by Sandra Block
“I’m Tina Jessep,” she says, pulling her ID tag off her chest. “The discharge planner. Just wondering what your thoughts were on her.”
We both stare at her. “For discharge?” Dr. Berringer asks, making no attempt to hide his disbelief.
She nods with a tight smile. “Well, it’s been nearly a month. She’s not catatonic anymore. She’s not suicidal.”
“That’s true. But I wouldn’t expect her to be suicidal. She wasn’t depressed.”
“Okay, but my point is, there’s nothing acute going on here. Nothing she necessarily needs to be hospitalized for.”
“Yeah, but it would be nice if she knew her name, don’t you think?” he asks. Tina doesn’t answer the rhetorical question. “Seriously, this is egregious. She doesn’t even know who she is. Where exactly are you going to send her?”
Tina tugs on one of her flounces. “I guess that’s my job to figure out. The hospital is just looking for a more appropriate placement at this point.”
“A cheaper placement, you mean.”
“Listen,” Tina entreats. “Don’t shoot the messenger. We’re all part of the same team here. We all want her to get better, but we also want to get her out of the hospital as soon as it’s safe for her.” This sounds suspiciously like a talking point.
“I just don’t think she’s ready,” he says. “She just started speaking, for God’s sake.”
She nods. “I understand. I do. Keep me posted with how things are going. On my end, I’ll be looking for a good place for her.”
“Where might that be?” I ask.
She turns to me, like she just noticed the six-footer to her side. “I’m not sure yet. Probably Gateway or Father Baker. A home for children with emotional disturbances. Maybe foster care if we have any further progress.”
We both pause to process this, and she gives us another fake smile and walks off as we get ready to see our patient. The girl who may or may not be leaving soon, whether we know her name or not.
* * *
“Where the hell would they send her?” Detective Adams asks.
Static sounds over the car phone. Mike is navigating our route via Google Maps when the detective calls for the latest update. “Gateway,” I say. “Or Father Baker. They’re calling her emotionally disturbed.”
“Oh, please,” the detective groans. “That’s not going to be a good fit. Some of those kids are…” He pauses. “How do I put this delicately? Really fucked up.”
I wonder what the indelicate way of putting that would have been.
“To the left,” Mike calls out. “Left!”
“I was going left,” I argue, swerving as Mike hangs on to his seat belt for dear life.
“It’s not subjective, Zoe. You’re either going left or you’re going right, and you were going right.”
“You guys okay over there?” the detective asks over the speaker.
“Yeah, she’s just trying to kill me,” Mike says.
I jab his ribs.
“Tell her that’s illegal,” the detective says. “People go to jail for that.”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” I pull into the driveway. “We’re fine. Just checking up on some things.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go,” the detective says. “But do me a favor, Zoe. Talk to the girl. Find out who the hell she is, would you? Before they send her somewhere she’ll get eaten alive.”
“I’ll do my best,” I promise. I don’t mention that I’ve inveigled Mike into my dilettante investigation plans, starting with the limousine companies. As I hang up, Mike unbuckles his seat belt, and we make our way into Party Hearty Limousines. The building is cold and smells of cigars.
“Can I help you?” The man has a thick black mustache with matching curly chest hair and a thick gold chain. He could be an extra in a seventies movie.
“Yes, my name’s Zoe Goldman, and this is my friend Mike.”
“Hey, I’m a Mike, too!”
My Mike gives him a no-nonsense handshake.
“So what can I do you for?”
“We’re looking for a missing girl,” I say. We go with a less confusing story than the catatonic-Jane-Doe one, which didn’t work the last two times. I’m hoping for the charm thing on the third. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen her before.” I flash him her solemn, unsmiling picture.
He takes a long look but shakes his head. “Don’t think so. Nothing that jumps out at me anyway. Did she go missing around here?”
“Maybe. She was last seen in a limousine in Buffalo. In September. September fifteenth to be exact.” Actually, by her account, she was chasing the limo, but I don’t get into all that.
He holds up the picture. “She looks young.”
My Mike leans against the wall, playing with his phone. He’s keeping me company but letting it be known this is entirely my folly.
“Here, come on in back. We’ll look at the books,” Mike II says. We wander back to a room that smells even more strongly of cigars. A space heater rumbles at our feet. Mike II flips through a thick, well-worn book to the correct page. “It was a Sunday, so that’s usually pretty slow.” He lays a fat finger on two names. “Connors was a bachelorette party. Threw up in the limo but tipped well,” he says, almost to himself. “And Newberger was a fiftieth birthday party. Jewish people, you know. They were very nice.”
My Mike coughs through a smile.
“How about the day before?” I ask. “Just in case.”
“Yeah, sure.” He trails his finger over a date. “So that’s a Saturday night, and we had every limo booked.” He lists off the names and an anecdote for each. His memory is shockingly good. “We didn’t have any black folks that night.” He pauses. “Not that we don’t accept black people. We do business with anyone of course—black, white, purple…” He grins. “As long as their money’s green.”
“Right,” I say with nothing more to add to this soliloquy. “Well, thanks anyway.”
“Sorry,” Mike II says. “Wish I could help you.”
“That’s okay, you’ve helped a lot.”
More than the last place, where the direct quote was: Listen honey. I don’t know what you think this is. But we do weddings, proms, and bachelor parties. We don’t go carting around twelve-year-olds. Mike looked like he was about to throttle the guy.
I push the door against the wind as we leave, sniffing my sweater for any lingering cigar smell.
“Are we done yet?” Mike says. “It’s past dinnertime.”
I examine the list on my phone. “Three more.”
He groans.
“You won’t starve.”
“But I’m hungry,” he says, in a perfect toddler whine.
“Come on. They’re trying to discharge the poor girl. This may be our last chance to figure out who she is.”
Chapter Eleven
The next morning on the way into work, I check my e-mail at a red light. I know it’s illegal and dangerous, but right now I can’t handle sitting through twelve seconds of unaccounted-for time. Plus the limousine companies promised to write if anything came up on Jane. Unfortunately, the e-mail box remains barren. A horn beeps and I lurch ahead, when the phone surprises me by ringing in my hand.
No caller ID, but it could be one of the limo places. “Hello?”
“Bonjour.”
My heart flutters. I’m not sure whether it’s from the Adderall increase or hearing Jean Luc’s voice again for the first time in over a year.
“Bonjour,” I answer back as casually as possible.
“How are you doing?”
“Good, good.”
“How is Mike?”
He always asks this. Perhaps out of politeness, but also verifying that I am now safely ensconced in another relationship, just in case I was getting any ideas. “Great. And Melanie?” I ask, though I don’t actually care.
“Great.” So now we’ve established that everyone is either good or great. “Did you get the save-the-date?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah,
I did. It looks terrific. Really.”
“So are you coming?” The hope in his tone is almost pitiful, like a kid asking his workaholic dad to come to his baseball game just this once.
I pause too long. “Probably.”
“Probably?” he laughs. It’s probably not the answer he expected.
“I mean, I want to, of course. It just depends on flights and vacation and all that, so…”
“So probably.”
“Right.” I get to a red light, and my phone pings with an e-mail. I fight the urge to check it while I’m still talking to him.
“Okay. Well, I should let you go then,” he says.
“Yeah. I’m driving anyway, so I shouldn’t really talk. I’ll call you. Later. Okay?”
“Yes, this is good. Say hello to Mike for me.”
“Sure thing.” I hang up, thinking, “Asshole.” Yeah, I get it. You’re with Melanie, and I’m with Mike. And guess who won in that little exchange? That’s right: I did! And no, I’m not going to your fucking wedding! Someone honks at me and I realize the light’s been green for a little while now as the driver leans out the window. “Get off the fucking phone!”
I simultaneously flash him a bright smile and give him the finger. Showing uncharacteristic patience, I wait until the next red light to check the new e-mail. It’s a message from the Black and Missing website.
Hi, Dr. Goldman. This girl looks a lot like my friend Destiny. She went missing two years ago. They think her sister’s boyfriend killed her, but no one’s ever found her. I’m not sure, but it could be her. Didn’t have a scar I know of, but she could have gotten one. Don’t know how she would have ended up in Buffalo. - Jasmine.
She left her number so I give her a call. The phone rings five times, and then a message comes on. “I ain’t here. You know what to do.” Short but sweet. I leave a cringingly awkward white-girl message and hang up. For a second, I’m tempted to text Detective Adams the information, but then I remember our conversation, in which he informed me I didn’t have to text him every five minutes with an update. Then again, he did ask me, personally, to find out who Jane was. I debate, but the better part of valor wins out, and I hide my phone in my purse for safekeeping for the rest of the ride to the hospital.
Because it occurs to me that I haven’t exactly told him I put her information on the Internet.
* * *
Brandon has a hundred burn marks up and down his arms. I don’t mean about a hundred; I mean a hundred. He counted them.
“I promised myself I’d stop at a hundred,” he says. He gives the floor a dejected look. “But I don’t think I can.”
“What’s he been on?” Dr. Berringer asks.
“Luvox, Lexapro, Effexor,” Jason lists, leafing through the chart.
“Any antipsychotics?”
“I don’t want an antipsychotic,” the patient interrupts.
Dr. Berringer puts an “attaboy” hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t want to keep hurting yourself, do you?”
Brandon shakes his head, his eyes brimming with tears.
“Let us help you, okay?” Dr. Berringer asks.
Brandon rubs his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. His eyes are red and puffy when he looks up at us again. “If it were all over, then I wouldn’t have to worry about this anymore.”
It, being his life.
“True,” Dr. Berringer says, surprising me with the answer. “You wouldn’t have to worry about a lot of things: the sun on your face, scoring a goal in soccer, getting popcorn at a movie, hanging out with your friends.” He pauses for effect. “There are good things you would miss, too.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
His words hurtle me back to eighth grade, lying in my bed with my mom stroking my hair, my desk piled up with unfinished homework. I don’t have any friends, I am sobbing. She doesn’t argue with me, knowing it will only provoke my full ire. I am a rage of hormones and dopamine deficiencies, forever the tallest kid in my grade, thorny and miserable and ready to strike at one false look. You’ll have friends, she says. Someday, Zoe, people will see how beautiful you are.
Before I know it, we’re halfway down the hall. “So what are you going to watch for in this patient, Zoe?”
I missed all the back and forth, but it appears Brandon grumblingly accepted the idea of an antipsychotic, and we are moving on to the next patient. I bite my lip. “I’m sorry, what antipsychotic did we end up using?”
“Seroquel,” Dr. Berringer answers with forced calm.
“And you’re asking for common side effects?” I ask.
“That I am.”
Every thought in my head evaporates while Dr. Berringer examines a scuff on his tan bucks and Jason draws blue doodles on his patient list. So the Adderall boost has given me palpitations, loss of appetite, and pressured speech, but no boost in my brain speed. “Weight gain,” I say.
“Okay,” Dr. Berringer says with encouragement that verges on pathetic.
“You have to watch for suicidal ideation in young adults and teenagers.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else?”
“Tardive dyskinesia. Rare, but it can happen.”
He nods. “Excellent. Can you think of anything else, Jason?”
Jason looks up from his doodles. “Nope, that’s all I got.”
“Me neither. Okay, Zoe, you’re off the hook.” He grabs my shoulders, leaning in so close that I can see gray flecks in his irises. “Pay attention next time!” he jokes, giving me that white-bright Chiclet smile, then lets me go. Jason is doodling again. “Let’s go see Jane?” Dr. Berringer asks.
And we’re off. On our way down the hall, I wonder at his admonition. Pay attention! Seems an odd thing to say, even in jest, to someone who just admitted to struggling with ADHD. But then again, he’s my attending, not my doctor. Jane’s room is empty, and Nancy informs us she’s in speech therapy. Time for a group journey to the speech room.
“I just have to grab something.” Dr. Berringer goes off toward the nurses’ office, and Jason and I lean against the wall, waiting.
“He’s in a good mood, huh?” I ask.
“Mr. Happy,” Jason remarks, playing with his gelled-up bangs. “Especially with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He yawns. “It means you two should get a room somewhere.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not even honoring that with a reply.”
“That was a reply,” he says, then we both shut up as Dr. Berringer comes back our way.
* * *
“It sounds like we need to back down on the Adderall.”
I plow through some sand. I’ve been telling him my symptoms. My cocaine-like pressured speech, five-pound weight loss, palpitations. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
He leans back in his chair, fingering his glossy, thin, but fully grown-in goatee. “How do you feel about that?”
His question makes me think of a cranky elderly woman I saw last year. What’s all this crap about how I feel? I feel with my hands. And that’s the last thing I’m going to say about it.
“Fine, I guess. It didn’t help much anyway. Just made me keyed up.”
“How about other stuff? How are you doing with your mom?”
“Okay, I guess. Scotty wanted me to go with him to visit the gravesite the other day.”
“And?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “I couldn’t do it. I don’t know.”
Sam looks at me but doesn’t speak.
“I guess I just don’t want to see her there.”
He nods. “You know, I do think that starting to accept it, on whatever level you can, may be helpful for you. Running away from it won’t help.”
“I know.” Scotty, for whatever reason, is handling it better than I am. My immature kid brother is outshining his accomplished, luminary, Yale-graduate big sister. Who’s on probation. “I told you about his thing with those stupid bonds, right?”
Sam nods.
&nb
sp; “It’s weird. He’s never been like that before. If anything, the opposite. He never gave a shit about money.”
He leans back in his office chair. “Maybe he finally feels the pressure of working while he’s going to college.”
“Maybe.”
“Or it could be his way of coping. Trying to find meaning out of something which essentially makes no sense.”
I stifle a yawn. “I guess.”
He looks down at his yellow legal pad. Sometimes I wonder if Sam and I should really be going out for tea instead of having a psychiatric relationship. But then again, maybe that’s just how it always goes after a couple of years—the bloom fades.
“Have you been running yet?”
“Well…” I hesitate, guiltily picturing my new running shoes, swathed in tissue paper and stuck in their box.
“Get running, Zoe. It’ll help.”
The ship-wheel clock ticks out the remaining minutes until “It’s time,” and I walk outside to a bright fall afternoon. Finally the rain is giving us a reprieve. I had to leave work early today for the appointment, but Dr. Berringer didn’t mind. It turns out he had to leave early for some appointment, too. The coppery leaves of an oak tree sway above me as I step into my car. Staring at my phone, I consider leaving another message for Jasmine, but since I’ve already left three jacked-up messages throughout the day, I should probably hold off. The poor girl’s going to think I’m a stalker.
I’m pulling on my seat belt when a black Jeep swerves into the parking lot, missing my side-view mirror by a few inches. I’m half a second from pulling down my window to berate the guy, when I realize that there is someone I know who drives a Jeep just like that and duck down just in time to catch his unmistakable form in my rearview mirror.
Emerging from his Jeep, with a brown leather jacket and sunglasses on, is none other than Dr. Tad Berringer.
Chapter Twelve
I’m finishing my coffee, about to run out the door, when she calls.
“Hi, it’s Jasmine.”
Dropping my satchel, I put my coffee down. “Jasmine, yes.”
“From the missing people website? I was calling about Destiny.” The voice sounds young.