Lovesick

by Alex Wellen

  “Looky here,” he says, using a shaky finger to help him zero in on the relevant section of the screen.

  Sid is surfing the California Department of Health Services Web site. He lifts up his shades and strains his eyes to read the tiny print.

  “Says that if you’re eligible for Medi-Cal,” Sid explains, “then you’re not subject to the Medicare doughnut hole.”

  This is news to me, but it makes sense that those on Medi-Cal have no gap in coverage. Medi-Cal is California’s version of Medicaid—health insurance for low-income households.

  “I think a few folks on our list should qualify for Medi-Cal,” he concludes.

  “They’ll qualify, but will they apply?” I ask him. Both of us know that many of them have too much pride to claim such benefits, including Sid.

  Sid doesn’t respond, instead gracefully tabbing over to another site.

  “The Medicare page on the Department of Health and Human Services is much better organized than this rotten California page,” he tells me, pulling up a blue chart. “See here, if you live in our zip code, you qualify for forty-eight different Medicare drug plans. Some of these premiums and deductibles are reasonable,” he says, rubbing his chin.

  We look some more and notice that many insurance companies now offer Medicare plans with no gap in coverage—no doughnut holes.

  “Ruth Mulrooney called over here to patch things up with Cookie,” Sid says. “Ruth mentioned that you’re giving up that fancy wedding hall of yours.” Sid spins his chair toward me and starts whispering. “My wife thinks you should just combine your wedding reception with our anniversary party. I think it’s a splendid idea. Think Paige would go for it?”

  “I’m really not sure.”

  “Our kids and grandkids are paying for everything. We checked with them and they’re fine with it. We’ve invited a hundred and fifty people. I imagine it includes most of the same folks on your wedding list and then some. Outside of Crockett, how many additional invites do you think you’d need?”

  This is Paige’s big chance to invite the entire town of Crockett to our wedding. I think about the possible add-ons: “Twenty?”

  Cookie is standing in the doorway. Sid checks this figure.

  “Fine,” Cookie determines.

  After a moment Cookie notices Paige sheepishly standing behind her.

  “Just so you know,” Cookie informs Paige, “next month, you’re having your wedding reception with our sixtieth anniversary party at The Old Homestead.”

  “Okay,” Paige says, barely audible.

  “But you’ll have to go and buy your own cake,” she demands. “I want my cake, and every bride should have her own wedding cake.”

  “Okay.”

  That was easier than I thought.

  Paige’s face has gone completely pale. She hands me a letter. It is from the Special Investigations Unit of Blue Cross of California. I read the first sentence aloud to the group:

  Be advised that your noncompliance with Blue Cross’s internal investigation into claims involving the matter referenced above is now being referred to the Healthcare Fraud Division of the California Department of Insurance and federal authorities for possible civil and criminal penalties.

  CHAPTER 35

  The “Wait” Is Over

  I DOUBLE-CHECK. The liabilities clause in the Rite Aid contract specifically requires us to disclose any “outstanding tax liens or loans, delinquent property taxes, previous judgments, or pending civil and criminal investigations or legal proceedings.” Those lawyers—they’re always thinking.

  The offer to buy the pharmacy expires in three days.

  For weeks now, Lara, Paige, and I have been consumed with the possible financial repercussions of failing to pay off all this debt, but bankruptcy pales in comparison to incarceration.

  I still can’t believe she did it. Brianna McDonnell loved Gregory; she was as sweet as they come, and yet she narced. She’s a narcer. Maybe she was looking to move up in the company or she was getting too much pressure from her boss. Maybe she still held some pent-up resentment toward Cookie and the Aspercreme incident. I gave Brianna too few records. I gave her too many. Whatever it was, it was enough to turn us in.

  Paige and I jump out of the Vomit Mobile like superheroes. Barfman and Hurl Girl. We charge inside the pharmacy. Lara is already behind the counter moving boxes. She’s dressed for a fancy dinner, which ended abruptly the moment we informed her about the Blue Cross letter. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

  “There are about a dozen boxes we need to go through,” she instructs us. “I’ve made a pile for each of us. Andy, there were four months of printouts sitting next to my computer. What’d you do with them?”

  “I gave them to Blue Cross,” I tell her and then consider seeking safety underneath the closest archway for fear of a magnitude 5.0 or higher.

  But Lara shrugs it off. “Then I’ll start over,” she resolves quickly. “It’s going to take me a couple of hours to reprint each prescription.”

  From Aisle Nine, I hear Paige let out a gentle sigh. She’s found my inner tube, blanket, and clock radio.

  “I’ve compiled a list and made three copies,” she says, handing them out. “It includes every prescription the pharmacy’s filled and every insurance claim we’ve filed with Blue Cross over the last two years. Right now, the audit only covers six drugs. I’ve gone ahead and highlighted those six with different colors. We need to find the original doctor’s prescription for each and every highlighted item.”

  I have to commend Lara on her organization and swift thinking.

  “Take Conrad Callahan’s prescription on September 27. Dr. Platt prescribed him ninety pills of blood thinner,” Lara says, waving the original prescription. “Day’s Pharmacy provided Conrad Callahan with exactly ninety pills and filed an insurance form with Blue Cross for exactly ninety pills. If I’m not mistaken, Blue Cross shouldn’t be able to tell that half those pills were probably free samples. Wouldn’t you agree, Andy?”

  This is Lara’s first acknowledgment of the Day Co-Pay Paige gives me a look that confirms they spoke. I nod in agreement.

  “Good. I say we give Blue Cross copies of every prescription. So long as what the doctor prescribed matches what we filled and what we filed with Blue Cross, we should be golden,” Lara concludes.

  Paige and I exchange looks of relief. This is a solid plan.

  For the next six hours, Paige and I hunt for and make copies of the original prescriptions, checking off each highlighted item, one by one. When Lara finishes reprinting the electronic records, she pitches in on the boxes. Just after 2:00 A.M., without uttering a word, Paige lowers herself from her stool, gives us both an exaggerated yawn, shuffles to Aisle Nine, and collapses on my inner tube.

  Lara and I push on.

  By 4:00 A.M., Lara and I are both dragging. I grab us a couple of sodas from the fridge and we start going through my stack of “undecipherables.” Most of the scribbles are from about a year ago and appear to be written by the same mysterious doctor. We finally realize the name is Dr. Rodney Sutton, a pediatrician who retired shortly before I started with Day’s Pharmacy. Not unlike her sister, Lara takes immense pleasure in crossing off the dozen outstanding entries.

  Lara cracks open her soda, takes a sip and a deep breath.

  “We’re getting close,” she whispers to avoid waking Paige.

  “We are,” I say, gulping mine down. “We’ve got two more boxes, but my instinct is the last ones won’t turn up.”

  “Mills,” Lara says, reading my mind. “He must have called in most of those prescriptions over the phone, and for whatever reason, my father didn’t properly record them in the system.”

  “Brandon Mills is an agreeable man. He and I are grand friends. He’ll only be too happy to provide us with the proper documentation,” I assure her.

  Lara laughs quietly to herself.

  “Sleeping Beauty over there may have more success. I did Mills’s taxes three yea
rs in a row, for free, because Dad asked me to, and to this day he still never thanked me. Should have got him audited,” she realizes. “But Mills loves Paige. Everyone does,” Lara boasts of her sister.

  We both sip our drinks.

  “That’s what really did me in, you know,” Lara admits. “I started this accounting business in L.A. and I kept giving all my first-time customers a break on their taxes. But I couldn’t cover the over-head and I ended up taking out this massive loan for, oh, somewhere around $20,386 and 23 cents.”

  “Twenty thousand three hundred eighty-six dollars and twenty-three cents?” I repeat back.

  Lara nods her head with a smirk.

  “My parents started saving when Mom got pregnant with me,” Lara explains. “A hundred bucks a month, split between two bank accounts: $70 in the college fund and $30 for our weddings. In all those years, they never missed a payment. Not even after Mom got sick. Or when Dad went into debt.”

  Lara unlocks the file cabinet next to her computer and pulls out the thin brown bankbook I discovered in Gregory’s notebook.

  “Paige and I cleaned out the college fund years ago,” she says, handing me the American Trust Company passbook. “But the interest kept compounding on our wedding account. By January of last year, Dad had just over $10,000 saved for each of us.”

  Lara thinks about it. “I guess I shouldn’t have been all that shocked when Paige agreed to let Dad loan me the entire balance, but I was. I always figured it was all about the wedding for Paige, but I should have realized it was all about getting married. My sister is such a romantic.

  “I have some sisterly advice for you, Andrew,” she continues. “Paige can be generous … to a fault. I remember testing her as a kid. She’d have a cookie or get a new doll for her birthday; I’d ask her for it right away, and Paige would just give it to me. I had to start telling her, ‘No, that’s yours. You want that. Don’t give it to me. Don’t give it to anyone.’”

  I turn to the last page of the bankbook where it shows Lara’s massive withdrawal.

  “After Dad loaned me the money, he stopped saving. It must have been too overwhelming to start over from scratch. Plus he probably figured Paige and I were old enough to take care of our own weddings, and as best as I can tell, he was superdeep in debt.”

  Lara stops. She studies me and picks her next words carefully. “But then—go figure!—he started saving again.”

  She hands me a crisp new Bank of the West passbook. Printed on the inside cover is the account holder, Gregory Day. The issue date is November of last year.

  “There’s isn’t much in there. Only a few entries,” Lara says. “But I thought you might find the time stamps noteworthy.”

  “Very,” I say, staring at them.

  In the right-hand column there are seven $100 deposits, each one made at the end of the month. The last entry is dated May 31—the day after I proposed, the day before he died. I feel an ache deep within me—a bittersweet mixture of happiness and sorrow. Lara studies me as I pull the pieces together. He started saving for our wedding as far back as November. Gregory probably knew Paige and I were made for each other before we did.

  “Never once did Paige hold that loan over my head. That money could have really helped us over the last month, but Paige never went there … I hope you won’t hold it against me, either. I’m sorry.”

  “I apologize for poking my nose in your business,” I tell her.

  “It’s your business,” Lara says, referencing the aisles. “At least until we sell this place or go to jail.”

  Paige stirs in Aisle Nine and we temporarily cut off conversation.

  “Did you get a chance to read the Rite Aid contract?” she whispers.

  “Skimmed it. Almost vomited on it. We took Paige’s car.”

  “That car,” she groans.

  “So there’s a section in the contract that talks about you. Not by name, but by role,” Lara continues. “Part of the deal is that we agree to ‘transition the records.’ I can try to help, but the truth is no one knows our customers like you do. Rite Aid will pay you for your time. I told them that you make about 50 percent more than Dad was paying you.”

  “Thanks, and of course, yeah, that’s not a problem.”

  “There’s also an option in there if you or Belinda want to stay on full-time. They’re going to need people to work the register, plus a few good pharm techs, and I’m pretty sure you’d get seniority since you’re the only one who can translate Dad’s notebook and instruct their pharmacists,” she says.

  “Thanks, but those Lemon Lollies were a total catastrophe. It makes you appreciate what a genius your father was with medication,” I tell her. “I’m still working on cracking a few more of the codes in that notebook.”

  “It’s your notebook now. As executrix of his will, I’m officially bequeathing it to you,” Lara says, flapping her hands. “Do what you will with it. But if you don’t pass along that knowledge, the truth is, some of our patrons may die along with Dad’s formulas.”

  The words linger.

  “I’ll help with the books, but can I think about the full-time gig?” I ask.

  “Take all the time you need,” she says with a smile. “But they need an answer the day after tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Cookie’s Cure

  THE outgoing message on Brandon Mills’s voice mail wishes me a happy Fourth of July and informs me that the doctor will return in two weeks. For emergencies, patients may try his answering service.

  Paige is in the back room brushing her teeth. Lara is fast asleep in Aisle Nine. The clock on the wall says 8:01 A.M. I grab the receiver and dial. The woman at the other end picks up on no rings.

  “I’m calling for Dr. Mills. This is an emergency,” I maintain.

  “Are you one of his patients?”

  Like that should make a difference if it’s an emergency.

  “What problem are you experiencing?” she asks, losing patience.

  “I’m bleeding.”

  I want this woman to start taking me seriously, but I instantly regret saying this. “Not internally” I explain. “Just on the outside … a little.”

  “Sir, if you’re bleeding, you need to go to the nearest hospital.”

  From the other room, I hear Paige tighten close the squeaky faucet.

  “My phone is about to die,” I pretend. “Please have Dr. Mills meet me at his Crockett office in the next half hour. Again, it’s definitely an emer—”

  For dramatic effect, I hang up the phone midword. I hope she has caller ID. A frantic, bleeding person called from a pharmacy. He even managed to get the word die in there. Maybe this is one message the service will find worth passing along.

  Paige walks out from the back room and helps herself to a new hairbrush from the rack. She pats down her long, sopping hair with paper towels.

  “Did you manage to reach him?” she says casually, tearing the plastic packaging off the brush with her teeth.

  “If he doesn’t meet us at his office, we’ll pay him a visit at home.”

  We need Mills to complete our files. The clock is ticking. It may already be too late, but the sooner we can get Blue Cross the records they need, the better our chances of reversing the damage, as well as selling the pharmacy.

  Dr. Mills’s office is right around the block from Day’s Pharmacy. Seated on the toasty stoop, I page through Lara’s color-coded list. On every page, pink highlights represent all the unaccounted-for medication that Mills prescribed customers and that we filed with Blue Cross. Brandon Mills probably called most of these scripts in over the telephone and Gregory never bothered to record them; and even if that wasn’t what happened, we need Mills to provide us with paperwork saying it was. Mills helped Gregory and our indigent patrons with one more loophole: whenever possible, Mills stocked his patients up with twice as much medication as necessary.

  To help get them through. It didn’t affect the price Gregory’s customers paid, but it did allow
Gregory to receive double the reimbursement from insurance. Any one of these schemes could have tipped off Blue Cross.

  Brandon Mills turns the corner in his black Jaguar. When he spots me, he hits the gas. Paige jumps to her feet and waves him down and Mills parks.

  “You had better be bleeding,” he tells me as he exits the car.

  He looks disheveled; the flimsy white collar on his polo shirt is sticking up on one side.

  “I appreciate you coming,” Paige begins.

  “Like I had a choice!” he hollers. “It’s against the law what you did.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is an emergency,” Paige insists. “Can we step inside?”

  “Say whatever it is you have to say right here. I can’t stay.”

  Paige is appalled. “So that’s how it’s going to be?” she cries, snatching the worksheet from me. “Our insurance company is demanding some records, and you’re going to help us find them or we’re all going to prison. We need to see your files on about sixty prescriptions you phoned into our pharmacy over the last two years,” she says, paging through Lara’s list.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he informs us coolly.

  “What entitles you to be so inconvenienced all the time?” Paige demands. “The fact that you provided our pharmacy with free samples after my father gave you thousands of dollars’ worth of stuff?”

  “Again with this absurdity! I don’t know what sort of lies this guy is filling your head with, Paige. But if anyone owes anyone anything …”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Andy told me. We owe you a fortune for all that priceless medical advice of yours.”

  Remembering something, I whisper it in Paige’s ear.

  “I have a legal right to see my father’s medical records,” she insists.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You want us to pay all these medical invoices; well, I want to know exactly what I’m being charged for,” she informs him.

  “Paige, your father was seventy-five, with chronic emphysema,” Mills reminds her. “What more is there to know?”