by Kate Ledger
“She didn’t,” Emily continued, “but she said she might have.”
“Shouldn’t someone at the camp have told us that?” His voice cracked.
“She hadn’t done anything, so they couldn’t accuse her of anything other than stealing. But they were suspicious. I asked her finally. I said, ‘What was it for? Why’d you borrow the knife?’ You know what she said? ‘It seemed like I needed it.’” Emily sighed. “You know, it’s hard here.” He knew she meant at the hospital. “She’s no easy patient. Each time I think we’re doing okay, she’s insensitive, and bitter. I’m sitting at her bedside and she barks, ‘Get me a magazine.’ Not, Can I please have a magazine? Or, Would you mind getting me a magazine? ‘Get me the nurse. Turn the light out. Close the curtain, will you? Why do you always have to have the curtains open?’ Then she looks at me with this horrible expression on her face, and she says, ‘Why are you staying so long?’ I want to have a relationship with her. I’m trying, but she’s making it hard.”
Ordinarily, he liked to believe, he would have said something reassuring. He would have said, We might not win a Nobel Prize for parenting, but we’re doing our best, just like everybody else. Or he might have said, Well, teenagers, what’d you expect. But it was difficult to make pronouncements as his daughter lay waiting for the opinion of a surgeon and he was unable to be near her, unable to participate, and there was clearly so much they didn’t know. Stacks of patient files, cartons of medication, prescription pads and supplies, were heading out of the office in the arms of federal agents who marched like ants to a waiting van on the street. Piece by piece they were dismantling what he’d built, what he’d made of himself. One of the officers had even knelt at the edge of the koi pond to run a latex-gloved hand along its bottom, no doubt feeling for hidden compartments, ingenious places to stash drugs. (“Are you kidding?” Simon had barked at him.) He held the phone, not answering his wife, and looked outside to the police cars, still flashing their lights. The entire front and side of the house had been roped off with forbidding yellow tape, and the quiet Guilford corner near Sherwood Gardens had become a spectacle like a carnival. He was still waiting to learn whether he was going to be charged with killing a man he’d only tried to help; he dreaded what would possibly be the next phone call to Emily, the one from jail, in which he would face not only her inability to help him but her complete uninterest. At that point, he figured, she would be done with him, and it seemed to him that Jamie’s desire to fight for attention, to inflict torment on them, was the best news he’d heard in a long while.
His throat swelled as he thought about how he feared, even more than Emily’s criticism, her indifference. He said, “We’re lucky she wants to punish us.”
The good news was that, by nightfall, no charges had been pressed. “At least not yet,” Tory said in the darkened waiting room. He took another call on his cell phone as Simon began to wander through the office, picking up stray papers, screw tops for medicine vials, overturned jars of cotton swabs. The agents had finished and left with whatever they’d construed was going to be evidence. Rita had lingered longer than the rest of the staff, but she was eager to leave. Her husband wanted her home. She hugged Simon, throwing her large, maternal arms around his torso and pressing herself to his body.
“They’ll see they were wrong,” she said to him. “Everything will get cleared up. They’ll see.”
When she pulled back, Simon saw that her face was red. “I’m sorry for the mess,” he said, pointing to the debris—the splayed innards of the filing cabinets—littering the floor.
“You do what’s right for the patients,” she said, patting his chest. “That’s all there is. If you weren’t there for them, who would they have?”
“Go on home,” he said. “I’ll call you when I know anything.”
“We all believe in you,” she said. “We’ll help you through this.”
“I know,” he answered. “Now get.”
She left, the screen banging behind her, her large ring of keys like bells in her hand.
Tory ended his call and slipped the cell phone into his briefcase. “Can’t promise what will happen tomorrow or the next day, but apparently there isn’t enough evidence yet. That MacAllister guy had all kinds of other drugs in his system, so they might be worried whether they could nail the methadone. The bad news,” Tory continued, “is that the State Medical Board is suspending your license.” Simon would remain on suspension until the matter could be thoroughly investigated and the prescribing patterns deemed within reasonable limits. Additionally, the DEA had revoked his registration, rendering him unable to prescribe until further notice, and there was no telling how long that action might take to clear up.
“We can fight them both,” Tory assured him, “but legally you can’t practice until you’ve settled the issue with the Board.”
“So, what, a disciplinary hearing?” Simon asked. “How soon? We have to get this straightened out. People depend on me. It’s not just the inconvenience or the financial burden of time off. Or my staff, who I just realized will have to start looking for other jobs. I have patients whose pain is so severe they want to kill themselves. What are they going to do, travel to some other doctor somewhere who might or might not take them seriously? What’s going to happen to them?”
Tory smoothed the jacket of his suit. “You send out a letter to them, explain you can’t see them and try to think of who you can refer them to,” he said. “You know, I’ve heard of cases where patients come to the doctor’s support. They write letters to the Board. Your patients might speak up on your behalf.” An idea seemed to dawn on him. “How credible is this nurse who acted as an informant—this Julie McKinley—?”
Simon’s thoughts went back to that first interview, when she sat rigidly in front of his desk with her too-large pearls and a hopeful expression on her face. He had imagined he would teach her—and hadn’t it seemed she was going to be a good study?—but everything had soured so quickly. He thought of the kiss, that terrible mistake. What had happened to him? How had he managed to lose control? His large fingers went to his hair, tearing at it. “She was a negative presence, I couldn’t have her around. Can’t we prove that she’s got a personal grudge?”
“Apparently she’s got a whole list of medical issues she saw that she found questionable, beyond the narcotic thing. The DEA won’t care about that, but the Board might.”
“You mean my research?”
Tory responded with a grimace and a half-shrug. “All I can say is, I hope what’s an earnest effort on your part doesn’t backfire.”
“I’ll tell you,” Simon said. He was trembling, his large hands, his knees. He felt a queerness in his joints. He knew what he was about to say was true, even though it wouldn’t come out with a polite measure of humility. “There aren’t many doctors anywhere who are as good at doing what I do.”
“I’m sure of it,” Tory said, smiling.
Simon looked around at the disarray, the litter. Entire cabinets gaped open, their shelves cleared. The agents had left with nearly three hundred patients’ files, all of whom had at some point been prescribed a schedule II substance. Had he anticipated this? Had he known this was coming? Was there some part of him that wanted the cabinets emptied, all the responsibility lifted? “I’m starving,” he announced. He intended to leave for Bethesda, but he realized he couldn’t face the emptiness of the house alone. “Can I get you something?” he urged Tory. “A cup of coffee? Something to eat? Our housekeeper usually makes some kind of casserole dish. You’ve been here for hours.”
“Wouldn’t mind something for my throat. I’m parched.”
Simon led the way past the waiting rooms, through his office. As he pushed against the mahogany door, he realized that the agents had continued their search inside the house. “Are they allowed to do that?” he asked.
“If the warrant is for this address,” Tory answered with a woeful bob of his carefully groomed head, “they can do a sweep of upstairs
.”
But as they entered the basement, they saw the wine casks. The copper bands had been pried from the barrels, the oak snapped. Splintered staves littered the floor, like the aftermath of a hurricane. The crates with the wine equipment had been wrested open, the interior packing plumbed. Simon reached into the yawning holes. They’d taken the siphon tubing, the sugar refractor.
“They must have thought you were hiding something. This might have been your secret stash.” Tory looked around. “What is all this?”
“Wine,” Simon murmured, pushing a tuft of haylike stuffing back into one of the crates. “Just a hobby. Just for fun.”
“They’re beautiful. Were—beautiful. Sorry,” Tory said slowly. Surveying the mess, he added, “They must’ve cost you a bundle.”
“Tory,” Simon said, as they stood there staring at the wreckage. The busted wood told the destruction of everything fine in his life, the end of his marriage, the rodeo ride of his creative instinct. Gut instinct was another expression for what you didn’t have words for, what you lived by but didn’t understand. There was nothing precious about it. “You ever do divorce law? My wife wants out.”
“I don’t,” Tory said. “But I’ve got a name of someone.”
Tory didn’t stay long. Simon poured him a seltzer; there was little to talk about, and Simon had to leave for Bethesda anyway. Tory intimidated him a little, the weird gentlemanly habits, like the way he took off his suit jacket and folded it inside out before resting it on a chair. He wondered at the man’s mysterious solitude, and he worried that he himself was headed toward a similar ghostly existence. Was that what happened when your family was dismantled and your practice disassembled and you were alone? Here was a lawyer who made housecalls. The doorbell rang then, and Tory stood up obligingly, like someone who’d just awakened. Simon went to answer it, harboring the vague hope it might be Emily, though he knew it wouldn’t be. He knew she’d use her keys. Ted and Betsy Ebberly stood on the stoop, peering in tentatively, like two shy children.
Tory had opened his jacket and put it on. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I hear anything,” Tory said, squeezing by Simon and then past the Ebberlys. “Hello, good-bye, hello.” He trotted down the steps, the fine leather undersoles of his expensive shoes smacking against the bricks.
From the Ebberlys’ sympathetic faces, Simon could tell they already knew. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he insisted. “How did you hear?”
Betsy pointed to the side of the house. “The Do Not Cross tape was a pretty good sign something was up.”
“It’s a temporary setback. As soon as everything gets cleared up,” he stammered. “I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about my patients, is all. What’ll they do? They’re the ones who really get punished in all of this. They’re the ones who suffer.”
“Sure they do,” Betsy said. “How’s Emily taking it? I’m sure she’s got a strategy for you.”
When Simon didn’t respond and didn’t move aside, Ted asked, “Can we c-come in?”
But Simon blocked the doorway with his body. The last thing he needed was the Ebberlys looking around. He’d have to explain how things stood with Emily. “Actually, I’m on my way out. Jamie—have you heard? She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh no,” Betsy exclaimed, instantly motherly. “Is she okay?”
He explained the pierced navel, and they shook their heads. Betsy put her hand over her mouth as she listened, her eyes wide. Their sympathy felt good. Simon even mentally forgave Ted for not offering to do a sulmenamine study, a little basic science project that would have given Simon’s clinical results more backing, a Petri dish worth of proof. Even a small project from the laboratory would have underscored the importance of what he was doing and would have given him more data to bring to Salt Lake City. He wouldn’t have sounded like he was some nutcase. But too late now. There was no way to continue with the study in the clinic, at least not legally, and there were no grudges. “It’s been a long couple days,” he said. “It’s almost too late for me to drive down to Bethesda.”
“W-what happened t-today?” Ted asked. “We got a call from the Groves.” He looked over his shoulder toward Rick and Janet’s house. The porch light glimmered, but the rest of the house was dark. He realized, of all people, he should have heard from them, and he realized then that he probably wouldn’t. Janet’s exhibit was about to launch, and they were people who were concerned about whom they were connected to. They would stay away until his name was cleared and it was safe to associate with him again.
“Just your basic raid,” Simon answered. “The feds didn’t like the way I’ve been handling my pain patients. Apparently it’s a crime when you see people hurting to try to do something about it.”
“We came as soon as we could,” Betsy said.
Simon took a deep breath. The night air was soft and faintly sweet. Summer was ending. “The short of it is, they closed me down.”
Ted whistled. “Wow.”
“I’ll have to appeal to have my license reinstated. Emily doesn’t know yet,” Simon admitted with a sigh. “She’s been at the hospital all day. I didn’t have the heart to tell her.”
As they stood there, he realized he should tell them that Emily wasn’t living there anymore, that she had a new place she was calling home, even though he had no idea where it was. He owed it to the Ebberlys to tell them. People needed to figure out where their alliances fell when their friends split up. They needed to poise themselves to take sides. But his throat grew tight as he thought about having to utter the word “divorce” and surprise tears prickled against his eyes.
“What are you going to do?” Ted asked.
“Nothing. She decided it all,” he answered before he realized Ted was inquiring about the practice.
“Simon, can we come in? Please?” Betsy pleaded. “We’re worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Really. I have to go down to Bethesda.” He looked down the street at the streetlights and their domed orbs of lemonade-colored light. The street looked absolutely picturesque.
“Y-you don’t look like you should be on the road,” Ted said.
“No, you look terrible,” Betsy agreed.
“I’m a scapegoat,” Simon said. “That’s basically it. It’s like attacking a sheep apart from the herd. No one can say what I was doing or wasn’t doing, so they’ll assume the worst and pick through my records to see if they can make it stick. Thank God I kept records. Can you imagine? What will I do—I’ll fight. What else? My lawyer thinks I’ll be able to be reinstated within a year. I’ll rebuild. Bigger and better than before. Add another exam suite. Maybe I’ll even hire another doctor.” Something dawned on him. “It’ll be a good lesson for Jamie. She should learn from this too, right? A thing is how you handle it. I know I’m in the right because I know what I’ve done. My patients know. My staff knows. But the rest of the world? People find out about things like this and they shy away. You know who I really feel bad for? My patients. Especially the ones who had appointments tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. They’re going to have to go knocking on doors to find someone to treat them. I’ve heard of patients getting turned away from doctors who don’t want a paper trail from someone like me leading to someone like them. Those doctors don’t want the stink on them.”
“As soon as you’re reinstated, Emily will polish up your reputation,” Betsy declared.
Simon looked at his shoes. He realized he was still wearing his white coat. Standing on the front step of the house, he saw it as a costume.
“We don’t think you stink,” she added tenderly.
“You were nice to come over.” He couldn’t say it, but it was like a drink of water, their kindness. He could not recall anything like it except the feeling of being refreshed. He didn’t want it to end, but he couldn’t invite them in. He had to get his clothes together, go to the bathroom, get ready to drive to the hospital.
“Anything we can d-do for you?” Ted offered.
&nb
sp; “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Maybe down the line. Maybe I’ll need you to write something on my behalf. A testimonial to my character.” He grinned. “Something to show the Board.”
“Sure,” Ted said.
“On a side note,” Betsy said with a kind change of topic, “if you all want to come over next week to break the fast. If Jamie’s feeling better, of course. We’re having people as soon as services end. Not a big gathering this year, just a few families. Light meal, you know, the usual, Aunt Ethel’s kugel, unless someone comes up with another recipe.”
“I’ve always liked Aunt Ethel’s recipe.” He squinted. “What day is Yom Kippur?” Some years he and Emily and Jamie dropped in on the end of the event at the Ebberlys, even though they hadn’t fasted themselves. The Ebberly children typically came home for the holiday. It was a quick evening of bagels and cream cheese, roughly tradition.
“Next Wednesday,” Ted answered.
“So we’re in it now,” Simon said mildly, “the ten holiest days of the year? Am I right?”
“You’re invited to break the fast,” Betsy said again, “just so you know. I’ll keep telling you, if you want. I’ll remind Emily.”
He nodded sadly, saying no more. Betsy reached out and squeezed his arm and they left then. He watched them as they descended to the street. Even after he had closed the door, he watched them from the window. Ted put his hand on Betsy’s back as they headed down the curve of the brick steps, and when they reached the sidewalk, he glanced back at the house. Then, as they made their way toward their car, he drew his wife close into the crook of his arm.
Simon awoke on the couch in the living room, still in his clothes, with the sticky tongue of cotton mouth and a mental fog. In his head, a eustacian roar prickled like radio static, incessant background noise. He held his nose and swallowed purposefully, trying to clear the waterfall sound in his ear, then palpated his glands. Definitely, he was getting sick.