The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  “Did I pick up a map from the weed store?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. But why don’t you just look on your phone?”

  Her phone! She pulled it out of her bag, delighted to have rediscovered her external brain. Wise though she might be, no one person could possibly know everything. There was so much . . . stuff . . . in the universe, so many facts and natural laws and bodies of accumulated knowledge, so many twinkling frozen nebulae and exploding, dying stars, so many eerie forces and bizarre quantum worlds that even she could not . . . she could not . . . where was she going with this?

  “Georgia?” Jonah waved a hand in front of her face. “Where are you?”

  Where was she? She looked around. There was something strangely familiar about this doorway, with its swinging wooden sign . . . she scrunched up her cheeks, pursing her lips, sounding out the words on the sign. Boh-tan-i-cal-De-fenz-Lab. Through the window she could just make out a blurry octopus flailing behind a bar.

  “Jones,” she said. “I think we are still at the coffee shop.”

  * * *

  —

  The restaurant, when they finally reached it, glowed like a spaceship through the deepening gloom of the wet evening. Warm light spilled from the large plate glass windows overlooking the street, through which they could see animated diners raising wineglasses and twirling forks, leaning toward one another across tables laden with an array of unidentifiable but mouthwatering dishes. Even through the glass, a wash of sound reached their ears; the buzz of a hundred conversations, the clinking of cutlery, a little throb of jazz. Jonah stood with his nose almost pressed against the glass, staring at the oblivious diners with a childlike yearning. “It looks so nice in there,” he said.

  “Yes,” Georgia agreed dreamily. “So nice.”

  “We could go in there and eat food too,” suggested Jonah, a tentative note marring his voice. Somewhere between the Botanical Defense Lab and their present location, his delusional military paranoia had ebbed, replaced with a docile acquiescence Georgia found even more unnerving.

  “Okay,” she said, motioning to him. “Lead the way.”

  Once again, Jonah proved to be a poor leader. For a while he stood rooted, watching people eat, but when he finally roused himself to action he couldn’t find the door. The big windows extended along the entire storefront, broken at intervals by small staircases—three or four steps—leading to landings between the windows. Immense old doors topped the landings, but when Jonah rattled the tarnished brass handles, nothing happened. They were locked, or they were decorative, or possibly they had nothing to do with the restaurant and opened into somewhere else. Georgia and Jonah retreated back down to the sidewalk to ponder their options. Perhaps one of the windows was actually a door?

  This idea held promise, but after they’d furtively pressed their hands all over the glass, trying to find some hidden release, they had to admit they were stymied. They’d begun to garner some odd looks too, from people inside who were clearly wondering why two freakshows were standing outside groping the windows. How had all these people gotten inside when there were no doors? Frustrated and hungry, they positioned themselves in front of the central window, huddled together for warmth.

  Another couple, hands entwined, glided past them and disappeared. Georgia returned her attention to the window, fixated on someone who’d just been presented a plate of steaming food. A moment later, the couple from the street reappeared inside the restaurant, shedding their overcoats and shaking the rain off their boots. The woman tilted her head back and laughed at something her companion said, revealing a row of even, white teeth. Georgia felt faint with hunger.

  “The next time someone goes by, we follow them,” she said. “Okay?”

  “Okay!” Jonah said agreeably. He looked delighted to have a plan.

  They waited, shivering. After a million years had passed, another couple finally materialized out of the mist, and Jonah sprang to attention. The couple strode past, unsuspecting, murmuring in Dutch. They passed all the windows and all the faux doors on the landings, reaching the end of the restaurant without going in. Georgia deflated in savage disappointment. These people were headed somewhere else.

  Except they weren’t. As they passed the last window, they vanished from the street. Jonah and Georgia looked at one another, befuddled. They sped up, hurrying to the spot where the people had disappeared, and discovered to their astonishment a narrow alley opening onto the street a few feet from where they’d been standing. Easily visible, just around the corner, a large door was just swinging shut.

  “We tell no one about this,” she instructed Jonah with a fierce look.

  “What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam,” he said cheerfully.

  His paranoia had totally vanished now, along with his nervousness, and he seemed to be in an expansive mood. Despite being late for the reservation, they were seated quickly, and in no time at all, they were feasting on a smorgasbord of items selected at random from the Dutch menu, Jonah barely chewing as he happily recounted the many deficiencies in Georgia’s love life.

  “Angus, now,” he said. “I guess I do remember why you had to rid yourself of Angus. That was unfortunate, to say the least. But did you have to ditch Murph? And Mortimer? And Coop?”

  They had definitely entered phase two of being stoned: Georgia’s sides ached from laughing. She’d always known Jonah to be something of a raconteur, but now she found herself bowled over by his wit, his charm, his ferocious intelligence. It was as if he’d opened his mouth and a stream of jewels poured out, his words transforming into sparkling gems of every variety: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, rubies, pearls. They glittered in the air, small precious words, each shining with razor-faceted brilliance. She marveled at her luck in finding this friendship, this remarkable individual, this rare, rare treasure of a man. Never in the history of humankind had a conversation been so scintillating, never had a mere mortal spun such tales of bravery and insight and hilarity and poignancy. How perceptive he was about her! If only he’d been managing her social life all this time! She ached to tell him of her adoration, but she, by contrast, had become somewhat tongue-tied. No matter: rarely could she get a word in edgewise. Still, she managed to convey to Jonah something of the last few days with Mark: how, whenever he wasn’t working, they’d drifted about the city, visiting parks and galleries and museums in the mornings, spending the afternoons in bed in a rapturous haze, supported by the shocking intimacy that had arisen and consumed them both despite her reservations. Or at least that’s what she hoped she was conveying. Jonah was so excited it was hard to tell.

  A server appeared, bringing another round of drinks. Jonah tossed back his, but Georgia took her time, treating herself to small decorous sips. The last thing she needed today was more alcohol, plus she wanted to prolong this evening, this moment, this mood. Across the table, Jonah’s face was shining, colored by his high spirits; his black eyes sparkled. He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “I love you, George,” he said.

  “I love you more,” she managed.

  He signaled in the direction of the waiter. “Check’s on me.”

  “No, of course n—”

  He held up a hand, imperious. “I insist. It’s the least I can do.”

  “The least you can do? I’m the one who owes you. Something’s going down at work and I left you.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth she regretted them. Why had she reminded him of his job when he’d been so happy tonight? Her brain, still somewhat impacted by the drugs and the alcohol, promptly conjured up a pleasant vision in which she hit the pause button, freezing them both in their current states. She followed this action with a couple juddering strikes at the rewind function until she’d unspooled time, back to the perfect moment before I left you had fouled the air. Voilà!

  Jonah shared no similar vision. Having finished his ow
n drink, he reached across the table for hers, draining it in one gulp. “Ah,” he said. “You had to come, George. Bad timing and all that”—he waved an arm around vaguely—“but I truly didn’t want you to cancel your trip.”

  “I should have planned for you to come too. I should have paid.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you spend the money.”

  “Nonsense.” Rather than bring up Jonah’s lack of money, she mentioned her surfeit of it. “I have plenty.”

  Jonah perked up, energized by the mention of their long-running argument over the remuneration of surgeons versus primary care doctors. “Yeah: I know what I’m making and I’m sure it’s about half of whatever you’re making. Which makes sense, when you think about it: I treat the entire individual over their entire life span, from cradle to grave, head to toe, inside and out, heart and soul, and mind and body. And you treat penises. Priorities.”

  “That’s unfair,” she said, but she gave him a fond smile. Jonah had a point, but he knew as well as she did there was more to her job than penises: urology was a platform incorporating both medical and surgical treatment of multiple diseases in the young and the old, and both males and females. Not to mention her extra years of residency.

  “I can still pay for your trip.”

  “No,” he said, thrusting out a mulish lip. “I have my pride.”

  “Would your pride allow it if I paid for dinner?”

  “That would be acceptable.” He looked around for the waiter. “As long as it’s on you, I may have another drink.”

  “Dude. You are going to float out of here.”

  He waved his glass at the server and turned back to her, lowering his voice. “Should we talk about it?”

  “Talk about what?” For a confused moment she thought he was alluding to his alcohol intake.

  “My patients. The clinic.”

  “Oh! Yes. Yes, I do want to hear about that.”

  He stared with moody absorption into the dregs of his drink glass. She waited, afraid he’d change his mind if she prodded him. Behind him, the rest of the restaurant carried on as if things were fine, everyone serenely engaged in the aggressive act of living. Eventually Jonah sighed and twisted sideways in his seat.

  “Well,” he said. “I found out what they’re doing.”

  9

  THE MUNITIONS OF THE GAY ARMY

  She thought of Frieda Myers Delacroix, the trans woman she’d seen leaving the clinic. “The clinic is getting rid of all the transgender patients, aren’t they?”

  Jonah jerked his head: Yes. “At first, they kept it on the down-low,” he said, his back straightening. “But now the whole thing’s blowing up. It’s become obvious most of the patients being asked to leave are trans. A few others too, including a couple of my gay teens. But all of the trans patients are gone.”

  Jonah’s medical practice was the kind of group where your doctor knew you, literally, inside and out. He’d been made for this sort of thing: by nature gregarious and inquisitive, the professional opportunity to be all up in everyone’s business suited him perfectly. As he often reminded Georgia, his patient population ran the gamut from squalling newborns to non-ambulatory old people. He sometimes saw patients after hours if it suited their schedules better, and he stopped by the nursing home once a week, his visitations so invigorating that the home had eventually hired a meditation specialist to try to settle everyone down after his departure.

  But as good as he was with adults, Jonah’s special gift was teenagers. About half his practice consisted of either angsty heterosexual teens or members of Charleston’s young LGBTQ population. Adolescents flocked to him: the ubiquitous Charleston blondes, the sort with social pedigrees and bright clothing, but also a more anguished crew—the black-clad, multiply-pierced Goth clichés; the cutters; the eating-disordered, with their weaponized clavicles jutting up, bladelike, through their shirt necks. And, of course, the gay and transgender and nonbinary kids, not to mention the gay and transgender and nonbinary adults. They, more than anyone else, loved him.

  “What reason are they giving these patients?”

  “None. They’re just told they need to find another provider. The letter implies I’m leaving the practice, so people started asking me about it. I went to the scheduler and checked to see who all had gotten letters, and, yeah. Sure enough, everyone getting a letter is queer. And they’re kicking all the trans patients out of my practice for sure. Every single one of them is gone.”

  “Jonah, what does Beezon say about this?”

  He didn’t respond. A throaty sound escaped him as his hands rose and encountered a twin set of tears coursing their way down his cheeks, followed by a look of horror flashing across his face. With a grunt, he pushed aside his chair and bolted from the table.

  She’d never seen Jonah cry, at least not full-on, with actual falling tears. She’d seen him angry on occasion, and he got agitated on a near-daily basis by virtually everything, but the sight of him crying left her bewildered and aching. Their check hadn’t yet been delivered, but she wrenched a wad of American bills from her bag and flung it on the table, hoping it would be sufficient to cover the bill.

  She rose, taking a step in the direction of the restaurant’s bathrooms—presuming that’s where Jonah had gone—then sat again. She couldn’t very well blunder into a men’s bathroom, especially in a foreign country. She hovered for a moment, fretting, until a cascade of concern forced her to her feet again. To hell with waiting.

  First: some reconnaissance. She checked out the women’s restroom. To her relief, it was a single room with a toilet and a door that locked, rather than a multi-stalled communal space. She exited, and, trying to project the air of a non-pervert, listened at the door of the men’s room. Total silence. Hoping Jonah hadn’t bolted secondary to a bout of genuine GI distress, she tried the door. It was locked. She knocked again.

  No answer.

  She knocked a third time. This time there was a brief hesitation, followed by a chirping voice: “Be right out!”

  “Jonah,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Let me in.”

  The door creaked open an inch. Jonah’s face, streaked and blotchy, peeked out. She handed him a breath mint from her bag, the only comfort item she could manage under the circumstances. Jonah regarded her with a half-sorrowful, half-quizzical look.

  “I wanted to help,” she said. “Pickings were slim.” A tear formed at the corner of Jonah’s eye, and before she could stop herself, she dabbed it. “Here, now,” she offered. “I’m no ophthalmologist, but you seem to be having some kind of facial leakage problem.” Easing the door wider, she stepped inside. The bathroom was tiny and ancient: walled in stone, with a mottled mirror and one of those U-shaped European toilets.

  “Ah,” he mumbled. “Thanks. Lacrimal duct malfunction, I think.”

  “Maybe you should see someone. It’s kind of a social issue, isn’t it, to lose control so spectacularly?”

  For a second she thought this had been the wrong thing to say. Suddenly, inexplicably, Jonah grinned through his tears. “Shut up, George.”

  “Ah, that’s better! For a minute I was worried you were experiencing an emotion. It’s unlike you.”

  “I’m good.”

  She shifted, lodging a hip against the small sink. “Do you want to talk?”

  He nodded. “I do, but thinking of this is not the best way to get myself under control. Hold up.” He spiraled a hand through the air, fanning his face. “Whew. The more I try to banish her, the more she keeps swimming up in my mind.”

  “Who?”

  “Frieda Myers Delacroix.”

  Georgia nodded, and then, recalling the details of the weird encounter with Frieda Myers in the patient parking lot, nodded more fervently. “Is that what triggered Beezon? Did Frieda Myers proposition the mayor in your waiting room?”

  “Nobody propositione
d anybody. Beezon told me they’d been getting complaints about ‘him,’ that some of the other patients were finding the waiting room to be an uncomfortable environment when ‘he’ was there. He also said some of the clinic employees felt they were compromising their beliefs by taking care of ‘him.’ Oh, and you’ll love this: it’s not even just the queer patients. They’re talking about a clinic policy allowing providers to stop providing birth control to female patients, because that also compromises the beliefs of these same employees.”

  “What?” Georgia yelled. “What? I haven’t heard anything about this.”

  “You will, I guess,” he said. “I heard it’s coming. Anyway, Beezon asked me to ‘adjust my patient population.’ I asked him how in the world I was supposed to know—no, how my scheduler was supposed to know—if somebody was undesirable when they called to make an appointment, and he gave me this prissy look and said it might be obvious from their voice. I said hell no. He said fine, he’d talk to the scheduler about it himself.

  “It turns out they told Frieda Myers she’s no longer welcome at the clinic. Andreas called me. She hasn’t gotten out of bed since they booted her.”

  “She’s my patient too,” Georgia cried. “They can’t just ban her.”

  She stopped talking. Two bright spots of red on Jonah’s cheeks highlighted his skin, pasty and stark against his black hair. She reached a hand to his face.

  “Jonah. How does this even make sense when they know you’re gay yourself? Plus, it’s illegal.”

  For the first time she saw incredulity flare in his eyes. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope, Georgia, it is in fact perfectly legal in our state to refuse medical care to someone because they’re transgender or gay. For that matter, it is perfectly legal to fire someone because they’re gay.”

  “That can’t be ri—”