The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  Silence. Even the hospitalists across the room had stopped clacking at their computer keys; in the back of the room, a couple people just outside Georgia’s visual field slipped outside into the hall. Rooney Greeley lumbered up to his feet, wearing an expression that looked suspiciously like amusement. “OR,” he grunted, pointing in the direction of the operating rooms. He left.

  Well, fine. The odds of Rooney Greeley supporting someone he considered to be a fancy-pants homosexual were obviously nil. But the others . . . Georgia rotated her head around the circle. Marianna and Tom and Gretchen and two other guys Georgia didn’t know had all developed a sudden passionate interest in a SportsCenter debate between two blockheaded behemoths over whether or not there should be a fifteen-yard no-blocking zone in front of the kickoff team. “Well,” said Tom Aiken, with an ostentatious fake stretch, “I better hit it.”

  “Me too,” Gretchen and Marianna said simultaneously. One of them giggled. The other guys didn’t say anything at all as they drifted off. The hospitalists resumed their weary typing.

  Only McLean and Darby were left. “I’ll sign your petition, honey,” said Darby softly. She straightened the gold chain at her neck; it was tiny, with a pearl cross looped at the end.

  Georgia looked at McLean. He shrugged, his smooth, boyish face blank. Then he smiled. “Sure, I’ll sign it.” Before Georgia could thank him, he leveled a finger at her. “But if your boy turns out to be a junkie, you owe me dinner.”

  * * *

  —

  Georgia stepped into the OR hallway. Her first case didn’t start for another ten minutes; she should’ve been using the time to review the schedule for the day, but a gnawing sensation had invaded her gut.

  Amsterdam aside, Jonah had never been a drug user. He flirted on the boundary of inappropriate alcohol use, perhaps, but had never quite crossed the line. He didn’t drink on a daily basis or upon awakening or during professional hours. He didn’t reach for the bottle as a crutch. Had he gotten hammered and said something regrettable on Grindr? Yes. But, really, who hadn’t?

  She was certain Jonah could never hide a drug habit from her. Physicians who stole opiates, however, were a stealthy bunch. They war-gamed their strategies; they took precautions. They performed their duties at work with clear-eyed competence, going the extra mile to be a hard worker, to treat their patients with care, to perform their duties with collegial integrity. Read any profile of a physician addict and you’d invariably read this line: She’s the last one I’d have ever suspected. They steered their ships along without a hint of distress, until finally and inevitably the habit rose up from their sea of deceit, foaming and monstrous, to swallow them whole.

  But apparently, she was the only one who’d have a problem believing that Jonah was a druggie who stole from the hospital. Why was it so easy for everyone else to assume he’d break the ultimate taboo for a physician?

  “Dr. Brown.”

  She looked up and found herself only a few feet away from Donovan Wright. Without thinking, she whirled on one heel, but he reached for her arm, clamping it in the same iron grip he’d displayed in the hall the other day. She wrenched it away.

  “I need a moment,” he said.

  This was not the first time they’d encountered each other since the afternoon in the closet, obviously, but it was the first time they’d been alone. Or virtually alone, anyway: a few people traipsed along the hall a bit farther down, outside hearing range. Georgia weighed whether it would cause a noticeable commotion if she refused to speak to him. But then she thought of her discussion with Stewart and Donovan’s strange silence when Jonah had been fired. Slowly and deliberately, she met his gaze.

  “I can help him,” he said, his pale eyes strangely intense.

  She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “What do you mean?”

  “I think it’s a mistake, firing Dr. Tsukada, and it’s an even bigger mistake to dismiss his patients.”

  “You do?”

  “I do. We shouldn’t discriminate on the basis of the morality or immorality of our patients.”

  At the word immorality the blue light of a flame switched on in the recesses of her skull. “Because we are all immoral in some fashion?”

  “We are,” he agreed, not taking the bait. “I don’t have to approve of the behavior, but it isn’t a good idea to exclude a group of patients from the clinic on the basis of lifestyle choices.”

  “When you say choices—” she began, but he interrupted.

  “Look, I’m sure you and I might have certain disagreements when it comes to social issues,” he said. “But I heard what you said in the lounge just now, and I wanted to tell you I don’t think the clinic should get rid of Dr. Tsukada or his patients. From everything I’ve heard, his patient care is excellent. What these people do on their own time is none of the clinic’s business.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  His tone was restrained. “Look, I’m offering to help. If he doesn’t want it . . .”

  She stared at him; to her surprise, he looked sincere. If this was a chance to aid Jonah, she’d better swallow her revulsion and obtain whatever inside information she could. “You’re on the executive committee. Did they really find fentanyl in his coat pocket?”

  “They did,” he said, his expression unreadable.

  “But they didn’t use that as a rationale for firing him,” she said, remembering that during the meeting Beezon had alluded to something else they had on Jonah.

  “That’s right. I convinced them not to.”

  She couldn’t hide her surprise. “You did?”

  “Like you said, anyone could have placed it there. A hundred people go in and out of the vestibule in front of the procedure room. Sometimes extra coats hang there for weeks.”

  “So how are you proposing you’d help him?”

  “I haven’t figured out the most effective approach,” he said, glancing in the direction of the lounge. “The clinic is already seeking stronger ammunition for having fired him. John Beezon really hates him.” He paused. “He hates you too.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Beezon’s a lost cause, obviously, in terms of whatever the arbitration yields. It would be better for everyone if the clinic rethinks things before the arbitration process.”

  “I agree.”

  The idea of aligning herself with Donovan, for any reason, was repugnant. Even standing here next to him now, she had to fight the urge to flee, or better yet, to apply the searing flame of her anger onto him. And yet, the possibility that Jonah could have his job back—even at the cost of making a deal with the devil—was too alluring to bypass. Perhaps he was even sorry for what he’d done, and this offer represented a form of atonement, but more likely, he’d finally started to wake up to the fact that Georgia posed a threat to his reputation.

  Donovan was still talking. “Back to your original question: it will probably come down to a discussion between the five docs on the committee, plus John Beezon and the lawyers and whoever shows up from the administration. You’re not going to persuade John or Claude. But Judd was always opposed to telling those patients to leave. And I think I could sway Dan. He’s a good guy.”

  Georgia questioned whether she and Donovan would have the same definition of good guy, but she wasn’t about to argue the point. “So . . . you’re saying you’ll talk to him before the meeting.”

  “Yes.”

  She waited, but that was it. This vague reparation was the closest thing she was going to get to an acknowledgment of the wrong he’d done to her. He deserved revenge, not forgiveness. In a perfect world, he’d have been taken down, first with a nasty shaming via the HR department. She pictured him cringing his way down the clinic corridors. Then, when he’d achieved maximum public humiliation, she’d have appeared and kicked him in the balls. Did that make her a bad urologist? Possibly. Bu
t she could live with that.

  “Okay,” she said, so forcefully Donovan took a step back. “Okay. Make it happen.”

  * * *

  —

  As soon as she closed the exam-room door on her last patient, Georgia raced to her car and called Jonah. “Something happened,” she said, accelerating to pass a slow car, and then cursed herself for being cryptic. Predictably, Jonah started yelping and she had to raise her voice to power over him. “Hey! Calm down. I have to tell you: Donovan said he needed to talk to me today.”

  He fell silent. For about a second. “What?”

  “He came up to me outside the lounge this morning. He said he wants to help you.”

  This time, he was slower to answer. “He did?”

  She filled him in, speaking quickly. She expected him to be furious about the fentanyl and exultant about the possibility of avoiding arbitration, but his response was uncharacteristically muted. “Do you believe him?”

  “I—yes. I guess I do. I’m sure the last thing he wants is to get into a big he-said, she-said knockout with me. This will sidestep all that. And it’s the right thing to do.”

  Jonah ignored the last part of her sentence, since neither of them truly believed Donovan would be motivated by anything less than an ulterior motive. “Can you live with this?”

  “I can,” she said, her voice soft. “What about that fentanyl bottle?”

  “I have no freaking clue. It wasn’t me.”

  “Okay. Well, we’ll see what Donovan can do with the committee.”

  “No, we won’t. I’m not accepting any assistance from that asshole. And I’m certainly not okay with him thinking he’s off the hook for what he did to you just because he says he wants to help me.”

  “Jones,” she said, dismayed, “I already told him to go for it.”

  “Well, you should have asked my opinion first.” Jonah’s breath echoed down the phone line. “Can we please, please report him?”

  “No,” she said. “I just—no.”

  He sighed. “I will never say a word to anyone if that’s what you want, George. But I’d rather stay fired than have that arrogant son of a bitch sticking up for me.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We need to talk some more, clearly. Want to meet me and Dobby for a walk?”

  Even now, his voice brightened at the thought of company. “How about a drink? I’m not really down with exercise right now.”

  “Nope,” she said. “We’re walking. I’ll see you in front of the pineapple statue in Waterfront Park in an hour.”

  16

  MELATONIN IS OKAY BUT BOURBON WORKS BETTER

  Just beyond the iconic fountain lay the glimmering water of the Charleston Harbor, a natural inlet formed by the junction of the Ashley and Cooper rivers. A row of symmetrical palm trees stretched away in both directions at the path’s edge, backlit by a cluster of blazing pink and orange clouds. Georgia could just make out Jonah’s silhouette, standing with his back to her, looking out over the water. Something about the stillness of his posture moved her; his head cocked, his hands in his pockets, he looked like a statue of a man frozen in eternal contemplation.

  This illusion was dispelled as he turned and caught sight of her. “On time,” he crowed, thumping his chest. He moved closer, scratching Dobby’s head. “The Bible says punctuality is next to godliness.”

  “First of all, it’s not punctuality—it’s cleanliness that’s next to godliness—and it’s not from the Bible, it’s from a sermon by John Wesley. In any case, you are almost never punctual.” Georgia paused, adding kindly, “You are clean, though.”

  He glowered at her. “What is wrong with you?”

  Taking that question as rhetorical, she moved on. “I need to say something. I was so shocked by Donovan approaching me and offering to help that I didn’t even think about what you wanted. Sometimes I try too hard to control everything.”

  “Sometimes?” he said archly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You are forgiven, you bossy bitch. But Dr. Wrong can go fuck himself. I’m not about to truck with Satan just to try to save my own skin.”

  She dug her fingers into her thighs to keep herself from arguing. Jonah might not like to admit it but he was every bit as stubborn as she was. “I meant to ask you earlier, what have you been doing all week?”

  “I’ve been using this time to better myself,” he said piously. “Podcasts, TED talks, maybe an online course or two. Some bodily fitness things.”

  “Oh my God. You’ve been lying around all day watching old episodes of Nailed It.” She smacked him lightly. “Jonah! Your brain is going to rot!”

  “I find inspiration in the failures of others, George. Don’t get all judgey.”

  She could feel her lips compressing in worry but hastily rearranged them into a neutral line. Instead of answering, she stopped and pulled Dobby in for a pat. He obliged happily, shaking his bottom so hard he almost smacked her in the face with his tail. “Good boy,” she said.

  Jonah turned toward the sea and waited, hands back in his pockets. She released Dobby from her embrace and he lunged forward, nearly taking off her arm. They started down the path again, walking into the wind.

  “How’s Mark?”

  “He’s good. He’s coming to visit.”

  Jonah’s pace increased. “Yes! I’ll plan some sightseeing for him. For, ah, when you’re at work.”

  She gave him a fond smile. “He’d like that.”

  “We need him to think about moving here. You’ll have to upgrade your house, obviously.”

  Georgia knew from experience it would be better not to try to interject logic into this discussion. “Sure, right,” she said, and listened for a few minutes to Jonah burble instructions on how not to lose a man.

  “It was so strange not having to go to work this week,” he said, finally getting back to her question. “For the last ten years, I’ve bitched and moaned every single morning about waking up early, or staying up all night, or missing whatever fun thing I wanted to do because of work, but now I don’t have work anymore and all I want to do is go to work.”

  “What did you do all week?”

  “At first I did nothing. I couldn’t get on social media because of the thing, and I couldn’t read the newspaper because of the thing, and now the local TV stations are covering the thing, so I can’t watch them either. I can’t go to the gym or the grocery or the bar because I think people are looking at me.”

  “You seem . . . strong, though,” she said cautiously.

  He brightened at the compliment. “As it turns out, George, I am remarkably resilient. This week, the thing that bothered me the most was not the fear of the future or financial worries or even the injustice of it all. I’m waking up in the morning and it hits me like a bitchslap; I just can’t get over my loneliness. I miss the people at work, even the shitty ones who haven’t reached out, and most of all, I miss my patients. Being up in my house all by myself feels like I’m the only survivor of an apocalypse.”

  Georgia nodded.

  “But then,” he went on, “I decided to man up. When you come right down to it, the only solution when things go wrong is to think of yourself as a badass survivor.”

  “Have people from work been supportive?”

  He ran a hand though his hair, the end of his sleeve falling back a bit to expose his wrist. “Actually, I haven’t heard from many work people.”

  “Jonah, I am so sorry.”

  He tried a smile. “My office has a large Onion population, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t expecting them to organize a crusade.”

  “Fine. We’ll organize our own crusade.”

  “Yes.” He brightened, then deflated. “Uh-oh.”

  “No, you’re right that Donovan can’t be trusted. I’ve been giving it some thought, what Stewie said about optics,
” she said. “And I think there’s an opportunity there.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We are not being nearly proactive enough. I mean, what’s the goal here?”

  Jonah raised an eyebrow. “Our goal? We want our patients back. And we want them to have access to the immeasurable blessing of my brilliance without some hypocritical Onion bellowing that they’re sinners.”

  “And who decides what happens?”

  “The arbitrators. Unless the HR department and the executive committee come to their senses first.”

  “But most of those guys are Onions. Right?”

  He considered this. “Yes. Pretty Oniony group.”

  “So you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

  A breeze blew in off the ocean and ruffled his hair. “So what are you saying? I give up?”

  “No.” She stopped walking and faced him. “I think, somehow, we have to get people on your side.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Then I have an idea.”

  * * *

  —

  The concept, he said, was uncomplicated. They didn’t have to do anything special to paint Beezon in a negative light; they’d simply allow him to speak and then use his words against him.

  “I thought,” Jonah said, “we could request a private meeting and then wait for him to say something atrocious, which he undoubtedly will; and then, later, we’d threaten to tell the press.”

  “You mean . . . leveraging public opinion to embarrass the clinic. Like Stewart said.”

  “Yes. I think most people, no matter where they fall politically, are not okay with banning medical care to an entire population of people. The clinic might genuinely believe this is the right thing, but I think we can count on Beezon to show an uglier side.”

  “That’s fine,” said Georgia, “but I don’t know if you can be the one to do this. Even if you did manage to get him to say anything outrageous, why would anyone believe you? Beezon would just deny he ever said it and the committee would believe him.”