The Girl Without a Name

by Sandra Block

  “And you know,” I say, getting angry myself, “she wasn’t even catatonic. I was right. As soon as the new attending came on, he checked her CPKs, and they were sky-high. It was serotonin syndrome and a neuroleptic malignant syndrome wrapped into one. And her kidneys were starting to fail.”

  He shakes his head. “How is she now?”

  “Better. Much better. We got her off all her meds except benzos as needed.” I grin then. “I think the best therapy has really been her sister.”

  “Janita?”

  “She’s been practically living there,” I say, scrunching up more magnet pieces. “You know, I’m wondering, in your professional psychiatric opinion…”

  “Yes?” he replies with some amusement.

  “Why did she pick Daneesha to turn into? How does that make any sense?”

  He pauses, thinking about it. “It does make sense in a way. It brought her younger sister back. And maybe, in her confused mind, that allowed her to bring back Janita.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And it protected her. Who knows what Daneesha would have been like as a thirteen-year-old. But Candy envisioned her as strong, powerful, ready to stand her ground. And that’s what she needed. Protection. She couldn’t do it herself, so she got someone to help her.”

  I nod, thinking it through. “That’s not half bad.” I play with more shredded magnets. “You should do this for a living.”

  He laughs. “And how are you doing with all this?”

  I search for an honest answer. “I’m not sure.”

  Someone pulls into the parking lot, and I realize for a second that I was looking for Dr. Berringer’s black Jeep, worried he might see me here. But he won’t be coming here anymore. The psychiatrist who swan-dived will be a tall tale in Buffalo for years to come. A warning maybe. Or just a punchline.

  After checking out, I get into my car, when the phone rings.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Mike says, “just checking in.” Mike flew back right after Thanksgiving when he heard what happened. He and Scotty have been “checking in” a lot.

  “How’s work?” I ask.

  “Crazy. Tons of dumps.”

  Dumps, meaning families are dumping their decrepit or Alzheimer-addled loved ones just in time for the holidays. Sad, but a reality of ER life. “Any word on the job front?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I was going to tell you later.” A doctor’s name is paged on the overhead. “Got an offer from North Carolina. The urgent-care one.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Haven’t said yes or no yet.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It pays more than Buffalo, though.”

  My heart falls an inch. “I see.”

  “How about you? Fellowship thoughts?”

  I sigh, turning on the engine. “I’m not much further than yesterday, actually. Not pediatrics—too depressing. Not geriatrics—too depressing. Not addiction—”

  “Let me guess,” he interrupts. “Too depressing.”

  * * *

  I put the Styrofoam cup down on the wood-paneled desk. My lipstick has left a half-moon on the rim. It’s my third cup today.

  “It’s dead around here,” I observe.

  “Yeah. Saturday.” Then Detective Adams harrumphs. “Did I mention I wanted to retire?”

  “Once or twice.”

  He flips through some more sheets in the case file, and I sign innumerable papers. “You sure do kill a lot of trees around here.”

  “Don’t I know it.” He slides over another form for me to sign. “How was your Thanksgiving, by the way?”

  “Oh, fine.” And it wasn’t bad, all things considered. Other than I missed Mike. And Arthur spent the entire time hiding under the table with a turkey leg he somehow pawed off the island (Scotty giving me a look like, “Why’d you bring your dog to my house?” and me giving him a look like, “He was supposed to be your dog in the first place”). Kristy turned out to be a welcome change from his usual type. She has both breasts and brains. She was actually advising him on investing his Treasury bond, and he was listening. “How about you?”

  “Good. Lots of family, huge dinner, beckoning me faster to the inevitable heart attack.” He searches through some more of the file, and I drop the pen on the table, where it rolls halfway to the other side.

  “So do you know what’s going to happen with them?” I ask.

  “Who, the girls?”

  “Yeah.” I stamp my foot, which has gone numb from sitting on this uncomfortable metal chair so long.

  “Not sure. It really has to do with international issues at this point. But I think they’ll get back to Toronto eventually.”

  “Hopefully we can get them back with Heaven. It’s what they want.”

  He shrugs. “Who knows? That’s up to Social Services at this point. Not really my jurisdiction.”

  “Not mine either,” I say. Once they’re discharged, they’re gone. I usually never see them again. Except for Tiffany, who I saw over and over until I didn’t see her anymore.

  “Listen. I’m a happy man. Didn’t you hear?” His smile is hearty. “We shut down an international pedophile ring. Toronto to New York City. Closed for business, folks.”

  I smile at his justified jubilation, signing another paper. “Did you find out any more about the Demerol?”

  He pushes smudged silver reading glasses back onto his nose. “Yeah, we tracked it down to a nurse. Department of Health took over the case.”

  “Did you get to interview her at least?”

  “She lawyered up pretty quick,” he says. “But it looks like Dr. Berringer was paying her to get it for him, and she assumed it was for him. She didn’t know he was giving it to Candy.”

  I made sure they were comfortable.

  Snow starts to fall outside the window. Tentative, thirty-degree flakes that could just as easily go back to rain. “Snain,” as my dad used to call it. The detective skims through the bulky green folder one last time, then pats it with his paw of a hand. “I think that’s it. We’re finally done with all the signing.”

  “So I’m free to go?”

  He laughs. “It’s not like you were arrested.” Standing up, he grabs his gray-black heather tweed hat, a hat I would picture a policeman wearing. We walk out of the deserted building. The afternoon is cold. Christmas lights hang over the ledge of the Irish bar across the street, snow reflecting the blocks of colors.

  “Where did you park?”

  “Just down the street,” I say, motioning up ahead.

  We walk in silence for a bit, the soft snow falling around us. “Did you have any idea?” I ask.

  “About what?”

  “Dr. Berringer?”

  Detective Adams shakes his head without hesitation. “Not a clue.”

  “Nothing from New Orleans then?”

  “We looked into that, but no. All we knew about was his drinking.” Thick snowflakes stick to his gray wool coat. “But he was all over the O-club files. He was with quite a few of these girls. A good customer, I guess.”

  So he lied about that, too.

  “There’s e-mails between him and Donner that date back to Tulane. Buffalo’s probably been on his radar for quite a while.”

  Which is perhaps what enticed the wunderkind to Children’s Hospital in the first place. We keep walking, the sound of our footsteps swallowed up by the snow. “You know, I don’t think he actually wanted to kill Candy. He wanted her to forget him. And he wanted to get away with it. But in his heart of hearts, he didn’t want to kill her.”

  We get to my car. The sky above us is eggshell white. “You know, Zoe, I’ve stopped trying to figure out what goes on in the hearts of criminals.”

  As he says this, it strikes me. He put it perfectly, exactly what I do want to do: Figure out what goes on in the hearts of criminals. Not child psych, not addiction.

  Forensic psychiatry, of course. Now I’ve just got to tell Mike.

  * * *

  When my phone quacks me awake, I have no
idea where I am.

  I am of course in bed, where I should be at three a.m. I pat the space next to my bed and remember Mike’s on call tonight. Arthur sniffles, then falls back to sleep.

  I don’t recognize the caller ID. “Hello. This is Dr. Goldman.”

  “Zoe?” The voice has a foreign quality to it. French. It takes a few more seconds to attach a name to the disembodied voice.

  “Jean Luc?” I start to sit up.

  “It is so good to hear you,” he says, which sounds heartfelt. His words are slurred and hoarse, and there’s banging music behind him.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh,” he says, like he just realized it might be odd to be calling someone in the middle of the night. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “DC.”

  “Not Paris?”

  “No, wait a second,” he yells above the noise. I hear footsteps, a door creak closed, and then the music falls to a soft throb. “That is better.”

  “Yes, I can hear you at least.” I glance at the clock, realizing I have to be up in three hours to see patients. Dr. Grant likes to round early. “Are you in a bar?” This would be very un–Jean Luc. Jean Luc doesn’t like bars. (Very loud and drunk people, how is this pleasant? he asked me once.)

  “Yes, well,” he explains, “it’s my bachelor party.”

  “Really? I thought your wedding wasn’t until April.”

  “This was the only weekend it would work in DC.”

  “Oh,” I say again. Arthur knocks his tail against my knee, woofing in a dream.

  “Zoe, I think I made a terrible mistake.” There is a pause as the song changes in the bar. He sighs into the phone, a long theatrical sigh. Again, very un–Jean Luc, which means he must be pretty drunk. “A terrible mistake.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. Though I know I shouldn’t ask. I should cut him off right here and now. But the bait is dangling before me, plump and shiny, and it’s so damn hard not to bite.

  “With Melanie,” he explains.

  “Right.”

  We both pause here, treading into dangerous territory. My heart is thumping in my pajama top.

  “Sometimes she is so difficult, so demanding. Not like you. Things were so easy with you.”

  Too easy, I think. But I don’t say anything.

  “I think I’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake.” He sounds like he’s about to cry.

  “You know, Jean Luc, things didn’t go so well with us either, if you remember.”

  There is silence on his end, waiting. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue either.

  “You missed Melanie, remember? When you came to visit? You got sick of me after, like, four hours.”

  I laugh, though I don’t feel like laughing, and he laughs, though it sounds like he could also be crying. “I was an idiot.”

  I lie there a minute, warm in my bed, a glow floating in me. He does want me. He does want me after all. And maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for all this time. My reward pellet. “It’s natural to be nervous, Jean Luc. This is a big life change. But it doesn’t mean you don’t love Melanie.” Though I myself don’t know how anyone could love that ghastly creature.

  “Maybe,” he says, like maybe not. But then again, Jean Luc was never of a strong backbone. My halfhearted speech could be all it takes to convince him.

  “Take some time. Think about it. Don’t rush into a decision either way. You know what they say about fools rushing in where angels fear to tread.”

  He pauses, and a rubbing noise muffles the phone. “I don’t understand. What is this about the angels?”

  “Never mind, it’s a saying.” I suppress a yawn, not well.

  “I should let you go. Do you have…the hospital in the morning?”

  The hospital. My job was always faintly mysterious—and perhaps a bit distasteful, truth be told—to Jean Luc. “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, okay.” He pauses, not quite ready to let go of the phone. “Zoe.” He swallows. “Je t’aime.”

  And before I know it, I answer “Je t’aime” back.

  We hang up then, and I lie for a while, listening to the creaks, the lone cars passing, the noises of the night. I start crying, though I couldn’t say why, warm tears soaking into my pillow. Maybe because it’s been a tough month. Maybe because it’s been a tough year. Maybe because it’s three a.m., I have to round in three hours, and I don’t even love him anymore, in French or English. And the only person I really want to talk to right now is Mike, and he’ll probably end up in North Carolina.

  The bed shakes as Arthur shifts his body, and suddenly I find a warm tongue licking my face. I pet his goofy, puffy, labradoodle permed head and fall back to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  In the light of day, it seems ridiculous to us both. I know this as I drive half awake into the hospital in the rose gray of the morning and get his text.

  sry abt last nite. All good w melanie now

  I allow myself a bitter laugh. glad 2 hear

  do u mind not telling anyone abt our talk?

  I turn the radio on and write mum = word. Let him puzzle over that one.

  still hope u will come to wedding

  I don’t bother to text back. Hope you’ll come to my wedding? Ha fucking ha. Not until there’s a life-form on Saturn. Stepping onto the hospital floor with the familiar beeps and overhead pages, I feel better already. Exhausted and in need of a nap, but better. Jean Luc impairs my judgment, like a too-strong cosmo. And now that he’s safely in the arms of maleficent Melanie, I can stop pulling that damn lever. C’est fini, and I mean it this time.

  I stop by Chloe’s room first, since she needs her discharge orders today. “You all set?” I ask her.

  “Damn straight.” She scoops her bright red bangs out of her eyes.

  “Great.” I scan through her meds. “No change in anything then. You’re staying on the Luvox, a hundred twice daily. Sound right?”

  “Whatever. Write me the pills, and I’ll take them. I just want to get the hell out of here.”

  “Okay. I’ll still have to see you once more with my attending, but then you’ll be good to go.”

  Her eyebrows lower, darkening her face. “Which attending?”

  “Dr. Grant? You’ve met him a few times now.”

  Her face relaxes. “Oh yeah, right. Geeky little dude.”

  “Right,” I affirm. This is the most succinct description of the man I have ever heard. I tap my pen on the chart. “You never did like Dr. Berringer, did you?”

  She shakes her head, picking at her nails, which are chewed to nubs.

  “Was there a reason for that?”

  She shrugs. “I’m not shedding any tears over his leap from a tall building, I’ll tell you that much.” She examines another nail. “And I don’t care if it makes me sound like a bitch.”

  I nod. “It doesn’t, really. But what makes you say that about him?” I ask, trying to sound nonjudgmental.

  “Nothing,” she mutters, chewing on her fingers again. “Just…nothing.”

  I have a bad feeling, a sick-gut feeling. I wait a long minute until she’s looking up at me again. “You can tell me, you know. You’re safe now. You can tell me anything.”

  She bites her lower lip, which is trembling.

  “Did he hurt you, Chloe? Is that what you were trying to tell me before? That no one believed you?”

  Chloe looks down at the bedsheets and straightens out a wrinkle.

  “He hurt some other girls, Chloe. If he hurt you, too, if he made you do something you didn’t want to do…you can tell me about it, you know. I can help you.”

  But she keeps looking down at the sheets and doesn’t answer.

  * * *

  Candy is herself again.

  Herself being someone between the old Candy and Daneesha. Janita is in foster care for now, spending her time between therapists, tutors, and visiting her sister. A cobbled-together life that approaches
normal. A semblance of normal, which will have to do for now. Candy is back to beaming smiles, drawing purple pictures as well as complaining about the food, and rolling her eyes at me. Acting more like a teenager, I guess. A normal teenager. Or an almost-normal teenager. Better than the girl I’ve seen recently anyway, swimming in serotonin and dopamine, her brain deep-fried and making no connections to the world around her.

  Dr. Grant follows her every blood lab like a hound. “Sodium today?” he asks, more of a command than a question.

  “One forty,” I answer, not even glancing at my sheet. The man’s been so annoying about her labs that I’ve been memorizing them unintentionally.

  “Glucose?”

  “Eighty-three. Normal.”

  “CPK?”

  “Trending down still. One seventeen today.”

  “Okay,” he nods, satisfied. “Oh, wait. Tox screen.”

  “Still pending,” I say. “But it was normal yesterday.” He’s been getting them every day. He’s more paranoid than I am, though not enough to merit a diagnosis yet.

  “Let’s see her then,” he says, shoving her chart in my hands and taking off down the hallway for me to run and catch up. He greets the sisters in his usual manner. Stiff, but not unfriendly. He doesn’t have the Dr. Berringer “charm,” as Sam called it, which is obviously a good thing. “Candy, Janita.” He nods to each of them. “And how are we today?”

  They give each other a private grin. “Good,” says Candy, and Janita follows with a “good,” too.

  “Excellent,” he returns.

  “Hey, that Tina lady said I’m gonna be out of here soon. Maybe next week?” Candy asks.

  “Did she?” he says, noncommittal.

  “You think that’s so?” she asks, pushing him.

  “I hope so,” he says, which is as good as she’ll get. “As long as your labs remain stable and you’ve got a stable place to go.” “Stable” is one of Dr. Grant’s favorite words.

  “I’m going to live with Janita,” Candy announces.

  “Uh-huh, that’s right,” Janita agrees, going for the double-team. “Mrs. J’s got a nice place set up with a bunk bed. So Candy can sleep on top. And that’ll help with the nightmares, too.”

  “The Tina lady said so,” Candy backs her up.