by Sandra Block
“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t sound impressed.
“Plus, he’s seeing my psychiatrist.”
Mike gives me an odd look. “How do you know that?”
“I saw him come in the other day when I was leaving.”
“Huh. That’s weird.” He pushes his plate to the side. Arthur takes a lightning-quick chomp and races off to another room, leaving Mike staring at an empty plate. “I wasn’t actually done with that.”
“He means well. Have some more wine.” I pour the last drops from the bottle into his glass. “So you wouldn’t say anything? About the drinking?”
“I don’t know,” Mike says. “Do you think it’s affecting his judgment?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Candy is getting better, so maybe he’s on the right track there.”
“Yeah.”
“And he is smart as hell. That’s pretty much common knowledge.” Arthur wanders by, a piece of lo mein stuck to his nose. “You think I should call the Chair and get her opinion?” I tap my glass. “I’m not excessively fond of her, though…”
He yawns. “I wouldn’t.”
“No?”
“No, you’re on probation.”
“So?”
“So this could seriously bite you in the ass.”
I yawn, too. It’s contagious. “I suppose.”
He twirls his wine in a spiral. “Trust me. You don’t want to do anything stupid here. You could get in some real trouble.”
Mike’s right. It’s an apt description of my modus operandi throughout life. It could be my gravestone inscription: “Zoe Goldman. Did stupid things. Got in real trouble.”
“Yeah, but what about if I—”
“Zoe?” He throws the rest of his wine back, then faces me, his eyebrows scrunching together in a way I’ve always found rather cute.
“Yes?”
He moves closer to me on the couch, warmth radiating off his body. As he leans in to kiss my neck, his breath smells of sweet white wine. “I have a question for you.”
His stubble tickles my face. A trace of cedar cologne that I bought him. “What?”
“Do you want to talk about your attending?” His hand, resting on my thigh, starts crawling up by inches. “Or do you want to do something else?”
Chapter Fourteen
She’s all set for Monday,” the discharge planner tells me, then starts booking down the hall.
“Wait, wait.” I run after her and she stops, bracing herself. “Monday?” I ask.
“Yes. Monday.”
“But can’t you just give us a little more time? She remembered her name. She’s remembering more every day. I think if I can just work with her a little more—”
Ms. Jessep shakes her head, resigned. “We just don’t have any more time. Administration cleared it. I’ve covered all the bases. She’s excelling at art therapy and group therapy, graduated from PT and OT. The only issue that’s been holding things up is placement.”
“Well, her identity, too,” I add. “That might have been holding things up a bit.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she answers, unsure if I’m being sarcastic or not, which I am.
“Where is she going, might I ask?”
“A foster family. The Watsons. They’re nice people.”
So they’re not sending her to a pack of maniacs. That’s a relief. “And will she be going to school?”
“Dr. Goldman,” she sighs, “I know you want the best for Candy. We all do. We’re not throwing her to the sharks. She’ll get therapy. She’ll have siblings. A new school. Much better than we can offer her growing up on the psych floor of Children’s Hospital, don’t you think?”
I think back to her therapy with Miss Uh-huh and grudgingly agree.
“It’s not until Monday,” she adds. “You’ll have a chance to say your good-byes.” Ms. Jessep gives me a brisk farewell nod and escapes down the hall. I don’t chase her this time.
When I go to see Candy, she’s rummaging through her purse, like each new item in there is a treasure. She sniffs the wand of the lip gloss, then fits it back in. She snaps the silver makeup mirror open and shut.
I remember doing this myself as a child. Sitting up high on my mom’s scratchy fabric stool, rifling through the makeup drawer, which seemed so chock-full of marvels and intrigue. Sky-blue eye shadow. Coral-red lipsticks. Fluffy makeup brushes with flakes clumped on the ends.
“Hi,” Candy says, seeing me come in.
“Nice purse,” I say.
“Thanks.” She taps her fingers on it. “The discharge lady came to see me.”
I nod. “Did she talk to you about going to another place on Monday?”
“Yeah. The Watsons, she said.”
I nod again, giving her time to talk, but she just stares at her purse. “How do you feel about that?” I prompt her.
“Okay, I guess.” She doesn’t offer any further opinion.
“Better than getting hospital food every day, right?”
She laughs, to humor me I think. “The pizza isn’t bad. I forgot how much I liked pizza.”
I pause. “So you remember liking pizza?”
“Yeah, I do remember some things. It’s weird. I don’t remember being at the police station, or my parents, or any of the big things. But I remember eating pizza one night in front of the TV.”
“What were you watching?” I ask, hoping to stimulate more memories.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s like I remember and I don’t remember. You know? Like I’m watching a movie of me eating pizza, laughing, but that’s all. I don’t even know for sure that it’s real.” She frowns.
“And the limo? Did you remember any more about that?”
“The detective guy asked me the same thing. But I don’t remember. I just remember seeing a limo pull away. Trying to chase after it. That’s the last thing I remember before waking up here.” She chews on her lower lip. “The discharge lady told me more will come back to me over time.”
“She did, did she?” Just then my phone rings, and the number on the top of the phone is Jasmine’s. We had arranged for her to call this afternoon. I turn the ringer off. “Candy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“If there was someone who thought she knew you from before you came to the hospital, would you want to talk to her?”
“Like a friend or something?”
“Yes. I’m not sure, but it could be someone who could help you remember where you came from, your family and all that.”
“I guess that would be okay,” she says. “How do you know her?”
This is a tricky one. I sit down next to her and decide to chance it. If she doesn’t know Jasmine, that’s that. But if she does, it might keep her from being released before she’s ready. “I put your information on a website for missing kids.”
She stares at me in silence for a moment, until I think she might be angry, but then her face breaks into a soft smile. “You did that for me?” she asks, in a whisper.
A pulse of joy surges through me, and I pull out my phone. “Shall I?”
She nods, and we wait only two rings before Jasmine answers.
“Okay,” I say. “It’s Zoe Goldman. I’ve got my patient here. I’m putting her on speaker.”
“Hello?” Jasmine’s voice is fuzzy over the speaker.
“Hi,” Candy answers back, unsure.
“You don’t have FaceTime, do you?” I ask.
“No, not on this phone,” Jasmine apologizes.
“That’s okay,” Candy says, leaning in to the phone.
“It’s Jasmine,” the girl says, her voice excited. “Is this Destiny?”
“Um.” Candy looks at me. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I don’t remember a Jasmine.”
The phone is silent for a moment. “We went to School 78 together. We had Mr. Benton, who was a total asshole. Oh, sorry for cussing.”
“That’s okay,” I break in.
“I…I don’t remember,” Candy stutters.
�
��You remember the song we loved in chorus? ‘I Will Always Love You’? The Whitney Houston song?”
“Oh, I know that song!” Candy says. She starts singing the chorus, her voice cracking and a bit off tune. She stops then, frowning. “But I don’t remember singing it with you.”
“No.” Jasmine’s voice is deflated. “I’d remember Destiny’s singing anywhere. She sounded just like Whitney Houston.”
“I really don’t think my name is Destiny,” Candy says, sounding disappointed as well.
The call ends with well-wishing on both sides, and my own sneaking suspicion that my meddling may be making things worse, not better.
* * *
Later that day, we are finishing off charts in the nurses’ station, waiting to round.
“He looks fine today, doesn’t he?” I ask.
Jason keeps writing in his chart. “And who are we talking about?”
“Dr. Berringer.”
“Yes, Zoe. He looks fine,” he says, in a weary voice. “I’d do him myself if I didn’t have a boyfriend.” He pauses. “A pseudo-boyfriend,” he corrects himself.
“No, I mean…” I tap my pen on my chart but don’t say anything more. Maybe I smelled alcohol on him, maybe I didn’t. Maybe he was hungover, maybe he wasn’t. I certainly don’t want to tell Jason the town crier about my suspicions or it would be all over Children’s within the half hour.
“Actually,” Jason says, “that French-blue shirt is rather becoming on him, I’ll admit.”
“Wow.” I stack up my charts. “That was gay.”
“More gay than saying I have a boyfriend?”
“A pseudo-boyfriend.”
“We all set?” he asks, the French-blue-shirted Dr. Berringer himself poking his head into the room. We set off to see Candy, who is sitting on her perfectly made bed, reading The Catcher in the Rye. On the table beside her is a blue folder with silver cursive writing that says “Foster Care and You: Everything You Ever Needed to Know!”
“You about ready to leave us?” Dr. Berringer asks.
“I think so,” Candy says, putting the book in her lap.
“It sounds like a nice foster family,” Dr. Berringer assures her.
“Oh, I’m sure it is.”
He lifts up her latest drawing on the bed stand. It’s a bright red maple leaf. The actual leaf she used as a model wafts down to the floor, spotted with mold.
“Nice picture,” he comments.
“Thanks,” she says. “I figure since it’s fall and everything…”
“Right.” He crosses his arms. “We’re gonna miss you, girl. But you’ve outgrown us.”
She smiles her megawatt Candy smile. “I’m going to miss you guys, too.”
We pause, all staring at each other, then she turns back to her book and is engrossed again in seconds. So much for good-bye.
“Taper her off the Ativan,” Dr. Berringer says to me as we’re leaving the room.
“Completely? In one weekend?”
“We don’t really have a choice. She can’t exactly be on it out there.” He hands me the chart. “It’s sink or swim, Zoe. You’ll learn that about child psych. Sometimes you have to make tough decisions.”
I start writing the order. Sink or swim. I just hope she doesn’t drown.
* * *
We have an hour before we’re officially done at five p.m., and leaving early is just tempting an ER call, so I head to the library. My RITE book is patiently waiting for me to read it, but I hop on a computer first. Having assured myself that there is nothing new in Facebook, Instagram, or my Twitter feed, I have no choice but to open the RITE book.
A 60-year-old-male comes in with his wife, who complains he has been “making up things” and “walking around like he’s on a boat.” He states he has met you before, though this is a new patient visit. He smells strongly of alcohol…
Smells strongly of alcohol. An image of Dr. Berringer crosses my mind from yesterday, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glazed. On a whim (and perhaps to avoid answering the question), I decide to do a quick Google search on the good doctor. I glance around the room to see if anyone is watching, but there’s only one medical student in the room with me. She doles some red Tic Tacs out onto her hand and turns to her computer again.
After crossing out one from Alaska and another from Massachusetts, I zero in on the right child psychiatrist. Healthgrades gives him four and a half out of five thumbs up for patient ratings—not too shabby. He went to a decent medical school and residency in New Orleans. The website, meanwhile, assaults me with ads for ADHD medications, smartly assuming a person searching for pediatric psychiatrists might be concerned about this, though it feels Big Brothery and more than a little close to home. Then the site asks, “Do you want to check out Dr. Berringer’s background?” I hit yes. Why not?
Pending lawsuits? No.
Criminal investigations? No.
Medical license waived? No.
Sanctions? YES.
Yes? That is unexpected. I read on.
This may indicate that the physician has been cited for alcohol or drug abuse violations and is currently successfully engaged in a voluntary treatment program. Full inquiries can be made via the Department of Health at the following number.
Just then I hear Jason’s voice. “Wassup girlie girl?” He grabs the computer next to me and straightens his chair.
I close out of the website in an instant.
“What, are you looking at porn or something?” he asks.
The medical student, who has been making impossibly loud sucking noises with her Tic Tacs, glances over at us then back at her screen.
“No,” I say with annoyance.
“What? I look at porn all the time. But not in the hospital library. That’s just gross.”
“I was not looking at porn.”
“Oh yeah?” He opens up his e-mail. “Then why were you all Oh my God, let me X out of this site as fast as I can?” He mimics my panicked face, whipping around the mouse.
“None of your business,” I mutter, pulling up my e-mail.
“Oh,” he says, like he just figured it out. He smooths his thin lavender tie, his bow tie replaced today. “It was Jean Luc.”
“Wrong.”
“Mike?”
I don’t say anything, figuring it’s a lie of omission.
“Fine. Be like that. Next time, I’m not telling you anything about Dominic.”
“Dominic’s an asshole.”
“Nonetheless.”
I close out of my e-mail and stand up. “See you later.”
“Later,” he answers, leaning in to the computer to look at something.
I grab my bag. It’s 4:45 p.m., but I’ll risk the wrath of the ER consult by leaving early. Heading out, I walk past the lobby, past velvety rust-and-gold mums, to my car. My mind keeps traveling back to the Healthgrades website on Dr. Berringer. Sanctions? Yes.
So my nose was right. He was hungover, with the telltale scent of last night’s bender. Maybe this is what Dr. Berringer meant then, with his hand over his heart, telling me that’s how the light gets in.
Chapter Fifteen
Bright and early Monday morning, Candy is sitting in her street clothes, a plastic bag full of her belongings perched at the foot of her bed. I can’t put my finger on it, but something is different about her. Maybe because she is no longer a patient but a person now. Her own person, ready to start a new life and literally discover herself.
And it’s our best bet at this point, since Black and Missing was a dead end and none of the limousine companies had gotten back to me with further information. “You ready to go, Candy?” I ask, realizing that I will miss her.
Her eyes are like daggers. “Who the fuck is Candy?”
My breath catches, and I stare at her. “Excuse me?”
“Who the fuck is Candy? I ain’t no fucking Candy.”
“You’re…not…Candy,” I repeat, feeling distinctly like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone, like I’m the
one who’s been catatonic for the past month.
“Candy,” she huffs. “Sounds like some stripper’s name. My name is Daneesha.”
“Daneesha,” I repeat stupidly, wondering if this is some kind of sick joke. But Candy doesn’t joke like that. Sweetness and sunshine, our Candy. No sick jokes and definitely no f-bombs.
She pivots her legs so they are hanging off the side of the bed and looks around the room like it’s the first time she’s been here. “And who the fuck are you?”
“I’m…Dr. Goldman.”
“Dr. Goldman?” she asks. “What I need a doctor for?”
I shove my hands in my lab coat pockets. “Do you know why you’re here?”
“I don’t even know where the hell I am,” she says, standing up to look out the window for a clue. “Running away from some white dudes is the last thing I remember, and now I’m in some hospital. That’s all I know.”
Running away from some white dudes. Detective Adams might be interested in that.
“Do you remember a limousine perchance?”
“A limousine?” She looks at me like I’ve grown a third head. “I ain’t playin’ with y’all. White guys, running after me. Now I’m here, and I want out.”
“Can you tell me more about those white guys?”
“Yeah, right, lady. How about you tell me something?”
“Okay.”
“When am I leaving?”
I take a step away from her. “Soon, very soon,” I say, which was true five minutes ago. “I just have to talk to the right people, and we’ll get that going.”
“Yeah, you do that. You talk to whoever y’all need to talk to, and you get that going. I can’t be waiting around here all day.”
“Just one second,” I say with my pointer finger in the air, then tear out of there like the room is on fire. Down at the nurses’ station, Dr. Berringer is standing with coffee in hand, chatting with one of the LPNs.
“Oh, yeah, he took a punishing hit,” Dr. Berringer says, his voice animated.
“Marion ain’t doing all he should, though,” the man answers back, his face serious with the discussion of insider football.
“He’s still a rookie, really,” Dr. Berringer says. “You guys look good. I’ll root for them, but my heart still bleeds for the Saints. You know what I’m saying?”