The Girl Without a Name

by Sandra Block

  “Here goes nothing,” I whisper to myself, girding my courage as I loop the rubber tourniquet around her arm and mumble an apology. Candy isn’t feeling anything, though, which is a cold comfort at least. I push down for the rubbery feel of the vein and stick the needle in her arm and get nothing. Redirect, nothing. No blood return. I never was much good at drawing blood in the first place, and her arm looks like a pincushion. Bruises and needle marks everywhere, and with the IV running out, the veins are likely all collapsed. Slipping the tourniquet off, I hear footsteps coming down the hall. They pause a moment, while I hold my breath and invent a story about why on earth I’m drawing blood on a catatonic patient in the middle of the night, but they carry on again. A bead of sweat drips down my back.

  Whipping the tourniquet on the other arm, I slap the skin a bit to get some blood moving, press down on where the vein should be, make a quick wish to God or whoever is listening, and stick the needle in.

  God answers. The maroon color shoots into the test tube, and I fill one tube up halfway and shove the other one on. Then I rip off the tourniquet, toss my gloves in the garbage, and stash the tubes in my lab coat pocket. The hallway is empty, the head nurse bent over a cart at the other end. In the elevator, I tear a crumpled script off my pad, scribble down tox screen, and walk to the lab.

  If the psych ward is moribund, the lab is way past dead. “Proud Mary” is playing from a dusty boom box in the corner, the bass jangling through a crappy amplifier.

  “Hello?” I call out to the cavernous room filled with centrifuges, rows of test tubes, and petri dishes growing all sorts of nefarious things.

  “Yup?” a guy calls out from the other side of the room. He takes his time coming over. He’s over fifty with faded, bled-out tattoos covering his arms under his scrubs. I can make out a skull that somehow morphs into a mermaid. “Can I help you?”

  “I have a tox screen to run,” I say, pulling the tubes out of my pocket.

  “Personal delivery?” he asks skeptically.

  I don’t answer.

  He takes the script and tubes and reads them, again with open suspicion. “So which is it then? The purple top or the red top?”

  I debate an instant and decide stupid medical student would be the best play right now. “I—I don’t know. We got called in on an emergency tonight. The attending told me to get this done stat. The resident told me to bring it down to the lab. It took me thirty minutes to find the lab, and I’m afraid if the blood needs to be cooled or anything. And they are seeing the other patients without me.” I let my voice grow to a fevered pitch.

  “Here,” he says, taking pity on the gangly, clueless medical student and relishing the role as the savior, no doubt. “It’s a red top,” he chides me. “Red top for your tox screen. Purple top for CBC.” He points to the striped tubes from a rack. “Tiger top for chem. That’s your basics. If you know that as a medical student, you’re good to go.”

  I nod as supplicantly as possible.

  “Hell,” he adds, “if you know that as a doctor, you’re good to go.” He tosses the purple top into a hazards-only bin and places the red top into his rack with a squeak. “You got a label?”

  A label. Shit. My face registers unmanufactured dismay.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, like he could be my big brother now. “Write down the patient’s name on the script. I’ll get one.”

  I write down the name and room number with care, planning to drop off a label later to be on the safe side. “Okay, I better go,” I say, peering at my watch for effect.

  “Off you go, chickadee,” he says.

  A name I’ve never been called in my life. Stork, dodo. Emu once, by a boy even nerdier than I. Tall birds mostly. I’ve never brought to mind a chickadee.

  “Thanks,” I yell out in my best thankful-med-student voice, without laying it on too thick, and tear out of there before he can think to ask any more questions.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I don’t know, Zoe. It would take some doing.”

  I drive past a row of cinnamon birch trees, the bark peeling in scrolls. “I’m worried about her, though.”

  “I understand,” Detective Adams says. “But unless I have hard evidence she’s in danger, it won’t be easy to get uniforms in the room.”

  “Doesn’t he look like Donner, though? The priest guy?”

  “Sort of. The picture’s rotten, though. He could just be a fat, white guy with a beard.”

  “Yeah, but he could be giving her Demerol.”

  “Who’s to say he’s giving her Demerol? You said he might be because of some serotonin thing.”

  A convertible races by me with a cold-looking teenager inside. A convertible in Buffalo is just an act of denial. “The tox screen should be back this morning anyway.”

  “Good. I’ve notified security at the hospital just in case.”

  I curve into the hospital parking lot, swiping my badge. “Any word on Janita?”

  “No. We’re following some leads in New York City just in case.” There’s a pause. “We’ll find her,” he says with a confidence that sounds forced.

  After hanging up, I walk over to the hospital, the chalk-gray sky looming above me. As soon as I hit the floor, I call the lab.

  “What’s the name again?” the lab technician asks.

  “Candy Jones. J-O-N-E-S. MR 00098764.”

  “One sec.” The phone goes on hold, spouting a Muzak version of “Spirits in the Material World.” They’re midway through crucifying the keyboard solo when the voice breaks back in.

  “Okay, we did find a label with her name lying around, but no blood sample. So it must have gotten thrown out.”

  I try to control my voice. “It got thrown out?”

  “Listen, you can’t just toss a label on some desk down here and think the test will get done,” she shoots back, taking the offensive. “You’ll just have to send another one.”

  “Yeah, I guess I will.” I hang up, holding back every four-letter word I know, when Jason walks in.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I sigh. “How’s your floridly psychotic patient?”

  “Connors? I would say he’s gone down from florid to euphuistic.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?”

  “Google it,” he yawns, starting his note. “Hey, are you heading down to EEG by any chance?”

  “I wasn’t, why?”

  “I have a ton of charts to catch up on, and I need to grab Connors’s report. Fax is messed up for some reason.”

  “Sure, I can do it,” I say, happy to stretch my legs and ponder my tox screen fiasco. When I get to the EEG office, the secretary comes out with overdone facial powder as if she just came offstage from Rashomon. “Bet you’re here for Jeremy Connors,” she says.

  “You got it.” Mr. Euphuistically Psychotic.

  “Here it is,” she says, handing it to me. “Normal as usual.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “Don’t you get any abnormal ones?”

  “Not from psych,” she says so matter-of-factly that I choose not to take her insinuation that we only order bullshit EEGs as an insult.

  “Oh, while I’m here. Could I see if you have one more from the floor. A Candy Jones?”

  She opens up the file cabinet and peers in. “Okay.” She ruffles through papers. “We have a million Joneses. Ah!” She grabs one, glances at it unsurely. “Candy with a Y?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “We have two under her MR number. One is Jane Doe. The other is Candy Jones.”

  “That’s right.” The Jane Doe one is from when she first was admitted.

  “Here.” She hands me both.

  I glance over them. Jane Doe, normal, awake and asleep. When she was catatonic. And Candy Jones.

  Abnormal, slowing, excessive sweat artifact. Most likely consistent with encephalopathy.

  I read it one more time. “Is it possible they got switched? Like the Jane Doe report got sent up t
o the floor instead of the newest one?”

  She shrugs. “It’s possible. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Can I have a copy?”

  “No problemo.”

  I pocket the copy, along with Jason’s EEG, and make my way back to the psych floor. Encephalopathic, not catatonic. Candy may have just dodged a bullet. “Here.” I hand Jason his EEG.

  “Danke.”

  I grab Candy’s chart to replace the wrong EEG with the correct one and flip through to the report section. It is indeed the wrong, “normal” report. The one from when she first got admitted.

  “What’s up there, Zoe?” Dr. Berringer asks, walking into the room with his long, white coat swaying like a wizard’s robe.

  “I have some good news, I think.”

  “Oh yeah? What is it?”

  “The EEG on Candy. It turns out they faxed down the wrong one, from when she first was admitted with catatonia.” I show him the newest report. “This is the correct one, consistent with encephalopathy.”

  “Huh,” he says, looking it over. “You’re right.” He looks straight ahead, thinking. “Doesn’t change the overall picture, though,” he says, though he sounds undecided. “You can get slowing with catatonia, too.”

  “True.” He has a point; that is reported in the literature. “But then again, maybe it’s serotonin syndrome after all.” I feel like a broken record.

  “Maybe,” he says, but I can tell he’s appeasing me. “Let’s round.”

  “It’s just, if it’s serotonin syndrome,” I go on, “then ECT would be the wrong move, could be dangerous.”

  He nods. “I note your concern, Zoe. But if it is catatonia, and we wait any longer, we’re taking a chance. Overcaution can be just as bad as undercaution sometimes.” He drops the chart on the cart and starts to walk.

  “And I had one other thought,” I add, racing to keep up with him.

  “Yes.”

  “You remember that guy they thought was stealing Demerol?”

  He crinkles his eyes. “The priest?”

  “Yeah. I talked with the detective, and that guy may be connected to this case. He looks an awful lot like the social worker at Candy’s adoption agency. And if he’s giving her Demerol, that could be causing serotonin syndrome.”

  Once verbalized, I’ll admit it does sound a bit delusional.

  “Um,” Dr. Berringer says, then closes his mouth. I have actually rendered him speechless. He and Jason are staring at me like I should consider a quick admission to our unit.

  “Okay.” I laugh. “I know it sounds a little crazy but can we just do a urine tox to make me feel better?”

  “By all means,” Dr. Berringer says, walking ahead with the cart. “Whatever we can do to make Dr. Goldman feel better.”

  * * *

  Hey, it’s Mike here. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.

  I hang up, brooding, while Arthur slurps away at his water bowl. I left Mike two messages already today, as well as a casual what’s up? text, and still haven’t heard back, which isn’t like him. He doesn’t play games, so I don’t think he’s purposefully ignoring me. But then again, he’s also a classic conflict avoider. I told him this once, and he didn’t disagree with my assessment. I postulated it was the product of his parents’ divorce; he postulated it was just him. But part of me wonders, is this the way a conflict avoider breaks up?

  I call again but hang up before it goes to voice mail. I don’t want to come off as a stalker, but the truth is, I desperately want his advice on calling the Chair. I know what he said before, but things are different now. We’ve got a sick girl and an attending who, wunderkind or not, might be impaired. It’s a gray line, but…I text Jason, a distant second choice.

  should I call the Chair about Berringer or not?

  The answer comes right back. NOT!!!

  So I decide to call the Chair. It could throw me right off probation and into the unemployment line (in which case, Scotty’s magical bonds would come in handy), but I’ve never been one for self-preservation. And Candy’s worth the risk.

  We finished rounding early, and it’s 4:30 p.m., leaving me some time to call before the offices close. As I dial, my mouth feels papery. The secretary answers after two rings. “Hello, Dr. Connor’s office.”

  “Yes, hi. It’s Dr. Goldman. I’m just trying to get a word with Dr. Connor.”

  “Oh, hi, Zoe.” Dawn, the secretary, is a motherly type, always bringing in peanut butter cookies and talking about her Zumba class. “She’s out right now, but she’ll be in tomorrow. Would you like to set up a meeting?”

  “Oh, well, sure. Okay.”

  “Nine o’clock all right?”

  If the Chair says nine o’clock, it’s nine o’clock. “Sounds good to me.”

  I hear the keyboard tapping away. “Can I tell her what it’s about?”

  “Um…it’s probably easier if I just explain it to her directly.”

  The keyboard pauses. “She usually likes to have at least some idea of what it’s about, if that’s okay.”

  Arthur knees me with his slobbery red rubber ball. I yank it out of his teeth and throw it. “Just tell her it’s a concern about Dr. Berringer and my patient. Candy Jones.”

  “Perfect. Will do.”

  That settled, Arthur reappears at my knee with his ball, when my phone quacks.

  nervous about wedding

  Jesus, just what I need right now. My ex voicing doubts about his stupid fucking wedding. Though I don’t blame him. I would be terrified to marry that monster.

  that’s natural, right? I text.

  I guess

  I pause, wondering how much further to go with this. He’s obviously worried, but it doesn’t really seem like an appropriate text conversation.

  call me sometime if u want. Or talk w melanie abt it

  My cheapo grandfather clock gongs five times, then my phone quacks again.

  prob just having bad day. ttyl.

  “Whatever,” I say to no one, and Arthur runs back to me, perhaps thinking his name is Whatever. I scroll through some gossip sites to kill time before dinner. Not that I have any great dinner plans. Mighty Taco maybe. Checking my e-mail, I see no word from Mike. No Facebook posts from him either.

  hellooooo out there?

  I text to Mike, pausing right after I hit send as I think better of it. But it’s too late; the text is already hurtling out to a satellite and landing on his phone. No app to retract second-thought texts. I sit for a while staring outside, hungry but too lazy to go anywhere. My RITE review book sits on the coffee table with my phone next to it, sullen and silent, as Arthur plops his faceless monkey on my lap.

  My mood hovers around 1.7, in case anyone’s keeping track.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Negative,” the woman from the lab says.

  “Negative?”

  “Yes, negative. Nothing came up on the urine screen.”

  “And the blood tox? Did anyone ever find that one?”

  “No, sorry,” she says. “But you probably have your answer anyway.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. Thanks,” I say, hanging up the phone.

  Negative. Which means no Demerol. Which means it’s either out of her system or Raymond Donner hasn’t actually been running around trying to poison Candy after all. If it’s even him in the picture. Maybe Dr. Berringer’s right and this is catatonia. I close down her labs on the computer and check my phone again. Five minutes until my meeting with Dr. Connor, the Chair.

  My phone rings and I silence it, and see it’s Mike calling. I’d love to answer but don’t want to be on the phone if the Chair opens the door early. A text pops up.

  sorry, left phone at movie theater. Just got it back. Call me later? XO

  I’m smiling at the XO—which you probably wouldn’t text if you were about to break up with someone, even if you were a conflict avoider—when I realize it’s already been the full five minutes and knock on the door. Dr. Connor opens it right away, like she w
as just standing there waiting.

  “Hi, Zoe.”

  “Hi,” I answer, out of breath all of a sudden.

  She motions to a chair across the desk for me to sit. The chair has dark-gray fabric with odd purple swirls, which doesn’t match the room at all. I sit.

  “So how can I help you, Zoe?” She tilts her head, and a headful of gray ringlets moves en masse. Her pressed navy suit fits her to within an inch of her life, her matching heels polished to the perfect degree of shine. The woman is wound so tight she probably tracks her calories down to the decimal. I didn’t like her even before she put me on probation.

  “It’s about Dr. Berringer.” My heart flutters.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m a little concerned about him.”

  “Okay.” She pauses. “Can you tell me more about that?”

  I nod, scratching at my knee. My other knee itches next but I ignore it. I get itchy when I’m nervous. “It’s just about this case we’re on together.” I’m still not sure if I’m going to tell her about his drinking. I have to assume she already knows.

  “I see. Did you address your concerns with him?” she asks.

  “I did. Yes, I did. But I don’t think he’s really hearing me, and I was hoping to get another perspective.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s about Candice Jones, our patient. She’s only thirteen, and he’s thinking about ECT to treat catatonia. But I think he’s basing it on the wrong diagnosis. I don’t think she’s catatonic at all.”

  She smooths out a wrinkle in her sleeve. “You think it’s serotonin syndrome.”

  I can’t hide my shock. “So you already know about it?”

  “Yes, actually. We’ve been in very close contact about this case.”

  “Oh.” There is an irresistible itch on my scalp.

  “And I’m actually glad you called me, because I was planning to speak with you anyway.”

  “Oh,” I repeat dumbly.

  “Frankly, Zoe, I’m concerned about you.” Her voice oozes warmth, faker than the fireplace in my family room. As she leans over her desk, I catch a whiff of mothball.