by Gail Lukasik
I was conscious of having lost control over all words containing the letter S. “I had a drink earlier with Eva. Shhhh. Um, I found out Carl’z final meal wuz rabbit sz-tew. With muss-rooms, no lez."
“So?”
“You heard her at dinner, admitting bringing it from the reztaurant. Eva didn’t make it or eat it. Sz-arah made it.”
“That doesn’t prove she put the fatal mushrooms in the stew. Or even that the fatal mushrooms were in the stew.”
“Maybe not. But therez more.” I was about to tell him about Joyce and the letters.
He quickly put his finger across my lips. “Can we not talk about Sarah or Carl Peck, for one night? You look pretty wasted. I think you’d better let me drive you home.”
So that was how it was going to be.
26
The fire crackled and shot sparks against the sooty screen. Stevens and I were lying in front of it. He was on his side, facing me. I was on my back, trying not to be sick. Like an expectant lover, he had let Salinger out, built a fire, and made me some tea.
After the second cup, the room stopped spinning in its wild orbit.
“You’re not going to get sick on me, are you?” Stevens asked, as he reached over and pushed a strand of hair off my forehead.
“Sick? Me, no. I never get sick.” The alcoholic fog had lifted somewhat. I remembered that I had said those same words to Tom. Right before the diagnosis of cancer was confirmed.
I turned over on my side and moved closer to Stevens. I reached up and pulled him toward me. I told myself that I could always blame it on the alcohol in the morning.
He was slow, he was methodical and the feel of his tongue traveling down my neck had my body and brain in overdrive.
This will work, I told myself. There’s no need for words. I’ll guide his hands. I won’t let him near the breast area. He’ll chalk it up to some eccentricity. You can make love without involving the breasts. I deserve this.
He started to unbutton my blouse.
“No.” I pushed his hand away and sat up, tugging at my open blouse like a high school virgin.
“What’s going on?” He sat up and faced me.
“Look, Jake. I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
“Okay. Whatever.” His tone was sharp.
I had initiated the sex. I owed him some explanation. “It’s just . . .it’s not about you.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s just not a good idea.”
“Why, because we work together? Because I’m your boss? What?”
“Those are good reasons.”
“But they’re not ‘the’ reason, are they?”
“I don’t have to give you any reason.” My nerves were fraying.
He stared a moment into the fire. “What are you hiding?”
The question stunned me into silence.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Can you wait here for just a moment?”
He looked at me perplexed, but remained sitting. “Sure.”
I hoped that he didn’t think I was slipping into something more comfortable.
I wasn’t sure where I had stored the poster of the one-breasted woman. But I was pretty sure it was somewhere in my bedroom closet. Sure enough, I had shoved it in the back under a pile of clothes.
I grabbed it and headed toward the living room. I’d show Stevens the poster and then he’d leave me alone. There’d be no need for tortured discussions and reassurances. I had used the poster with Tom as a preamble to showing him the mastectomy. He had glanced at the poster and said, “Now, can I look at you?”
He had taken one look at the ‘new’ me and said, “You look fine.” I hadn’t believed him.
I strode into the living room. Stevens was still sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace. I knelt down beside him and unrolled the poster. He looked at the woman in the poster for what seemed like a very long time. Then he looked up into my eyes. It was only when I broke the gaze that his eyes moved to my chest and then away.
“Personally, I’ve always been a leg man.”
In spite of myself, I laughed.
“But that can wait for another night,” he said, standing up.
27
Saturday, November 18, Present day
There was a buzzing inside my head like a thousand angry bees that wouldn’t stop. Automatically, I reached over toward the alarm clock and pushed down on the button several times before I realized that it was the front door bell.
I sat up, and a wave of nausea rolled through me. I ran to the bathroom with Salinger at my heels. After retching several times, I was able to stand up, but my throat was raw and my side hurt. Clutching my side, I staggered to the front door. Whoever was there was insistently pressing the doorbell. I had to stop that noise.
I peered through the etched glass. It was Lydia. She was holding a covered bowl. I inched the door open.
“God, you look awful. Your face is flushed. Hung over? I brought you some leftover chowder.”
At the mention of the chowder, my stomach heaved. Without a word, I ran to the bathroom but didn't quite make it. I fell on my knees and vomited on the bathroom floor. I was sweating and shaking with dizziness. This was like no morning-after hangover I’d ever had.
“Leigh?” Lydia had come into the bathroom.
I watched Lydia’s face as it faded in and out of darkness. Then everything went dark.
* * * * *
The tubes were back as if they knew their way and had proprietary rights. One was in my right hand and was attached to an overhead drip. There was another inserted in my side. The familiar antiseptic smell stung my nose. I started to reach toward my left breast and stopped. The pain was in my stomach, not my breast. From habit, I looked over at the next bed. It was empty.
I pushed the call button. Almost immediately, a nurse appeared.
“You’re awake, excellent.” She had overpermed, hay-colored hair and a blue ink stain on the pocket of her uniform.
I started to talk, but my throat felt like it had been sandpapered.
“Don’t try and talk. I’ll get Doctor Waters. He's the admitting doctor. Lucky you, he’s still on the floor making rounds.”
I floated somewhere above the hospital bed, remembering the fire and Jake Stevens slow, methodical fingers and then everything disappeared into a fog. Suddenly at my bedside, the nurse reappeared with a thirty-something doctor with a crew cut that was as clipped as his bedside manner.
“The long and short of it is that you ingested a toxic substance. Until we run some tests on what we flushed out of your stomach, we won’t know for sure what it was. Unless of course, you know what it was?”
I struggled to speak above a whisper. “I don’t know. No way did I do this to myself."
“All right, then.” He jotted something on my chart. His professional face didn’t give much away, but his manner suggested he didn’t believe me. I didn’t take it personally. Emergency room doctors were a skeptical lot.
“As soon as we have the results, we’ll let you know.”
* * * * *
Sunday, November 19, Present day
The next morning, Doctor Waters delivered the test results to me in person. I suppose I should have considered it an honor. He stood at the foot of my bed as if he were giving a lecture to first year interns.
“You ingested a drug called Antabuse. It’s not harmful unless the suggested dosage is exceeded, or it’s combined with alcohol. The severity of the reaction is tied to the amount of the drug and alcohol taken. From your symptoms, I’d estimate that you ingested about 250 grams of the drug in combination with a great deal of alcohol.
“But there’s no permanent damage?” I asked. First things first. I’d worry about who gave me the drug after I knew I was okay.
“No. But you were quite fortunate that someone got you to the hospital so quickly. If not, you would have gone into convulsions and possibly cardiac infarction.”
“I didn’t take that drug,” I said, adamantly.
“I’d like to see you in a week for a follow-up. And you won’t be able to drink for several weeks.”
The very mention of alcohol was contracting my stomach muscles. “Why is that?”
“We have to be sure that your system is free of the drug. We did a gastric lavage.” I looked at him like he had three heads. “We washed out your stomach and lower bowel. But the drug is still in your system.”
“I’m missing something here.”
“Antabuse is used to treat alcoholics. It usually takes about twenty-four hours on the drug before drinking alcohol will set off a reaction. On the other side, a reaction can still occur several days to several weeks after the last dose, depending on the amount of the drug taken. That’s how it works.”
He rechecked his notes and finally made eye contact. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the cancer?”
“The cancer?” My brain was still trying to digest what he had told me. “No, I’m okay with the cancer. I mean, this has nothing to do with my mastectomy.”
“All right, then. Well, there’s a deputy from the sheriff’s office outside. He needs to ask you some questions. I’ll see you in a week, Ms. Girard.” Doctor Waters shook my hand and left.
* * * * *
Chet Jorgensen stood next to my bed, trying not to look at the various tubes sticking out of me. “Can’t stand hospitals,” he stated tersely, taking off his hat and placing it gingerly on a chair. He was in full uniform today, complete with sidearm.
“Why don’t you sit down?” I whispered.
“No thanks. This’ll only take a few minutes, then.” He flipped open a notepad. “Doc tells me ya overdosed on some drug called Antabuse, used to treat alcoholics.” He studied the ceiling for a few seconds. “Now don’t get upset, but I’ve gotta ask this. Did ya take an intentional overdose while you was drinkin’?”
“No. Nor did I take it accidentally. I never heard of this drug until two minutes ago. Chet, somebody poisoned me.”
“Okay then, I know you’re upset. But ya don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
I nodded my head emphatically yes. “Think about it. Why would I take a drug and then drink, if I knew that it would make me sick?”
“Okay, that’s what I’m here to find out.” He cleared his throat. “Um, are ya or have ya ever been treated for alcoholism, then?”
I rolled my eyes. “No. Someone slipped me the drug, knowing that I would be drinking. He or she tried to kill me.”
“Okay, let’s assume for now you’re right. Since the Doc tells me the drug takes about twenty-four hours to get goin’ in the body before ya get sick from drinkin’, let’s go over what ya did during your last twenty-four hours.”
“Starting with the obvious, there was the dinner party. Anybody could have put something in my drink or drinks at the party.”
“Thought about that already. What about before or after the party?”
“Before the party, I spent the majority of the day alone. I had a few drinks with Eva Peck at the Olde Stagecoach.” His left eyebrow went up. Probably not because he suspected Eva, but because Eva and I were socializing. “And after the party, Jake made me some tea, at my house.” I was trying not to dwell on that part of the evening.
“That there’s a lot of potential suspects. Can ya think of any reason somebody would want to poison ya?”
“Chet, you know the reason as well as I do. Now are you going to look further into Carl Peck’s death or not?”
“Ya think there’s a connection between ya bein’ poisoned and Carl Peck’s death?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Why else would someone want to poison me? Either they think I know something or they’re afraid I’m too close.”
He seemed to consider what I said and jotted something down in his notepad. “I need ya to make a formal statement when you’re up to it. And I’ll tell the Chief what ya said about the connection.” He put his hat back on. “But I think you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”
“Why Chet, you just made a pun.”
“You just stay away from the sauce for awhile. Okay, then?”
The overpermed nurse came in the room as Chet left. “Aren’t we the popular one,” she said, checking my tubes.
If I had attempted suicide, her cheery demeanor would be sending me over the edge about now. “Could you do me a favor?” I asked.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Could you see if Doctor Porter is in the hospital? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Is he your regular doctor?”
“Yes.” The white lie was in a good cause. I had a hunch about the drug used to poison me.
“I’ll check.”
“And one other thing, could you hand me the phone?”
* * * * *
If it was possible, Doctor Porter looked older than the last time I saw him. He sat in the chair beside my bed, reading my chart and nodding his head. “Everything looks in order. How are you feeling, young lady?” He patted my leg paternally.
“Except for the tubes, the pain in my stomach and the sore throat, hunky-dory.”
“Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Doctor Waters is first rate.”
“That isn’t exactly why I asked you here. I didn’t take the Antabuse. Somebody slipped it to me.”
“If you’re sure that’s what happened, then you should tell the police, young lady.”
“I did. But you might be able to help.”
“How can I help?”
“Did you ever prescribe Antabuse for Carl Peck?” I asked, playing out my hunch.
He moved his jaw from side to side as if he were realigning his dentures. “You know I can’t tell you that. That’s confidential information between a doctor and his patient.”
“I realize that Doctor Porter, and I wouldn’t ask except that someone tried to kill me with that drug.”
“What does that have to do with Carl Peck?”
“I’m not sure. All I know is that within the last twenty-four hours, someone poisoned me with Antabuse, and several people close to Carl Peck had the opportunity to get their hands on that drug if he had a prescription for it.”
He started to get out of his chair. “I think you need your rest.”
“Wait, Doctor Porter, please. Think about it. Carl Peck is dead. What difference does it make now?”
He sat back down and looked again at my chart. “The only reason I’m going to say anything at all is to prove that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“So, did you prescribe the drug for Carl Peck?”
“Carl came to see me last March. He looked pretty bad. He was retaining fluid, and his whole body was swollen. His skin was yellowing as a result of jaundice. I told him if he didn’t stop drinking, he’d be dead by Christmas. He said he wanted to stop and had tried but couldn’t.
"And that was why he’d come to see me. Finally scared, I guess. He wanted me to give him a prescription for Antabuse. He’d read something about it somewhere. Carl was a great reader. I told him his liver cirrhosis was too far advanced, and to take that drug would outright kill him. He lost his temper and told me he didn’t need my help, that he’d find a way himself. The next time I saw him was in the hospital, right before he died.”
“So you didn’t prescribe him the drug?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“But that doesn’t mean he didn’t get it from another physician.”
“Any physician who would prescribe Antabuse to Carl Peck would be writing his death warrant.”
* * * * *
It was dark outside. I must have slept for hours.
“You’re looking better. Green just isn’t your color.” Lydia stood in the shaft of light from the hallway.
“What time is it?”
“About five. Sorry I couldn’t stick around yesterday, but there was no one to cover at the shop. I didn’t leave though, until Hank, er Doctor Waters, assured me you were
out of danger. Here, I brought you something. A get well present.”
She handed me a small box wrapped in deep blue paper studded with silver stars. “Go on, open it. Considering what’s happened, I think it’ll come in handy.”
It was a greenish-black stone attached by a silver-filigreed cap to a long silver-linked chain. The necklace was similar to the one I’d seen Lydia wear.
“The stone’s malachite. It heals and balances the whole system. It’s especially good for healing from poisoning.”
“So you believe that I was poisoned.”
“Of course, what else? I told Hank that. But you know how doctors are. He kept asking me if you were depressed, you know, about the cancer.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that any demons you might have lurking about because of the cancer, you exorcised through your work. I was right to say that, wasn’t I?”
So she wasn’t sure I hadn’t tried to kill myself. I wondered why she had defended me to Doctor Waters.
“You were right.”
“Good, now you can let the police handle this thing. Your day nurse told me Chet was here earlier. What did he say?”
“He’s going to look into it. But he doesn’t believe that I was poisoned. He thinks I have a drinking problem.”
Lydia laughed. “Chet can be so literal sometimes. He has a real problem seeing beyond the obvious.” She checked the tube attached to my side. “Did Doctor Waters say when they were taking this out?”
Something was on Lydia’s mind, and it wasn’t the tube removal. “I thought this evening. Any guesses who slipped me the drug?”
She turned toward me, her eyes bright with interest. “I’ve been trying not to think about that. And I suggest you do the same.”
“Lydia, that’s a little difficult considering that someone wanted me dead and might have succeeded, if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Then that eliminates me as a suspect.” She was trying to make light of the situation, which infuriated me.
“If it was you lying here, I’m sure you’d be thinking about it night and day.”