by John Decure
“I wasn’t alone.”
“Miki Dora.”
She nodded. “Tearing it up.”
“If you want to, um talk….”
She picked up a fork and took a stab at my slice of pie, the blob of ice cream slipping away like a melting polar cap. “Not really. Although I wouldn’t mind knowing what a psychiatrist thinks. Just not right this minute. Not yet.”
“So, how’s the Doctor Don case going?”
“Shitty. No one’s cooperating. The witnesses, I mean. And I just found out my expert’s in Vienna.”
“Vienna?”
“Yeah. At some big medical conference.”
“I know the one. It has to do with developing standards of practice for newer medications. But that’s not until next month.”
At that Bradlee looked steamed. A raw sense of agitation came over her, and her eyes darted as she checked behind us. Nothing much to see: a row of empty booths, a lot of black pavement beyond the huge panes of glass, occasional bursts of car lights streaking by, gearboxes grunting out on PCH. My guess was she was fighting a delusion, but I didn’t dare to suggest as much.
“You’re looking at me funny,” she said, putting me on the spot.
“Sorry. You seem upset.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m crazy.”
“I never—”
“Want to know what I think?” she blurted. “My expert? He got paid to disappear for awhile. That worm Heidegger probably bought his airline tickets, booked the hotel, and threw in a Viennese call girl to keep him busy.”
“That’s terrible.”
She stared up at the dull white ceiling and a fan that wasn’t moving. I thought I saw her lip quiver, as if she were conversing with someone only she could see. Next thing, she glared at me.
“Very insightful, doctor.”
“So, uh, does that mean the case is over?”
She took another bite of my pie as if to stave off starvation. I began to think that when she reached a certain plateau of stress, her mind might go sideways.
“What else can I do but get another expert.” She swallowed her bite. “Keep putting the case together. Or die trying.”
I took a bite of pie, which tasted like spiced rubber. The ice cream was better, and I thought of Mom, fast asleep, the shock she’d register to know I was up now, in the middle of the night, sorting through my excitement with a court case and the exotic, unpredictable company I was keeping.
“So,” I said. “This is why you’re out surfing in the night. The case is falling apart, you’re feeling the strain. Naturally, you go surfing.”
“That’s your analysis.”
“Just a small series of observations.”
“Glad I’m not paying for this.”
Her defiance struck me as a defense mechanism. Do what you’re good at, I told myself. Do what you came here for. Do your damn job.
“There’s more,” I said.
“I’d certainly hope so.”
“I’ve done some research on Miki Dora. I know about his place in the surf world. The Dark Knight, the bad boy, the ultimate iconoclast who never had a real job, who bailed out when he felt Malibu was ruined. Miki Dora didn’t surf Malibu tonight. You know that.”
He coffee cup clanked when she set it on the table between us. “You don’t believe me.”
“I wasn’t there, so I can’t argue facts. But I have no doubt that you believe you saw him. What’s important is to understand what this means to you.”
“I’m not wired up, I see things.”
“You’re not self-medicating.”
She wiped a pile of hair off her forehead and studied the window glare.
“No.” Bradlee wrapped her arms around herself and squeezed her shoulders. “In case you haven’t noticed, sometimes I don’t know my own mind, doc.”
“Craig.”
She sighed. “Sorry. Craig. If you’d tell me what you think it means, I’d be grateful to you.”
I told her that as she knew, Dora was a romantic figure, a symbol of an idealized time gone by, a rebel revered by surfers because he never knuckled under and joined straight society, never bowed to the system. But he was also a canny individual who played up his own myth whenever it was to his advantage to do so. A fast-talker and a scammer, if the situation presented. There was a duality to his persona, a real side, and an imagined side to him. He seemed to have little trouble switching back and forth. Eventually, he fled to exotic, faraway places, perpetually searching for the perfect wave. At one point in his life, though, he was merely evading charges of credit card fraud in a California court. He was extradited, placed in custody, took a plea, and did time for his crime. Took up The Search again.
“So why would he want to come back here, and surf with me?”
“I think you have it the other way around.”
Her arms wrapped herself even tighter.
“For you, it’s like this,” I said. “To surf Malibu in the middle of the night, the one time when the place is abandoned, just like in the old days, is an attempt to go back in time to an earlier era when the place, and the whole surfing experience, was still unspoiled. I think you want to go someplace else, the way Dora did.”
Bradlee stirred her coffee with a spoon in a slow circle, but didn’t drink. “Escape. Leave the whole stinking dung heap behind.”
“Something like that.”
“Makes sense, the way this case is going.”
“You seemed pretty committed to the outcome, the last time I saw you.”
She raised the spoon and licked it, cocking her head. “Yeah, well since then I’ve gotten my brains beaten in by an army of gutless men who got what they wanted and don’t give a shit about what the esteemed Doctor Don did to an innocent patient.”
“But Rue was there. She’ll testify.”
“Fine, but she’ll be on her own. I’ve got no corroboration.”
“She’s telling the truth.”
“Dr. Don will deny anything happened. It’ll be his word against hers, the sum total of which will fall well below the clear-and-convincing-evidence standard I’ve gotta meet.”
“But—”
“He’ll skate.”
We sat there sullenly until Bradlee dug into her purse and pulled out a baggie full of pretty blue capsule-shaped pills bearing the letters OC.
“Oxycontin,” I said, not quite picturing how my patient, the ever-fragile Rue, would survive a bout on the witness stand with Dr. Don’s team of lawyers. Not with Bradlee Aames fighting off psychotic episodes as the pressures of trial slowly cracked open her skull. What had I been thinking, encouraging Rue to face down her demons? They’d destroy her in court, and then I’d carry the guilt of her demise on my back for all time.
But no—I don’t want the weight, can’t take the weight. Whatever Rue Loberg decides, she’ll have to own it, live with it.
She nodded. “Like a rusty safety valve that doesn’t always open. Shouldn’t have gone to the baggie.”
“Tonight?”
“After my session. Without any Oxy? Hey, you never know, Dora might’ve followed me right up the sand and swept me away from all this”—she waved a hand at the empty rows of bucket seats—“upholstered splendor.”
The waitress, thinking Bradlee had motioned for her, hobbled over, eyeing the check, which was still on a tray. Then she noted the baggie of drugs and frowned.
“We’re good,” I said.
Bradlee clutched the baggie proprietarily. “Perfecta-mundo, thanks.”
The waitress hardened, her wrinkles contorting on her forehead. “Okay, you two, pay up and go.”
Not what I had in mind. I raised my cup and asked for a refill.
“And another piece of pie,” Bradlee said, picking up my vibe. “I’ve eaten most of his.”
The waitress scowled. “We don’t serve dopers. You can take your business elsewhere.”
“They’re prescription meds,” Bradlee said.
“And I’ve got som
e real estate here in my bag,” the waitress countered.
My opportunity to pay the woman to simply leave us alone had arrived, though later and not quite as planned. I stood up, slapped a twenty on the table, and took Bradlee by the hand to guide her out of that hideous booth.
“Got half a mind to call the cops,” the waitress said as we strode past a row of empty swivel chairs along the counter. Bradlee turned on her heel.
“This man is an MD. A psychiatrist.”
I held up a hand as if I was ready to swear to it. “All true.”
“That means he can prescribe drugs legally. He came here to dispense advice, though, not drugs, and I was lucky enough to be the beneficiary of that advice. That is, when you weren’t interrupting us with your inane entreaties.”
The woman blinked at Bradlee. “I’ll entreaty you right out that door.”
Bradlee flicked her hand toward the kitchen. “Thank you for a splendid time. Your unique brand of tough love represents a true breakthrough in food services.”
“Get out.”
We kept going, but at our own unhurried pace. As we cruised past the big metal cash register with the toothpick dispenser and complementary mints perched up top, I stopped to scoop some of both.
I gave one last tip of an invisible hat. “Ma’am.”
The woman returned the gesture. “Doctor Smartass.”
She fired another grumbled parting shot, but the words of consternation seemed to fade in our wake, splattering against the double-paned glass doors that clipped shut behind us as we reentered the night. Like that, the diner experience was done and the cool salt air rushed our senses and it was as if we were shooting through a portal into another plane of experience. A gathering roar: the droning wails of a delivery truck blasting one way and an RV barreling along the other way rose and rose until—with a screaming wah!-wah!—they briefly crossed paths, then slipped off again into the quiet. A denouement: the highway sighing, then going pleasantly dark and dead. But then, there was more—like a lover’s cooing tease you could hear the faint steady hush and kiss of surf on sand. Climactically, a star-bright sky threw a canopy of pulsing glitter over our heads when we weren’t looking.
That sky had our attention now. Standing spellbound beside her car, our backs arched, we were hushed—no need to speak, nothing to say; just let this infinite billion-mile vista of cosmos roll on up for our viewing pleasure and roll right over our shabby wants and needs and petty concerns.
“You’re smiling,” Bradlee said, her eyes trained close to vertical, just like mine.
“Well… God is smiling back.”
“I love the night.”
She squeezed my hand and leaned her shoulder into mine. My thoughts were clear and I was pierced by a vision of my future, of the spotless beauty of giving love selflessly. It was all I wanted to do, and that recognition alone made for one of the most perfect moments of my life. I had not seen any of this coming.
“I have to tell you something,” I said, “but first, please know that I’m not saying this now because I want to kiss you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Really, I’m serious.”
“About what—killing the moment? Jesus, Craig, whatever the hell it is, kindly spit it out before the moment passes.”
“You’re right. Sorry. I just… well…”
“I’m waiting, Doctor Smartass.”
“Okay, okay. It’s… about Dora.”
She turned a little to face me better.
“You saw him that night you and Reevesy came out.”
“Wait. I don’t know what I saw. Over by the pier, there’s this kind of surreal glow coming off the water under the lights, and it’s really hard to make out—”
“What was he doing?”
I was miffed that she’d cut me off. “Crocheting a new sweater. What do you think?”
“I knew it!” She paused, gently rubbing her forehead. “So… I don’t know what this means.”
“Me neither. I don’t even know what I saw, to be honest. It was just a figure.”
“Stop being so honest, it’s overrated. You saw Dora.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You’re not alone. Next time you’re at Malibu, read the message on the wall.”
“It’s just an expression.”
She shrugged, then gave a tiny laugh as she came up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the lips. “So is this.”
I was about to say something perfectly arcane and byzantine, but a don’t-be-a-complete-horse’s-ass-Craig override deep in my brain’s social circuitry took immediate effect, locking down my overeager mug.
“I like you, Doctor Smartass. Even if your eyesight’s not so hot.”
Bathed in blue-white starshine, I clenched her tight against my body as if to taunt an indifferent universe. “So who’s crazy now?” she whispered.
15
WENDY GLICK, MEDICAL DOCTOR
Subleasing a medical suite with other medical practitioners has its pluses and minuses. The obvious upside: you get to share expenses for the cost of the office space itself, a common lobby, and a receptionist. I, for one, certainly need to be economical; when I first tried going solo seven years ago around here—a good Jewish psychiatrist in a good Jewish neighborhood just west of Fairfax practically bursting with video-game-addicted kids; obsessive-compulsive tiger moms; and type-A Hollywood dealmakers with the commensurate array of ulcers, drinking problems, hair-loss issues, and Napoleon complexes—you’d have thought the walk-in business would have more than covered the rent, which was astronomical even on the four-hundred-square-foot cracker box I was squeezed into. But the walk-ins, they walked on by and kept on going, leaving me with malpractice premiums, utilities, CPA fees, and professional association and licensing dues that quickly devoured what little balance was left in my general account each month. Either I could cut my overhead or file for bankruptcy; that is, eat, or starve.
And yes, I do like to eat—way too much, in fact. So two years ago I moved in here.
But playing in the sandbox with professional colleagues can also be a pain in the patootie, as I catch more lingering looks and snarky remarks from my own brethren than I ever would if I hung out my shingle in a dodgy little strip-mall space on Pico or Olympic. Wendy, my dear, a far more successful shrink on my floor told me just last week, you don’t network enough. You’ve got to reach out to the community, get out there and mingle. Press the flesh.
Let’s just get this out of the way. For me, networking is a problem. People don’t want to come close enough to me to let me press their flesh, or vice versa. I’m diabetic. Due to my abiding love of food and a thyroid condition I’ve had since childhood, I weigh over three hundred pounds. My vision is 20–200, and because my eyes are too dry for contact lenses, I wear glasses with lenses so thick people call me “Wendy the spot welder” or the “coke bottle kid.” For years a chronic overbite had me chewing up my gums at night and waking up the next morning to a bloody pillow, so last year I got orthodontia.
Oh—and I was born with moles, groves of them, on my face, neck, and body. Benign and nonthreatening, but the way people look at me, you’d wonder if I had the plague.
In case you haven’t been keeping score up until this point, let me tally it up: I’m a fat, four-eyed, thirty-six-year-old MD with a tin grin and enough spots to rival a leopard, only you’ll never find a handbag or pair of boots resembling the Wendy Glick Mole Farm.
So I have to say I was pretty damned stunned when Malcolm Flaherty came to me late this afternoon with a business proposition. Malcolm is a silver-haired smoothie who smiles too much and will say all the right, empty things until you’re bored so completely stiff you’d pay him just to shut up, so the blood flow to your brain stem can once again commence; he’s also the helpful colleague who thinks I should get out and network. I’ve never liked his brand of psychiatry, which goes light on attacking root problems and heavy on prescribing pharmaceuticals, and I was surprise
d to see him in the anteroom just outside my one-room office. I’d just wrapped my four o’clock with Toby F, a frustrated music producer on his third marriage who couldn’t seem to shake an irrational fear of African American men—a bit of an inconvenience when you work exclusively with rap and hip-hop acts—and I was still scribbling patient notes as Flaherty knocked on the slightly ajar door.
“Wendy, my dear, so glad I caught you in today.”
“Hey, Malcolm, you know me, not one to get out a heckuva lot.”
My subtle dig at his business advice went undetected. Catching his breath, he looked older and whiter-domed than the last time I’d seen him, maybe a month ago heating a cup of coffee in the lunchroom. His spiffy older-man-about-town look was sure going strong, with a cotton button-down shirt, a herringbone tweed jacket, black slacks, and Italian loafers. Big, well-shaped head, with nary a useful thought inside, it, but his blue eyes, blocky jaw, and dimples were undeniably authoritative. Like all handsome men, Malcolm kept a safe physical distance from me, as if I might snatch him in my chubby arms and gobble him up with saliva-drenched fangs, pausing only to belch.
“Wendy, dear, I’d uh, like to ask you a favor.”
The slick jackass had a voice descended from Moses: low and strong, the kind that allows a lesser clinician to burst out in front of the pack and head up a department or peer review panel. That’s a sad fact about my profession, that how you say something is often more significant than what you say.
“Shoot, Malcolm,” I croaked in response.
He slid the door to my office closed behind him and eyed the couch and overstuffed chair that my patients use. But he didn’t make a move. Just as I was about to ask him what in hell was going on, there came a knock on the door.
“Might I be frank with you?” he asked. “About a case?”
My confusion was reaching its peak. This man was barely good for a quick hello in the hallway, and though we’re both psychiatrists, he’d never discussed a patient issue with me. Come to think of it, in two years, Malcolm Flaherty had never even acknowledged that I was his medical peer. That realization iced me a tad, and made it easier for me to snap out of my usual fat-Jewish-reject-girl mode of schmucky passivity.