In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  I open the door to my room and do a quick sweep. Happily, I left the room set up after my session with Annelise. The bed is newly papered, and all of my needle packets, swabs, Purell, and essential oils are laid out.

  “Come on in.” She limps slightly as she approaches and I notice her posture might tip to scoliosis. I make a mental note to ask her about her back history. She intimated that there’d been a surgery in our first appointment, but I’m realizing now that I never got the full story because of my fast departure.

  “Lucy, I just want to apologize again for abandoning you during our first appointment. I’m still mortified.” I take a seat and gesture for her to do the same.

  “Oh, it’s fine.” She waves her hand. “Really! I didn’t even notice you’d been gone so long until your very nice colleague, Rachel, woke me! It was one of the best naps I’ve had in a long time.” She laughs lightly. “That reminds me, I have to make a massage appointment with Rachel. She was so nice, and I’d love to spend some more time with her.”

  If Lucy is harboring resentment, she’s good at hiding it.

  “Sure. I can help you schedule that today.” I don’t give any emotion away in this, but it is thick in my throat. I know I’m not going to feel better until I clear the air with Rachel.

  Lucy takes a slow and careful seat on the chair opposite me and I pull out her file, where I’ve made notes from our initial appointment.

  “So, there are still some basic health history questions you and I should discuss for your overall treatment. But how about we address the acute pain today and get you comfortable, and then we can talk more about longer-term treatments next time?”

  “Yes. That sounds perfect. Anything to get this pain gone! Times like this, I wish I was a subscriber to the idea of pain meds, but I know how insidious that stuff can be. You won’t see me going any stronger than Advil.”

  I notice how well-spoken she is and wonder if she’s a writer or a teacher. There will be time for me to pry into her professional profile, but now I want to get her on the table and address the present pain. Both to ease her misery and to divert my own with some distraction.

  “Can you point to where on your neck, shoulder, and back are the most painful?”

  “Here.” She points to the right side of her neck and down to her shoulder on the same side, and then stands, turns around, and gestures to her right side down around her sitting bone and right glute, indicating pain radiating down her hamstring as well. “And all around here.” She chuckles. “Basically my entire body hurts.”

  “Got it. Were you doing anything strenuous yesterday? Exercising or lifting something heavy?”

  She laughs again. “God no. The last time I exercised was ages ago.” I make a note: Sedentary. “Yesterday I was visiting a friend and running errands, nothing too exciting.”

  “Okay, Lucy, I’m going to treat you facedown today if that—” I immediately see her tense up. I don’t press her; I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. “You know what, on second thought, let’s do faceup. There are some incredible acupoints in your hands that, believe it or not, are the most effective back-pain relievers.” She looks grateful. But I need to remember for future reference that she doesn’t want to be facedown. It isn’t uncommon for patients with certain traumas to want to be able to see their surroundings at all times. I still feel anxious facedown.

  “Thank you.” She moves toward the bed.

  “Actually, if you don’t mind removing your shirt, I can give you this towel to place over your chest. I’d love to have access to your stomach today as well.”

  I see the tension return. “Oh. I didn’t think I’d have to take anything off. I didn’t last time.”

  “If you are uncomfortable, I can skip it and focus on other areas.”

  She considers it. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not. I’ve got some scars that I’m self-conscious about.”

  “Of course. I understand.” She looks grateful. “Do you need help getting on the table?”

  She nods. I take her by the elbow and guide her up on the table. She moves slowly and somewhat fearfully, like a much older person than she actually is. Once she’s comfortable, I roll up the sleeves of her sweater and leggings and swab the intended points with alcohol.

  “You remind me of my daughter.” She’s closed her eyes before I’ve begun placing the needles. “That’s probably why I just feel super-comfortable with you.” She exhales as though she’s been holding her breath for a while.

  “I don’t know if you are quite old enough to be my mother!” I laugh but also find myself getting choked up. “I know what you mean.” I wonder what it would be like to have a mother like Lucy. Someone I felt comfortable with and could talk to and feel like they really cared about what I had to say. “Are you close with your daughter?” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “I’m sorry, is that too personal?”

  “No. It’s not that.” She sighs. “I wasn’t in touch with her for a few years, and we’ve recently reconnected. She did some really unforgivable things to me and it is hard to imagine ever being the same after that.”

  “I’m sorry. I hope you can work it out. I have a complicated relationship with my mom too.” All of the edges on my personal and professional boundaries feel like they are getting runny. I have an urge to tell Lucy about the text from Peter. The person I really need and want to be telling about it is Rachel. I’m anxious to see her and clear the air. I decide that I’m going to drive over to her house and, if she’s not home, wait for her as long as it takes so that we can make up.

  “How are you feeling so far, Lucy?”

  She murmurs and smiles. “Charlotte. You are incredible. Everything stopped hurting.”

  “I’ll be just outside the door. I promise not to go anywhere this time.” We both laugh.

  “This time, I’ll hold you to that,” she replies.

  THIRTY-SIX

  October 6, 2019

  From: cdharris94@gmail.com

  To: dsilvestri@sbpd.gov twolcott@sbpd.gov

  The Two Jakes,

  Just giving you guys an update on the laptop. Not much in the way of social media. She looks to have gone dark on Twitter, FB, and Insta. Did turn up a chat room that she frequented. Thought you might want to check that out. Hit me up with questions.

  Clarence

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHARLOTTE

  When I pull into Rachel’s driveway, her car is in its usual spot. Nearby, her bike is on its side in the middle of the front lawn. I am thrilled to see that she’s home and exhale a loud sigh of relief as I shut off the engine. One of the strays that Rachel feeds is stalking a crow that has landed on a low branch of the tree near where I’ve parked. The crow takes flight when I shut my door, and the cat hisses at me as she skulks off.

  I walk over to Rachel’s bike, pick it up, and wheel it over to the fence where she usually keeps it. A couple of morning papers are undisturbed in their plastic bag on the welcome mat, where her two cats, Thelma and Louise, lounge sphinxlike, lazily guarding the front door to her enclosed porch. This is odd; they are strictly indoor cats, which Rachel never lets out of the house.

  Rachel’s bungalow is small, and perfect for one person. One floor, with a spacious open-air kitchen and living room, and a medium-size bedroom and bathroom, it has more of a California feel than Long Island. In the summer you can hear the bay a few blocks away and smell the salt in the air. In the fall and winter, it gets bitterly cold, and I can see that she’s already installed the layer of insulating plastic when I try to look into the first window on the side of the house. The curtains are open, but the plastic layer gives an opaque view of the interior, and I can only make out blurry shapes and dark spots inside.

  I open the door to the winterized enclosed porch and am met with a wave of heat. Both cats dart in front of me. She keeps the space hotter than her actual house, the hanging
plants, various large, overgrown potted ferns, and banana and ficus trees creating a tropical feel. I close the door behind me, taking in the space. It is as eccentric and unique as she is.

  Her cats barely register my presence beyond flicking their tails until I reach her doorbell, when Thelma stretches, saunters over to me, and starts working figure eights through my legs, purring and bumping my shins for immediate attention. I reach down and stroke her head in a halfhearted acknowledgment. I’m too distracted and nervous for Rachel to come to the door to muster much more. I feel a crunching under my shoes and see broken glass and the tangled skeleton of a mobile chime from one of Rachel’s trips to the West Coast. The cats bat the string and glass pieces around the porch in a loud display. I do my best to push the glass pieces into a pile with the unwrapped newspaper and scoop up the sharp pieces on the fold so the cats don’t get cut. I place the folded newspaper on the windowsill.

  I try the bell again, and after a few moments, and no sign or sound of movement from inside, I knock hard in case she’s sleeping, although this would be way out of character given her aversion to naps. “I’ll sleep plenty when I’m dead, Char. I spent so much of my twenties in a stupor, I don’t want to sleep through anything now.” My knocks are met with the same silence as the doorbell.

  I call her phone and sit on the porch swing listening to the unanswered rings. I calm myself, silently reasoning that she could have gotten a ride to an NA meeting or gone for a walk to the water. She could have had a date and spent the night somewhere else. I don’t necessarily know everything about her life. Any number of reasonable explanations could be at play here, but a deep sense of unease has knotted my stomach into a throbbing ache of worry, signaling that this might actually be an emergency.

  I decide to go around to the back of her house and see if she’s left a door or window unlocked. Thelma has resumed her pose on the mat, and Louise hasn’t moved an inch, so I pull the porch door shut behind me, closing them safely inside. They are absolutely indifferent to my leaving the porch.

  When I reach the back door, I look through the glass panels before knocking or trying the knob. I’m startled to see Rachel inside, sitting in a chair in the living room, her back to the door. She is very still, with her feet on the floor and her hands out of sight, which I assume are in a mudra in her lap or at her heart. I see the telltale white wire connecting her phone on the floor nearby to her earbuds. Of course she was meditating. She must have lost track of time. I laugh out loud.

  I hesitate to disturb her, but I’ve come this far. I want to hug my friend and apologize more than I want to respect her practice. I knock lightly, but she doesn’t stir, so I try the knob. It turns easily and the door pushes inward with little effort.

  “Rach?” I say, just above a whisper. She doesn’t move or answer. I creep through the kitchen and into the living room. The late-afternoon gloom has settled, as does a deep rooted dread, which grabs me hard by the throat and winds its way up and down my spine. I gasp loudly as an acrid smell fills my nostrils. But more than the overpowering odor, the emptiness of the room, the absence of Rachel’s essence in spite of the presence of her body, pummels me to the ground to find my breath before retching.

  I have been around enough corpses to know the difference between the stillness of peaceful sleep and that of death. She’s gone. But denial is a powerful coping mechanism, and the brain will allow you to live there for as long as it thinks you need to.

  “Rachel? Wake up, honey.” I know better, but I still pray that I’m wrong. My legs give out as my brain catches the rest of my body up with the reality of what’s happening. “No. Rachel? Rachel. Nooooo.”

  I crawl to her and grasp at the side of the chair to pull myself closer. The slight movement causes her hands to fall limply to either side. I sob openly and can’t figure out who is saying “No, Rachel, no,” repeating it at an increasing volume, since it can’t possibly be me—I’m struggling too much to catch my breath to muster words or sounds. I fight to pull myself closer to her. I put my hand in hers, and it is ice-cold. Her open eyes are milky and empty and her slightly parted blue lips render me hysterical. There is white foam collected in the corners of her mouth and I fight the urge to wipe it away.

  I lie faceup on the floor and try to regain focus. The room is spinning fast around me, my chest is heaving, and I battle the sensation of losing consciousness. I try to find something nearby to focus on. I see her phone, which I reach for and hold in my hand, knowing I need to call someone, but not remembering how to do that.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  SILVESTRI

  “That wasn’t so bad.”

  We’re returning to Stony Brook after a rush-hour slog on the way back from our meeting with Thornton. “LeFrak’s always a jam,” I say. “And you get that bottleneck by the Douglaston Parkway exit. I guess not too much of a drag, all in all.”

  “You hungry?” he asks.

  “Actually, yeah. All that getting yelled at really worked up an appetite.”

  “What are you in the mood—”

  We’re interrupted by the hiss of the radio. “Ten-twenty-three. Request detectives at seven-two-five Lawson Way.”

  Wolcott and I look at each other. “Hold that thought.” I grab the microphone to respond as my partner guns it.

  * * *

  As we enter the residence, the hallmarks of death loom heavily in the air. There’s a stale quality to the whole affair, and an eerie sense of stillness despite the cats that slither between our feet. The odor of the deceased hits my nose. I remove a vial of peppermint oil from my pocket, apply a dab under each nostril, and pass it to my partner. I recognize the officer as he approaches us. “Litman?”

  “Detectives, how you been?” His time on the job has lent the kid a level of self-possession. He carries himself with a heightened sense of confidence.

  Wolcott extends his hand. “Officer. Good to see you again. It’s been since the Sasha Anders case, I think?”

  “Sure has,” answers Litman as he leads us into the living room. “That whole thing took a wild turn, eh?”

  “That it did.” I chuckle.

  “Can’t believe you guys ended up popping the Maxwell woman on a cold case after all that.”

  “Stranger things,” I say. We approach Rachel Sherman’s body, sitting lifelessly in an armchair. “So, what are we thinking here?”

  “Looks like smack,” he answers, pivoting toward the body.

  “OD?” asks Wolcott, leaning in to examine the corpse.

  “Thinking so. The deceased looks to be midthirties. Lips blue, pupils pinned,” he says, pointing between her facial features to indicate the hallmarks of a heroin overdose. “Some traces of old track marks, but nothing fresh. No signs of paraphernalia. Might have snorted it? And her friend is basically catatonic, so no help there.”

  “Her friend?” I ask.

  Litman nods past Rachel Sherman’s body. I walk around to the back of the chair to find Charlotte Knopfler sitting on the floor, knees pulled in tight to her chest, staring off at something in the next zip code. I approach her steadily and ease into a squat position. “Charlotte? Are you there?”

  She looks to me. “This is my fault. I did this.” Her body trembles, then quickly stills again. I kneel down and place my hand reassuringly on her shoulder. Her eyes snap to mine as she clutches her chest and lets out a pained groan. “I think I’m dying.”

  THIRTY-NINE

  WOLCOTT

  “Good morning, fellas. How does it feel to be such a know-it-all, Wolcott?”

  We’re back in the ME’s office. Charlotte Knopfler has been admitted to the hospital, and Fisk has completed the expedited autopsy my partner requested.

  “Not great, Fisk. Not great at all. Both things checked out?”

  “Yeah, hotshot. Cause of death was heroin overdose. And I just dug this out of her ear canal.”

  “Poppy see
d?” I ask.

  “That’s right,” she confirms. “Can you two do me a favor and crack this case? If these seeds get any smaller, I’m gonna need to see my optometrist and up my prescription.”

  FORTY

  CHARLOTTE

  Every hospital has the same noises. Squeaky wheels on linoleum. Metal instruments on trays. Orderlies walking quickly and with purpose. Whether you are in a bed or looking over one, the finite variations of sounds are ubiquitous. The audio orients me before my sight kicks in. The combination is paradoxical: comfort in familiarity and terror of the unknown.

  The lead weight on my brain can only be chemical. I can barely lift my lids, and when I do, it is a struggle to keep them open. I’m back in Bellevue. My chest begins to constrict and my throat burns. I can’t be.

  The room I’m in is fairly large for a single, and looks different from the one I was in before. There are quiet voices outside the door. The cadences are familiar, but too distant from where I’m struggling to focus to positively identify. My optical haze lifts slightly and I can see my mother in the corner of the room, her mouth open and head lolling as she sleeps soundlessly. The sight of her in person makes me anxious and indicates how bad things have gotten. The image of Rachel in her chair reintroduces itself to my frontal cortex and I whimper into a sob. Mom’s eyes flutter open and she is on her feet in a flash and at my side with both hands on my right arm. She’s never been particularly affectionate, and my reflexive flinching causes her to pull her arms into herself.

  “Oh, honey. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” For a brief disoriented moment, I think she’s apologizing for my childhood.

  “How could you?” Each word out of my mouth is thick and slow.