The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  You didn’t hurt Georgia’s friends.

  Her friends—especially Jonah and her far-flung med school friends, Emma and Zadie and Hannah and Anders and Rolfe and Landley—were her family. She didn’t have any other family. She had never had siblings, but once she had a father, and while her upbringing could only be described as unconventional, it contained all the essential elements: safety, unconditional love, lots of math and science. She’d grown up wild and self-reliant and free but there also existed within her a fierce, protective loyalty.

  Now, stretching for her run, she thought again of the plan she’d begun to devise. It wasn’t fully formed, but the germ of an idea had sprouted, nurtured in some dark recess of her mind, quietly growing and expanding and blossoming, its tendrils drifting ever forward, biding its time. She tugged at it a little, but it remained stubbornly tethered, not quite ready to tease out.

  But even if she figured it out, she’d face an uphill battle convincing Jonah. Although there was no way to reinstate Jonah’s patients—or his job—on the merits, she knew he’d balk at doing anything not strictly aboveboard.

  Somehow, she’d just have to convince him.

  * * *

  —

  Jonah showed up just as she returned from her run. He stood at the door, jiggling his key in the lock, a cardboard cup holder with two steaming coffees wedged between his hip and the door. Inside, Dobby, who was home from the animal hospital but not yet quite recovered enough to run, was losing his canine mind at the sudden miraculous appearance of not one but two of his people. His hoarse yelps filling her ears, Georgia hurried forward to assist Jonah with the lock.

  “Peace offering,” he said, handing her a cup as they stepped inside. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back yesterday after the meeting.”

  Georgia knelt to scratch Dobby behind his ears, then set her cup on the floor and hugged Jonah’s knees. “It’s okay, babe,” she said. “I’m used to your ways. How are you?”

  Jonah flopped onto her futon couch. He tended to sit in one of two postures, depending on his mood: straight-backed with legs either crossed at the ankles or wide apart in a traditional manspread. Today he was manspreading, which she took as a good sign. She slumped on the edge of the futon next to him.

  “All things considered, I’m good,” he said. He took a sip of his coffee and winced. “Crap! This swill is yours.”

  They switched cups. Jonah took his coffee black, while Georgia preferred hers doctored up with cream and foam and whatever syrupy monstrosity the coffee place offered. “So?” she said.

  “So, I am trying to reconcile myself to the possibility that I may have to move out of state.”

  She sat bolt upright, slamming her cup down hard enough to shoot a little jet of foam out of the opening. “No. I thought you were going to talk to your lawyer!”

  “I talked to Stewie as soon as I left. He spoke with the clinic’s attorney, who said they’re going to enforce the non-compete.”

  “They can’t do th—”

  He held up a hand. “George, they can. It’s pointless and it’s vindictive and it’s completely legal. They can keep me from joining another practice anywhere within a hundred miles of here, which not only wrecks my career but means there’s no chance my patients can come see me in another practice. And the firing itself is legal. On ‘moral’ grounds. Stewie said because the clinic is a privately run practice, they’re in the clear to use the religious exemption. Their argument is that since homosexuality is condemned in the Bible, I’m condoning immorality by facilitating a gay- and transgender-friendly lifestyle in my patients.” He paused. “To say nothing of my own lifestyle.”

  She bristled. “I’ve read the Gospels,” she said, pausing, “word for word, and I feel strongly Christ would not have said to me, ‘Suffer unto the gays urinary retention; but everybody else can see the urologist.’”

  “Right.”

  “I mean, that’s definitely not the Christian way. Have these guys even read the Gospels? How can this be the message they’re getting from church?”

  “Georgia.” Jonah snapped his fingers in front of her face. “I need you to stay calm.”

  “This does not represent Christianity to me!”

  “Right. Focus. My lawyer. He’s researching the precedents. But, like I said, we don’t have a strong case right now. The courts have been upholding religious liberty laws. Furthermore, there’s the issue of that thing I apparently signed saying I can’t sue. Stewart says even if we can get around that, we aren’t likely to win.”

  “Because . . . because . . .” She searched for a delicate way to phrase her concern. “Because they suspect you’re the one stealing drugs?”

  “What the actual fuck, George! No.”

  She tabled that line of inquiry. Of course Jonah didn’t have a drug problem and of course the clinic would like to blame him instead of whoever did.

  “So is Stewart advising you to let it go?”

  “No,” said Jonah. “He thinks we should play to lose.”

  “What? Why?” She thought of Jonah’s precarious finances and repressed a shudder. Surely his lawyer would not take a losing case just for the fees?

  Jonah looked at her, deadpan. “To appeal it.”

  “But wouldn’t you just lose the ap . . .” She trailed off. It came to her: the lawyer wanted to make it a cause célèbre, probably with the intent of forcing a change in the law. A revolving series of images rose in her mind: backs being turned, insults and counter-insults; social media slurs, Jonah dodging herds of camera-toting journalists. Or worse. She could tell by Jonah’s face he understood. “Are you okay with that?” she asked quietly.

  He looked down. “I don’t know. I’m a private person.”

  She almost laughed; Jonah was about as private as a Kardashian. He told everyone his business, whether they wanted to know or not. But then she looked at him again and wondered how his insubstantial shoulders would fare under the weight of a world of scorn. He must have sensed her thoughts, because he straightened and met her gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

  “No,” she said. “Listen, I’ve been giving it some thought. I think we can overcome this discrimination before it has to get legal. We still have options.”

  He blinked, suddenly fierce. “I love you for saying ‘we.’ But I know you, George. Maybe you should take a step back. I don’t want to burn down the clinic or anything.”

  “Burning down the clinic would be a last resort. Joking!” she added hastily at his alarmed look. “We could organize a petition at work; I’m guessing most doctors would disagree with administrators deciding who qualifies for medical care and who doesn’t.”

  “You think?” He pointed a finger at her. “Because we already let insurance companies do that.”

  He had a good point, but she’d built up too much of a head of steam to derail. “I know people will be furious the clinic is firing you.”

  He picked up both her hands. “I think you may be overestimating my appeal. It’s pretty unlikely there’s going to be an angry mob when news of my firing goes public. Some people might be mad, of course.” He paused. “And then again, some people will celebrate.” Seeing her crestfallen expression, he added kindly, “A petition is a very good idea to try, though.”

  She felt something give way in her chest. “You wouldn’t really move away, would you?”

  “I don’t want to.” He disengaged his hands and stood. “I’m seeing Stewart next Friday at four thirty. Is there any chance you can come?”

  She consulted her phone. “My last case of the day is at three o’clock. If the OR isn’t backed up, I should be able to meet you.” She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “Next Friday. It’s a date.”

  * * *

  —

  “Let’s do this,” Georgia said to the OR team. Regarding the helpless young man lying before her, she p
laced her gloved finger in his right hemiscrotum and pressed upward, angling toward his inner pelvis, until she felt the circular opening of the inguinal ring to mark her incision.

  Her assistant passed a scalpel. Georgia dissected down through the subcutaneous tissue, cauterizing the wound as she went. While she couldn’t exactly describe the removal of a testicle as joyous for anyone, she had to admit she loved her time in the operating room. Surgery was mechanical and technical—both things that appealed to her—but there was a beautiful creativity to it as well, one she missed whenever she was away from it for any length of time. It was a well-rehearsed, intricate dance of flesh and bone and blood and steel; a ballet performed with the hands. In front of her, small wisps of smoke arose from a living landscape; her fingers flew in the spotlights, weaving slender filaments of silk.

  This was a sad case, yes, but not a long one. And it wasn’t so sad, really, when you considered that the small series of movements she’d just performed had rearranged the future for this young man; instead of dying from the slow cellular hijacking of his body by a bunch of rogue cells, he’d almost certainly go on to a full and lengthy life. Or, at least, he’d go on to a full and lengthy life as it related to his cancer; she wasn’t making any guarantees that he wouldn’t get fried by a lightning strike on the way home from the hospital. But she’d done her bit.

  She thanked her team and headed from the OR to the waiting area, where her patient’s wife, a young woman in a tank top and torn jeans, knelt, praying, in a corner of the room. A group of people, probably family, surrounded her. She moved toward them and she didn’t even have to speak. They saw her smile and erupted.

  This was among the more gratifying things about the practice of medicine; who wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to tell a family member that their loved one would be okay? Talk about a rush of goodwill and gratitude and happiness. If Georgia could somehow capture that feeling and dole it out when things were tense, she’d solve the world’s problems overnight.

  * * *

  —

  They were early for the meeting with Jonah’s lawyer, so they sat in a corner of the waiting room, Georgia thumbing through her email and Jonah thumbing through a pamphlet entitled We Can All Be Philanthropists: How to Plan Your Giving. After a moment he flung the pamphlet away and let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “I’m nervous as hell.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Try reading something else.”

  He leaned against her shoulder. “What’re you reading?”

  “The Bulletin. Have you seen it this week?”

  “Hardly,” grumped Jonah.

  “Whoops,” she said. “Of course you haven’t.”

  The Bulletin, the clinic’s weekly email newsletter, was an HR-generated, fluff-filled collection of useless links that tended to focus on things like recipes for sweet-potato casserole and chummy exhortations to get your steps in by taking the stairs instead of the elevator. It was supposed to promote health and morale, but instead sounded like it had been written by a bunch of goobers who’d escaped from a 1950s women’s magazine.

  “Please tell me there isn’t something about me in it,” said Jonah, sitting up to scan it, adding, after a moment, “Or you.”

  “Listen to this.” She began to read aloud. “All over the country, ‘unfulfilled’ housewives are encouraged to abandon the well-being of their husbands and children in order to seek a ‘me-first’ career.”

  Jonah’s face contorted, although she couldn’t tell whether this reflected horror or glee. “What the hell is this?”

  “Keep listening,” she said. “It gets worse. ‘One acquaintance of mine, after outsourcing her family’s needs all day, rushes home from her job each evening to prepare dinner. Because she arrives only moments before her husband, she’s developed a sneaky technique to misdirect his attention away from the lack of progress in the kitchen. She quickly sautés an onion, allowing the homey aroma to suffuse through the house. Thinking a wholesome family dinner is imminent, he settles down to enjoy a moment’s peace. Naturally, he’s surprised to be served hastily assembled tuna fish sandwiches.’”

  Georgia switched off the phone.

  “As a man,” Jonah crowed, “I feel for the guy. He thinks he’s getting a delectable onion for dinner and instead the bitch hurls a can of tuna fish in his face while he’s trying to relax with the paper. No wonder there’s outrage. Who wrote this? Beezon?”

  “Some ‘parenting expert.’ It’s old. The Bulletin linked to it today under a section called Managing Stress: Your Job and Your Family.”

  He widened his eyes, no doubt inferring from her icy tone that he’d better tread carefully. “Well, at least it has gifted us a new term for chauvinists. Henceforth, they shall be known to us as Onions.”

  “The question is,” Georgia said, “if the children have been suffering all day without their parents, why is it okay for the dad to come home and ignore them while he waits for his onion?”

  Jonah eyed her, an evaluative look on his face. Since it was becoming more and more evident it wasn’t in the cards for her, Georgia didn’t like articulating it, even to herself, but she did want a child. She wanted a child badly. A baby, sure: a cooing, rosy, round-cheeked angel who would gaze sleepily around and then curl up, buglike, on her chest; she could handle that. She didn’t want colic and diapers and relentless shrieking demands for food, but she understood, in the abstract, that those things were part of the bargain. Her fantasies of an older child, however, were more sharply drawn. She’d be a mini Georgia: long auburn hair with wispy tips; skin so freckled it looked tan; smart, tough, a genuine smart-ass. Georgia would explain things to her and she’d listen, her little head cocked, and then she’d ask astute questions. They’d read books, hike mountains, tinker together in the backyard to build machines. They’d be confidantes.

  Jonah’s thoughts had drifted in a different direction, his eyebrows knitting together in a sad frown. “My mother didn’t work. And it sure wasn’t because she wanted to be with me.”

  “Mine either,” Georgia said, more sharply than she’d intended. Jonah swung his head around to look at her. It took only a few seconds for his gaze to soften into comprehension, followed by an expression Georgia truly despised: pity.

  She hadn’t spoken to her mother since she was five. She’d disappeared from Georgia’s life, utterly and irrevocably, without so much as a written note. Because Georgia had been so young, she didn’t remember everything, of course, but for a long time—or some period of time that seemed long in her childish mind—she’d thought her mother was coming back.

  “What’s the latest? Does Stewart think arbitration will help?”

  She knew he knew she was changing the subject, but he accepted her avoidance with grace. “He does not. He says every time he talks to the clinic’s attorney, he gets the feeling a great black cloud of vultures is gathering overhead, preparing to pluck out my eyes.”

  “Stewie said that?”

  “Yeah. No. He didn’t phrase it like that, because Stewie was born without imagination. But I got the gist: he thinks arbitration won’t get my job back. Or my patients back.”

  “What’s your next move?”

  “I don’t know; that’s what we’re strategizing about today.”

  A door across the room opened, revealing Stewart’s receptionist. “He can see you now,” she said.

  * * *

  —

  The offices of Stewart Hessenheffer, Esq., were exactly as Georgia had imagined them: traditional and boring, full of leather-bound law volumes and dark-grained imitation Regency furniture. Fittingly, Stewart himself was traditional and boring, with a thin nondescript face, colorless hair, and an affectless droning voice. If you wanted to be charitable, you’d describe him as the perfect secret agent, because he was so hard to remember. If you didn’t—and not to cast any aspersion on his lawyering skills—you might reasonably
observe that Stewie was less likely to impale you on the razor-sharp spear of his legal prowess and more likely to talk until you keeled over. But what did Georgia know about lawyering? Maybe boring people to death was a legitimate legal strategy.

  She made a mental note to find out how Stewart had wound up with a preponderance of discrimination cases. It wasn’t a stretch to picture him as an estate attorney or a corporate lawyer, but the practice of discrimination law called to mind someone more along the lines of a fiery young person of color from the ACLU. Maybe he liked playing against type.

  She’d no sooner thought this than she remembered Jonah had mentioned meeting Stewart in his gay poker group. She looked at him again with more than a little embarrassment. Lost in her reverie over Stewie’s appearance, she’d spaced during the last portion of the meeting. They were seated around an oval mahogany table, Jonah and Georgia on one side, Stewart on the other, and he’d been talking steadily, finally finishing with some questions about the members of the executive committee.

  “Donovan Wright,” Jonah said. Georgia tensed, an involuntary reaction, and then cringed again at the fact that even his name had power over her. “I think he might be an ally.”

  “He’s not an ally,” she said, so sharply both men turned to look at her.

  “I mean, I know he’s not a proponent of gay rights or anything like that, but I think he might be persuadable that I should be rehired.”

  “Based on what? He’s scum, Jonah.”

  “I did a little research. He has a gay cousin.”

  “So what?” Her voice had kicked up a few notches too many and she tried to dial it down. “Everybody has a gay cousin; they just don’t all know it. Maybe he hates his cousin. He probably hates his cousin. Leave him out of this.”

  “We can’t leave him out of it.” Jonah, baffled, raised his voice. “He’s on the executive committee. I already left a message about setting up a meeting with him.”

  “No,” she cried. “No, don’t do that.”