by Sandra Block
“I can take it if you want,” I offer. “I was going to put it in the safety deposit box.”
“You have a safety deposit box?” he asks, skeptical. And since I’m not ultra-organized, I can see why he might be.
“Yeah. Well, it’s Mike’s, actually,” I admit. “But when he gets back…”
“I’ll keep it,” he says, then lowers his voice. “I’ll put it back in the safe for now.” Then he gives me a smile, the brightest smile I’ve seen on him in quite some time, and walks off. I lie back gingerly on the settee and open my RITE review book. I’m not due in the hospital until four p.m. for Candy’s ECT, so I have plenty of hours to kill.
And I am, to put it mildly, dreading it.
* * *
“I still can’t fucking believe it!” Scotty shouts into the phone.
My head pounds with his voice, and I turn the Bluetooth volume down. My hangover is still lingering despite another handful of Motrin and more than my fair share of coffee. This is the third time Scotty called with an idea about how he’s going to spend his first million, or first hundred thousand in any case. I pull into an empty corner of the parking lot. The whole resident lot is dotted with just a handful of cars, for all of us unlucky on-call residents. The afternoon is cold, the sky fading to a lavender before nightfall.
“I was thinking about a start-up, maybe.”
“In what?”
“Well, I’ve been kicking around a bunch of ideas,” he answers vaguely. “Kristy’s going to help me put together a business plan.”
“Oh, that’s good.” A business plan for a bunch of ideas.
We hang up, and I make my way over to the lobby and then up to the eleventh floor after what feels like a day’s hike. When I get to the room, my head still hurts and my stomach is queasy. Dr. Berringer, on the other hand, looks fresh as a flower, an irony that’s not lost on me. The procedure room is a cold, pale-yellow box of a room with a border of lemon-yellow diamonds meant to cheer up the place, but the tattered corners only lend to the gloom.
Candy is stationed on the bed, stiff and foreign in this new room like a piece of moved furniture, her navy blanket lying across her like a shroud. Out of the bottom of the blanket, her foot pokes through, toes dotted with stubble. I can just hear Daneesha now. “Girl, you got to get me a razor. This shit is nasty.”
We all stand around the room waiting for the anesthesiologist, who is late as usual. My legs are tired from standing. A peek at my watch says it’s five p.m. So we’ve been waiting over an hour.
“You follow football, Zoe?” His voice is excruciatingly cheerful.
“Not really.”
He grins, cracking his knuckles. “The Saints are a-marching. This is the year.”
Nobody comments on this, and the pale-yellow silence grows. Candy is still as stone and as silent. She’s stopped moaning for now.
“When was the last ETA?” Dr. Berringer asks.
“Dr. Munroe said fifteen minutes,” Nancy answers. “But that was fifteen minutes ago.”
“Oh,” Dr. Berringer says, reaching into his pocket. “Just got a text.” He throws his head back. “Stuck in traffic. He guesses an hour and a half longer.”
“An hour and a half?” Nancy groans.
“He’s coming in from Dunkirk,” he explains.
“Oh, yeah,” Nancy says. “I heard it’s snowing pretty bad out there.”
“Well, what do you think?” he asks me. “Break for now?”
“I’ll help wheel her back,” I offer. Nancy and I stash the ECT machine away and steer Candy back to her room. The wheels squeak rhythmically against the newly washed floor. Her room feels like home. Though it’s no home really, she looks more comfortable here at least. Her scarecrow figurine, her self-portraits, and Gulliver’s Travels, with its wrinkled, cracked spine, sits like a relic on the table. When I adjust her blanket, the tang of old sweat whiffs out.
Dr. Berringer walks into the room then. He’s out of his lab coat now and puts his arm into his leather jacket sleeve. “I’m going to grab some dinner. You want to come?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.”
He stands there, staring at Candy with me a moment. The wind wails outside, making the window casing creak. “Zoe, I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I’ve just been under a huge amount of stress.”
I keep my eyes on Candy. “That’s okay. I know I’m not exactly the easiest resident.”
“No, never think that, Zoe. You should never just listen to what anyone says. You stick up for your patients. That’s what you’re supposed to do.” He smiles at me. “You’re going to be an excellent psychiatrist. I mean it.”
I fight a smile. I’ve always been a sucker for praise—a fact I’m not proud of.
“This case,” he mutters, like that explains it all, and in a way, it does. “Come with me to dinner. Let me make it up to you. My treat.”
“Oh, all right.” I have no energy left to argue. We walk to the nurses’ station, and I hang up my lab coat next to Dr. Berringer’s and grab my coat. The nurses are changing shift, all colors of scrubs milling around, rubber clogs and white sneakers. The buzz of activity cheers me up a mite.
“So where are we going for dinner?” I ask.
* * *
I didn’t realize how hungry I was. We sit in a little blue booth by the window, me scarfing down fried noodles like I’ve just been rescued from a month in the woods.
Dr. Berringer assesses me with clinical interest. “You sure aren’t one of those salad gals, are you?” The waitress hands him his soup, and he rubs his hands together with anticipation. The wind keeps up a steady howl outside, the pines swaying in the distance.
“So,” he says, “how’s your last year going?”
“Good.”
“You doing a fellowship? You’re a natural in peds.”
I know this is untrue. “I’m not sure. I was thinking addiction maybe.”
“Addiction?” he asks, surprised.
“Yeah,” I answer. “Why? Do you think that’s a bad idea?”
“No, no. It’s just, most of the people I know that went into that fellowship were kind of…different…”
And no doubt he’s had more than a passing acquaintance with many of them. “‘Different’ is something I’ve been called once or twice before.”
“Hear, hear,” he says. “To different.” He raises his mini-teacup in a toast. I can envision many a bleary “hear, hear” in his past. The waitress comes by with the tray, and he digs right into his lo mein, using chopsticks expertly. I slather some plum sauce on my moo shoo pancake.
“I hope this doesn’t go on too long,” I say. “My dog is probably going crazy.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of dog?” He wipes his mouth.
“A labradoodle.”
He swallows another large bite. “Champ?”
“Good memory. But no, that was years ago. His name is Arthur.” I shrug. “I don’t know, my brother named him. Thought it sounded refined.”
He laughs.
“It’s better than Sizzle. That was my last dog. Black cocker spaniel.”
“Sizzle?” he asks.
“Yeah, my mom named her. Said she was like a firecracker.” We got her after my dad was killed in the car accident. With everything else she had to deal with, Lord knows what my mom was thinking, but it helped, as much as anything can help two kids who lose their father in high school. Little Sizzle, gazing at the gangly, sad-eyed girl that was me, and giving my cheek a sandpapery lick. The memory attacks me without warning, and my eyes fill up. I take a breath to steady myself. I really don’t need to break down right now, over a moo shoo pancake.
“Zoe?” he asks, his eyes the color of denim in the shadow of the restaurant lighting. “You okay?”
I nod but don’t speak. A yes might morph into a sob. I backhand my tears, but more are coming. I blow into the scratchy cloth napkin.
“It’s okay, Zoe,” he says quietly. Like a frie
nd, not a psychiatrist. “It’s about your mom?”
I nod again.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, then clears this throat. “I know.” He looks down at the table. “When my mom passed, it was…”—he pauses, resting both elbows on the table—“really hard. That’s all I can say. I think she was the only one who ever really understood me.” He shifts his hand to my arm. The touch is solid, warm.
“Thanks,” I say.
We eat the rest of the meal in a semi-comfortable silence, until we finish our last little cups of tea and he glances at his watch. He sighs, almost ruefully. “It’s about that time.”
As we leave the restaurant, we are plunged straight into a wall of cold wind. The kind of wind that makes you gulp for breath and bury your face into your coat. Dr. Berringer reaches for his phone and has to scream above the howling wind.
“Yeah?” It comes out muffled. A napkin leaps up from the parking lot, twirls around and falls, and then gets swept up again. As we climb up into his black Jeep, I have to yank the door against the wind to shut it. Once in the car, we both sit a minute, assembling ourselves in the sudden silence. The car doors rattle.
“Wow,” I say.
“Fifty-mile-an-hour winds, the news said.” He pulls the car into reverse. “The case is back on. Dr. Munroe finally got in. It’s up to you if you want to stay or not. I know it’s getting late.”
“Oh, no, I’ll stay,” I answer, though I feel bad for Arthur, who has probably eaten through the crate by now. I’ll call Scotty to let him out. My phone quacks, and I don’t recognize the number, so I answer.
“Hello, is this Zoe?”
“Yes?”
“Hi, this is Andy.”
I pause, trying to place the voice. Andy?
“Andy, from the lab,” he says, miffed that I possibly didn’t remember him. It comes back to me now. Tattoo sleeve. “Proud Mary.” “Oh, right!” I aim for medical student contrite. “Sorry, it’s been a crazy day.”
“Listen, I got that blood tox that you brought to me.”
“Oh, really? I thought they said that was lost.”
“You just didn’t speak to the right person,” he says with braggadocio. “You got a pen?”
“Sure,” I lie.
“Okay, here goes. Negative for benzos. Negative for THC. Negative for alcohol. Opioids negative.”
Jesus, he’s going to go through the whole laundry list.
“Negative for cocaine—”
“Wait, sorry, I’m just in a little bit of a hurry.” I make a “jabber jabber” motion with my hand, and Dr. Berringer grins. “Was it positive for anything?”
“Do you want me to fax it up to you?”
“No, that’s okay. If you could just tell me, that would be great.”
“Okay, one second.” I hear pages flipping. “Here it is. Positive for meperidine.”
Meperidine, also known as Demerol. “Wait, I thought you said opioids was negative.”
“Actually,” he boasts, “it did come up negative for opioids, but I ran a different assay that’s more sensitive for the ol’ demmies. And sure enough, it came up positive.”
“Positive,” I confirm.
“You got it.”
I tap my fingers against my lips. “I don’t get it, though. I just did a urine tox, which was negative.”
“When was that?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Yeah, maybe it was out of her system by then. Also urine’s not as sensitive.”
“So you’re absolutely sure it’s positive.”
“On my mother’s grave,” he says. “Naughty, naughty Candy, right?” He laughs.
I laugh back, but it comes out a nervous bark. “Thanks. Could you fax it to the floor, too?”
“Will do. Good luck out there, chickadee,” he says, and the phone clicks off.
“Anything important?” Dr. Berringer asks.
“No,” I lie, my head spinning. I can’t exactly explain that I’d run a secret blood tox on Candy to prove a priest imposter was poisoning her when Dr. Berringer had already sicced the Chair on me for suggesting it.
So we ride off to the hospital in the silence of the warm car while I try to determine my next move.
What I come up with is this: I have no next move. All I know is somehow I have to stop this freight train, without being either fired or thrown off the case.
* * *
Candy is in the room when we get there, and Dr. Munroe is setting up, laying out swaths of gauze, various sizes of IV needles, rectangles of tape, a large syringe with white liquid that looks like glue. Propofol. The good stuff. His setup is the workbench of a mad but very organized scientist.
“I am sorry to be late,” Dr. Munroe says formally. He looks up at us briefly, then back down to continue his arrangement. The bald top of his head shines in the light, the rest of his hair tight corkscrews on a monk’s pate.
“Not a problem,” Dr. Berringer returns, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, as loose and cheerful as Dr. Munroe is boxed and tight.
“It will probably be”—he looks up at the clock—“eight more minutes here.”
“That’s fine.” Dr. Berringer and Nancy trade smiles. Not seven or nine minutes, but eight.
My stomach is twisting. The words are on my lips to tell him about the Demerol, when I get a better idea. The fact is, it has to come from someone else, not me. Somehow (by no fault of mine, I might add), I’ve shot all my credibility on this one. But I know he’ll listen to Detective Adams. He has to.
“Sorry, I’ve just got to…” I motion to the hallway in a way that’s meant to suggest the bathroom.
“Oh, yeah. Sure, sure,” Dr. Berringer says.
I run to the nurses’ station and call the detective. It rings six times and then goes to voice mail, which is odd. He always answers his phone.
“The Demerol came back positive. They ran a different sample. Listen, Donner’s been giving it to her, I know it.” I breathe in deep, collecting my thoughts. “I need you to call Dr. Berringer to stop the ECT. He won’t listen to me right now; it’s kind of hard to explain…so just please, please, please call me back as soon as you get this. Or better yet, call Dr. Berringer and order him to stop it. Okay? Just tell him he’s got to and that’s it. Okay? I’ll try to stall him as long as I can. Thanks.”
I’m hanging up when I see Nancy striding down the hall. “We’re just about ready to go in there. Dr. B wanted me to let you know.”
“Sorry. I just had to check one thing. I’ll be right down.”
“I’ll let him know,” she says, her tone a warning that I should hurry the hell up if I know what’s good for me, then hurries back down the hall.
A phone rings then, “The Saints Go Marching In” ringtone. Glancing around, I see a phone lighting up the pocket of Dr. Berringer’s lab coat hanging on the rack. He must have left it in there. I pull it out, hoping it’s Detective Adams, but it’s not. It’s a long-distance number I don’t recognize, which has gone to voice mail. Then a text pops up on the screen.
Is it done?
The name on the text is Raymond Donner.
My scalp goes hot, like it’s been seared. I touch the number on the screen, my hand trembling against my ear.
“Yeah, it’s Donner. What’s the status?”
I don’t answer, holding my breath.
A frustrated sigh comes out over the other end. “We went over this, Berringer. Either kill the girl or do that brain-fry thing you talked about. I don’t care either way. But it needs to get done.”
My heart drops a beat, and I tear down the hall, skidding down the tile floor, and whip open the door to the procedure room, smacking the knob against the wall. Everyone turns to look at me as Dr. Berringer adjusts the dial on the machine.
“Did you start yet?” I ask, breathless.
“No, as a matter of fact,” Dr. Berringer says, annoyed at me for showing up late. “We’re just about to. Come on over.”
�
��Don’t,” I say as strongly as I can. “Don’t do it. Please.”
Dr. Munroe takes his hand off the IV. Silence steals over the room, except for the bleating of the heart monitor. “What did you say?” Dr. Berringer asks.
“I know everything, Dr. Berringer. I know you’re involved with Raymond Donner. I know you don’t want to kill her, and maybe this is the best you could come up with, but please don’t. Don’t do it.”
His face goes ghost white; his shoulders tremble.
“What’s she talking about, Tad?” Dr. Munroe asks.
“Nothing,” he answers curtly. He puts his hand on the dial again but doesn’t move it, just clings to it like a lifeline.
“I know you’re trying to do the right thing. But they found her sister. Dr. Berringer, they found Janita,” I say, hoping my lie sounds convincing. “It’s over now. Don’t do this. Don’t do this to Candy.”
Dr. Munroe clears his throat. “I’m not comfortable with this, Tad. I need some answers, or I’m afraid I’m going to have to reverse the anesthesia. I won’t be party to something unethical.”
“It’s not,” he barks out, “unethical. Jesus Christ.” But his voice loses steam. He takes his hand off the dial and stares right at me. Nancy watches us both. “It’s not what you think. I never wanted to—”
“I know.” I take a step toward him.
Dr. Munroe is fumbling with another syringe. “I’m reversing,” he announces.
“I never meant…” Dr. Berringer says, his voice strained. The wind roars out against the window like a train. “I loved her.”
“I know,” I say again, but he is walking away from the dial, away from the bed.
“I have to…” he mumbles, looking around the room in a daze. “I…I have to—” he repeats, then runs out of the room.
“Nancy, can you take her back to the room? Once Dr. Munroe is finished here?” I ask, at once feeling like the attending I will be in six months’ time. “And call security. See if they can stop him from leaving.”
“On it,” she says, heading into the hallway.
I step out into the subdued light of the psych ward and call Detective Adams. Again, it goes to voice mail. The operator’s strident voice is calling security overhead. I get inside the elevator and stand there. The elevator feels unnaturally still, waiting for me to push the button, to make my decision. And for some reason, I don’t push the smudged button to the lobby.