word Who. The “fuck” she adds herself.
I don’t bring up the car on Fifth Avenue, outside the Taco Bell.
Neither does Annie.
“What do you make of the extra prescription pad?” Annie asks as she settles further into my couch. I follow, the marker board propped up against my coffee table, facing us.
I take a sip of tea, and the lemon Annie must have slipped into it makes my mouth pucker. “I don’t know.” Since psychologists don’t write prescriptions, the procedures for use and disuse of them is kind of beyond me. I take another sip and my apartment falls silent while Annie and I mull the question over, until a thought comes to me. “I remember reading something about prescription fraud related to opioid addiction in the Plain Dealer. There was a doctor up in Cleveland who had hung on to his office partner’s prescription pad after the partner died and was using it to write fake prescriptions for Percocet and other pain killers for paying ‘patients.’” I make the air quotes as I say the word, and Annie slaps me with a couch pillow.
“You don’t need to do that—I’m not an idiot,” she half laughs, half snarls. I start to say sorry, and blame it on teaching undergrads with earbuds constantly stuck in, but Annie ignores me. “So do you think that’s what Koftura’s doing? Writing fake prescriptions to get extra cash on the side? They can’t be traced back to her because they aren’t under her name.”
“It’s definitely a possibility, but it also just might be that she’s hanging onto her husband’s pad as a memento of him, right?” I offer.
Annie nods her head and pulls her legs up onto the couch so she can fold her feet underneath her.
“Let me see the picture you took,” she says, and after I hand her my phone she starts zooming in on the photo of the little white pad of paper with Jawinder’s name at the top.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking to see if there are any indentations that might tell us what the last thing written on the pad was. Maybe a date too.” Annie’s bent over my phone, with the image zoomed in as far as it will go.
I lean over her shoulder and see that the picture is just too low in resolution. We can’t see much of anything beyond the stark black letters of Jawinder’s name and the subsections for writing a prescription.
Annie shakes her head and hands my phone back to me. “I don’t know. Do you think Justin was dealing drugs?”
I give a short bleat of laughter at the question, the way a person laughs when they think nothing could be less funny.
“You ask that as though I knew anything about him.”
32
On Thursday morning, there’s a new addition to my office door. Taped with one piece of Scotch tape—because apparently my dismissal isn’t worth the several pieces it’d take to affix it properly to my door—is a printed sign that reads, “Dr. Kalson is on personal leave effective immediately. Any questions can be directed to Professor David Sothern, Head of Department of Psychology,” and then below the memo Sheila’s name is listed. Because why would David want to be bothered with 200 undergraduate students and their anxieties over end-of-semester exams?
Humiliation comes swift as a rash after being administered bargain-store Ibuprofen. No one even bothered to call me.
I check my e-mails, thinking perhaps there’s an apologetic missive waiting in my inbox, full of explanations.
Nope. Nothing.
Immediately I’m down the hallway and headed straight for David’s office, running through Maria’s classroom visit earlier this week. Or at least parts of it.
For once, Sheila is not manning her desk, and so I am able to rush right down the middle and into one of the uncomfortable chairs I sat in just before my life turned upside down.
David—no Professor Sothern for him, not today—is sitting at his desk, desperately trying to eat a glazed donut without crumbs slipping down his glossy red tie.
“What the hell is this?” I ask. I snatched the poster from my door before marching down to my boss’s office, which I’m now waving in his face. The poster is clutched in my hand such that David can’t read it fully, but I’m sure he knows what it is. “I’m on ‘personal leave?’ When were you going to tell me about this?”
David takes a gulp of his coffee and does a quick reconnaissance, rubbing a hand over his mouth to make sure no derelict crumbs remain. A moment later he answers my question with a question.
“How are you doing, Kalson?”
“I’m fine, David. Absolutely fine.” My voice squeaks on the “loo” of absolutely. And even now there’s a brief moment when David shifts back in his chair, props his feet up on the desk, and I think I’ve persuaded him that he’ll just give my classes back to me.
With his hands behind his head, David is in the exact posture I associate with almost all male academics. It’s like the star pose that women are supposed to use to embolden their competitive sides, but without all the stigma. The word “manspreading” flits to mind, and I remind myself that snark has never looked good on a woman at the mercy of men.
“I think you’re wrong about that.”
I want to snatch his donut and eat it right in front of him.
“How so?” I ask, pitching my voice as low as possible. I consider whether a star pose in the corner of his office might not hurt.
“The police have been here to interview myself and other colleagues of yours,” he begins, his forehead furrowed in concern. Despite my huff over the stupid sign and his man-nerisms, I know he’s trying to be kind to me.
It doesn’t stop me from cutting him off, demanding to know who.
“Maria, Sheila, Doug in Cognitive Psych, and a few of your past grad teaching assistants,” he lists them off, counting each on his sugar-coated fingers.
“What did they want to know?” I ask, and I try to swallow despite choking on the phantom donut.
David leans forward, his elbows perched on the table as he clasps his hands together. “This seems very serious, Kalson. You’re coping with a lot right now, and I just don’t see how adding the extra stress of finals week is going to help you.” He looks me in the eye. “I thought you’d welcome a leave of absence, given all you’ve been through.”
Kind eyes or not, he hasn’t answered my question, but I decide not to press it. Now that I know the lay of the land—that Ormoran and Miller are sniffing around my work, interviewing my colleagues—my main goal is to get out of this meeting.
“When should I come back? And do you want me to write the exams?” I offer, recalling that just a week ago I was sitting here, being groomed for promotion. “I can do that from home, so all you’d need would be a proctor for the exam period.”
David removes his feet from the desk and stares down at the glistening crescent left of his donut.
“That’s awfully generous, Kalson, but I think we have it covered. Go home, get some rest, and come back to us at the beginning of the Spring semester, fresh and renewed.” He tilts his head to one side. “Pending the Dean’s review of your case, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, and offer him a curt nod.
He stands as I leave, and I watch him run his tongue over his teeth, searching for chunks of pastry lodged indelicately in his incisors, before smiling at me. “We’ll miss you.”
I worry he might actually wave goodbye to me—oh, and my promotion and my career, too—but he doesn’t. He just closes the door.
There are two figures standing outside my office: One tall and willowy and the other short and squat. There’s a bright pink purse slung over the shorter shoulder.
Indignation lights up my chest and propels me towards the two detectives before I think to restrain myself.
“What the hell are you doing here at my place of work?” I demand in a harsh whisper, hoping not to attract the attention of the other faculty. I scan my eyes down the hallway and see only one or two doors open towards the end of the hall.
“Why are you here?” I ask again.
“We have a few more questions, and were hoping to talk to you. We stopped by your apartment, but your friend—Annie, is it?—said you weren’t home, so we thought we’d try your office. And here you are.” Ormoran smiles at me.
“I have nothing to say,” I tell them, and move to put the key in my office lock.
“That’s just the thing,” Miller chimes in. “We’re not here as a courtesy. We can either talk with you here, or we can take you down to the station and chat there. It’s your choice.” Miller has a pad of paper and a pen out already. I wonder what the hell she might be writing down.
I look at the sign I’m still holding in my hand after my meeting with David.
“Let’s go to the station. And I want my lawyer.”
33
The Youngstown City Police Department is housed just a few blocks from YSU’s campus, in a building of sprawling grey stone and Victorian era carvings of gargoyles and sprites. The building served as the original courthouse for Mahoning County, before the court outgrew its original fixtures and needed to be relocated to a shiny new structure of glass and chrome just a block away. Ormoran and Miller have me ride in the back of their unmarked car, and then escort me to a small phlegm-colored room with one fluorescent light in the ceiling, a slightly off-balanced metal table, and four matching chairs. Bleak beyond words. The air smells inexplicably of cinnamon.
Dana’s hair is in another elegant bun today, but her clothes are formal court attire: black pant suit and a silky blouse, sensible court shoes. When I called, I was told by her assistant she was at the courthouse for another client’s arraignment. Ormoran, Miller, and I waited in awkward spurts of silence intermixed with them leaving me alone—to go to have lunch, based on the newborn smudge of washed-out ketchup on Miller’s otherwise pristine shirt.
It Was Always You Page 17