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The Girl Without a Name

Page 21

by Sandra Block

“Okay.” I brace myself.

  “You understand that I ask the attending doctors to do monthly reports on all residents on probation, right?”

  A queasiness creeps into my guts. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Well, it was discussed when you were first on probation.”

  That’s quite possible. Given my mom just died and I couldn’t focus for shit, paired with the utter shock of failing the RITE and discovering your dream of being a doctor may be dwindling fast, I may have missed a few sentences in her lecture.

  “I’ll admit, you score quite high on most portions of the evaluation, but not so on the PBL.”

  “The PBL?”

  “Yes, the Practice-Based Learning initiative. Do you know what that’s about?”

  “Not exactly,” I admit. But I have a strong feeling she’s going to tell me.

  “Basically, what that refers to is the ability to self-reflect, to realize our limitations.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In short, Dr. Goldman, to admit when we’re wrong.” She furrows her eyebrows, looking vaguely like a Muppet. “When I asked Dr. Berringer about your score on this part, he mentioned this case as an example. That you were convinced that this is serotonin syndrome to the exclusion of the more likely diagnosis of catatonia.”

  “Not to the exclusion of catatonia. But there’s more going on here—”

  “Zoe, I must tell you, there are multiple physicians involved in this case who agree with the catatonia diagnosis.”

  “Okay, but I also just wanted to—”

  “And he mentioned you were worried about someone from the outside poisoning your patient? A priest?”

  I take a breath. “Yes, I realize that sounds kind of weird, but the individual may be under investigation—”

  “Listen, Dr. Goldman, I don’t need to get into all the nitty-gritty details.”

  I wonder if she ever actually lets her patients speak. It’s kind of a big thing in psychiatry, letting your patients speak.

  “I know you’re just trying to do what you think is right. But I must say, nothing you’ve just displayed so far in our conversation dissuades me from my apprehension about your PBL skills. I mean, here I am, telling you what several of your attendings think about the case, and yet you’re still arguing with me.”

  I open my mouth and shut it. There is no way to win an argument that can’t be argued.

  “Right now, what I really need to hear from you is this: Yes, I understand that I may be wrong. That we are all on the same page here, all on the same team.” She pauses and smiles, revealing a dot of spinach in her left bicuspid. Which seems odd, for breakfast. A frittata maybe? After a minute, her smile grows tense, and I realize I’m supposed to speak.

  “Yes, yes. Of course,” I assure her. “We’re all on the same team, of course.” I will even lead a cheer to prove it if she wants.

  “Good.” She leans back from her desk again. “And just so you’re aware, no one is talking about dismissal here. Actually, Tad didn’t even want me to bring it up with you. He was really underplaying it, but I felt it was important.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “This is not about punishment, truly. We’re just concerned about you. Knowing what happened with your patient in the past…and with the ADHD issues.”

  The room goes silent then, the buzz from her computer suddenly roaring. I feel my throat tighten, a telltale sign that tears aren’t far off.

  He told her? He actually told her?

  “I appreciate your concern,” I say, and clamp my jaw down tight as a latch. I will not cry in front of this woman.

  I can’t believe he fucking told her.

  “All right. I think we’re all done here, then.” She straightens some papers on her desk. I have never seen such an organized desk. “Or was there anything else you want to address?”

  There’s no way I’m talking about his drinking now. “No, no, I think that’s about it.” I stand, my legs loose as jelly.

  “Okay then.” Dr. Connor stands up, too. “Thank you for coming, Zoe.” She reaches out her hand for a shake, her pseudo-warmth ratcheting up a notch. “Let’s keep in touch.”

  We exchange fake smiles, and I’m almost out the door when I turn around. “Just out of curiosity, did you ever examine the patient? Candy Jones?”

  Dr. Connor pauses, a shot of animosity piercing through her warm, calorie-counted facade. “No,” she says, “I did not.” Her tone doesn’t concede an inch.

  “Okay. Thanks,” I say, and walk out, giddy with this littlest of triumphs.

  * * *

  I avoid Dr. Berringer all day, which isn’t easy considering he’s my attending and I do have to round with him. Jason had a dentist appointment, so he’s not even there to defuse the situation.

  “Chloe first?” Dr. Berringer asks, piling up charts.

  “Sure.”

  He glances at me, hearing something in my tone, but then keeps stacking charts, probably figuring I’m just premenstrual. “She’s still gaining?”

  “Yup.”

  He gives me another off look, but I ignore it and walk right into Chloe’s room. “So I guess congratulations are in order?” I say.

  Chloe does her signature eye roll. If there were an eye-roll competition, she would score straight tens.

  “Five more pounds?”

  “Looks like it,” she mutters, flipping through a magazine. It’s a fashion mag with dangerously skinny models pouting on every page. She whips her overgrown, strawberry-red bangs out of her face, but they slide back again by the next page. Chloe is a pretty girl when she is not skeletal. I never noticed. She creases a corner of a page, and I sneak a look to see a runway model in long, purple military garb. Something no one would actually wear. But maybe it signals something. A life ahead where she might wear a long, purple something. Something pretty and tangible that could be hers, in a life where she eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and maybe a snack, and doesn’t think much about it. Maybe not today but someday. We exit toward Candy’s room.

  “Candy’s the same?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I answer. No change, staring, moaning. Even stiffer today, though. I tried to move her elbow, and it was lead.

  “I actually got someone lined up to do ECT tomorrow. It’s a Saturday, but I convinced him it was an emergency.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Do you want to come in? I know it’s the weekend, but you don’t get much exposure to ECT. Have you ever seen it done before?”

  I shake my head.

  “May be your only chance,” he says, leaning over to grab an orange hard candy from the bowl. “It’s four p.m. Only time Dr. Munroe was available.” The candy clicks in his teeth.

  “Hmm.”

  “Zoe.” He lowers his voice and leans in toward me, his breath exuding tangerine. “Something wrong?”

  I stare straight ahead. “Had a little chat with Dr. Connor today.”

  “Oh yeah? What about?” He looks nervous, like I might have said something about him.

  “Something about problem-based learning?” My throat tightens again, and I feel tears threatening.

  “Zoe, come on.” He tugs my elbow, steering me toward the nurses’ station, and I allow myself to be led. “Tell me what’s going on,” he says softly, once we’ve gotten to the room.

  “Did you tell her about my ADHD?” I ask him, getting right to the matter.

  He swallows. “Listen—”

  “I told you that in confidence!”

  “Zoe.” He shushes me. “I didn’t mean it, honestly. She sort of trapped me with this stupid resident competency form and—”

  “So you felt you should tell her about it?”

  His jaw tightens. “I thought it might help your case, actually. So yes, I did.”

  “Oh yeah?” I say, then lower my voice, too. “Well, what about your case?”

  “My case?”

  “Yeah, your case. Me driving you home drunk at three a.m. Ring a bell? You leaving
early because you’re too damn hungover to see your damn patients?”

  He doesn’t say anything but scratches at his collar. “I’m working on that, Zoe,” he says, his voice injured.

  “I’m sure you are. But in the meantime, Candy is the one suffering.”

  “No!” he yells out. Some nurses turn their heads toward the room, and he moves closer to me. “No,” he repeats in a fierce whisper. “You’ve gone too far there, Zoe.” He stabs a pointer finger on the table. “You’re wrong. You might not like that, but you’re wrong. Candy is catatonic. And no one is poisoning her. And it’s not serotonin syndrome. She’s catatonic. Catatonic.” He enunciates every syllable. “And I’m sick and tired of being second-guessed on my every move. Sick of it. I’m not taking it anymore. Not from the Impaired Committee, not from the Chair, and definitely not from you.”

  I suck my breath in.

  He leans away from me now, his cheeks splotched with red. “Let’s just say she is encephalopathic. For the sake of argument. Why? What’s the etiology? The tox screen is negative so we can rule out the priest. What else were you planning to look for? Tell me.”

  “Well,” my voice wobbles, “infection.”

  “Done. CBC normal, CMP normal. Blood cultures sent. Negative. CSF negative. Goddammit, we even checked her for TB.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” I remember suggesting this.

  “So there’s one abnormal EEG. Which I missed, because somebody in EEG faxed us the wrong goddamn report. It doesn’t change the basic picture, which is catatonia. And the longer we leave her this way, the less likely she is to come out. Is that what you want?” His voice swells again.

  “No,” I answer, shaken.

  “All right then,” he says, his voice calming. He exhales, settling himself. “I’ve given you a lot of leeway, Zoe. Because you’re still learning, and because of your…issues and because, goddammit, I like you.” A smile flits onto his face and falls. “But it’s enough now. It’s enough. We’re doing ECT tomorrow. And you can come or not, that’s up to you.”

  “Yes,” I say immediately. “I’ll come.”

  Probation Girl is skating on ice a millimeter thick.

  * * *

  The drink burns in my throat.

  I stare at the glass, and the coppery liquid stares right back at me. My plan to relax just a little bit has turned into three fingers of Scotch. I don’t usually drink Scotch, though it was my dad’s favorite. He wasn’t a big drinker, but every year on Father’s Day and his birthday, he’d indulge. I still remember all four of us in a fancy restaurant, me in a dress despite my tomboy pleading, Scotty spilling chocolate milk on the tablecloth, and my dad cradling his glass with reverence. The unadulterated relief of his twice-yearly Scotch.

  Detective Adams gave me this Scotch my first year of residency, when I got stabbed by my patient. An odd get-well present, but nonetheless being put to good use now. Sitting at my mom’s old rolltop desk, I endure another burning sip, when my phone rings.

  It’s Mike, requesting FaceTime.

  I push the FaceTime button. “Hello,” I answer. The “o” in the hello seems to trail on forever.

  “Hello to you.” He grins and leans back. I can see the front spikes of his brush cut. I love touching his brush cut. I told him he should charge people for the “sensory joy” this provides. He told me he’s keeping his day job.

  “How was the interview?”

  “Fine,” he answers, nonchalant, perhaps too nonchalant. “What are you up to? You sound funny.”

  I hold my drink up to the camera. “I am drinking myself into oblivion,” I say grandly.

  “Sounds like fun. Any reason for such revelry?”

  “Yes. I had a shit day.”

  “You, too?”

  “Yes, a shit week, actually. And I am giving this motherfucker a send-off with my finest bottle of Scotch.” I lift up the bottle now, an adult show-and-tell. “My only bottle of Scotch, I should add.”

  “Yeah.” He yawns. “I’m doing the same with a beer.” He lifts up a green beer bottle with a red label. I don’t recognize the brand. “It appears you’re further along.”

  “So what’s the cause of your shit day?” I ask.

  “Oh, this and this. You know.”

  “Meaning you’re not going to tell me.”

  He chuckles and takes another sip. “Family stuff. It’s a long, boring story which doesn’t require analysis. How about yours?”

  “A long, thrilling story which does require analysis. But if you don’t share, I won’t share.”

  He nods, hunching forward. His face freezes in the screen, then starts moving again. “I’m coming back soon enough, so it’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t wait to see you.” I take another fiery sip. “We are totally going to kiss each other.”

  He smirks, a happy smirk. “How many drinks did you say you had?”

  “Three. Possibly four. I got confused about the finger thing.”

  “Okay, got it. Well, I have an idea. Why don’t you call me back tomorrow when you’re sober?”

  “I like that idea,” I say with enthusiasm.

  “All right,” he returns with mock enthusiasm. There’s the teeniest scratch on his forehead. Probably from bumping into something. We tall people are always bumping into things. He lifts his beer bottle. “Cheers, Zoe.”

  “L’chaim,” I answer back. We hang up, and I wonder if I should have said “I love you.” Cogitating over this one, I manage to spill my nearly empty Scotch on some papers. Arthur jogs over and proceeds to lick every drop that made it to the floor. This strikes me as a good idea. He might be self-medicating. Grabbing a paper towel, I start wiping off the wood grain desk and open up one of the drawers to make sure nothing seeped through. But when I go to close it again, it sticks.

  “Damn.” I push harder but it’s blocked somewhere, so I pull the whole drawer out and peer in, my head spinning with the motion. There seems to be a wooden slat in there—a false drawer maybe? I get down on my knees and shove my hand in, pushing the wooden piece down and reaching into the tiny space.

  My fingers grasp some sort of paper, an envelope perhaps, and I retract my arm slowly so as not to tear it. Lifting it up to view, I see it is indeed an envelope, an oversized envelope folded in half and sealed shut. When I tear it open, two stiff papers come into view.

  Mint-green papers, each with a picture of Uncle Sam, and each for one hundred thousand dollars. The magical Treasury bonds.

  Well, I’ll be damned.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  When I walk in, the sound of the coffee grinder bores a hole right into my skull. I wander over to my usual settee and sit down, immediately fishing in my purse for some Motrin.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Scotty says, wandering over, then takes a closer look at me. “You look like shit. What, do you have the flu?” He backs up a step. “Don’t come near me if you’ve got the fucking flu, man, because I seriously don’t need that shit right now.”

  “Calm down, I don’t have the flu. I’m just hungover.”

  “Oh,” he answers, surprised. “Okay then. Hope it was worth it.”

  “Not really. Scotty, listen, I need to tell you something.” I point to the chair next to me. “Can you sit down?”

  “Um, no, I can’t sit down. Because if you didn’t notice, I’m actually at work and—”

  “Scotty.” I shush him, reaching into my purse again. I pull out the unsealed envelope. “Look inside.”

  He takes the envelope with some hesitation, pulling out the paper like it might bite him. His face transforms then, from a look of wary apprehension to one of shock. Shock and glee. “No fucking way,” he says, almost in a whisper.

  “Yes,” I answer with a smile. “Yes fucking way.”

  “This is…” He searches for a word and doesn’t find it. “I can’t fucking believe this. Where did you find it?”

  “In Mom’s rolltop. It had a false drawer.”

  “I can’t…it�
��s just…I knew it. I just knew it.”

  “Yeah, I know. You were right all along. There were two of them in there. One for you, one for me.”

  “And you thought I was crazy,” he says, half to himself.

  I shrug. “Well, that is my training bias.”

  “I can’t even…” He sits down, speechless, the paper trembling in his hand.

  “Hey, you all right?” I put a hand on his arm.

  “Yeah.” But when he looks up at me, his eyes are wet. He brushes his tears off with some impatience. “This is crazy. I should be happy. I am happy. It’s just…I don’t know.”

  “It’s a lot to take in,” I say, shifting from sister to psychiatrist mode. Or maybe I’m just being both.

  “Yeah,” he answers, taking in a deep breath. “It sure is.” He folds his arms across his chest, his lightning-bolt tattoo peeking out from under his shirt. “It’s, like, her last words to me or something. It’s hard to explain, but I knew she was trying to tell me something. I knew it was important to her.”

  The grinder starts up again, and my head throbs, though the Motrin is slowly kicking in. “Maybe she wanted to know we’d be taken care of, when she couldn’t be there anymore.”

  Scotty nods, then smooths out the bond, staring at it again.

  “Any ideas what you’ll do with yours?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, still dazed. “No clue at all.”

  “Quit this place?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Well, we have time to think about it, for sure.”

  He turns to me. “What about you? Have you thought of anything?”

  “Oh, definitely.” All morning I’ve been smiling at the thought. Even with a massive hangover, still smiling. “Dr. Goldman,” I say in an announcer’s voice, “is going to pay off her loans and go for a fellowship.”

  “Third person, huh?”

  I laugh.

  “No, that’s good.” He fiddles with the paper. “A fellowship in what?”

  “Yeah,” I falter, “that’s the question.”

  Scotty stands up, then sighs. “Anyway, from the sublime to the ridiculous, got to get back to work.” He looks at the Treasury bond in his hand, not sure what to do with it.

 

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