The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  “Jonah,” Darby said, in a tentative voice. “I was wondering. Did the police arrest your neighbor?”

  “No. I asked them not to.”

  Georgia sprang forward in her chair. “Jonah! Why?”

  “Because,” he said, “once I calmed down, I figured having the guy thrown in jail was not going to be the best way to reestablish neighborly relations.”

  Darby was staring at Jonah, a contemplative look on her face. “You didn’t want him to pay for hurting you?”

  “I did. I have to say, the idea of seeing that guy perp-walking with his hands behind his back to a cop car sounded pretty sweet. But I got a look at his wife’s face, and”—he shrugged—“I let it go. And you know what? This morning, before I left to come here, I found some roses from her garden on my front porch.”

  Darby placed a hand on Jonah’s chair, a few inches from his shoulder. “I hope everything will work out for you,” she said. Georgia looked at her, surprised at the worry in her voice.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, Darby, but sometimes things don’t work out. Sometimes there’s no antidote for what’s wrong.”

  “There’s an antidote for everything,” Darby said, optimism written all over her face. “Sometimes you just have to figure out what it is.”

  Jonah’s eyes cut back to the marsh, where something large under the surface sent a concentric ring of ripples cascading across the water. “Maybe,” he said. “But you know what they say: sometimes the cure is worse than the poison.”

  PART

  THREE

  17

  PLAUSIBLE DENIABILITY

  Georgia stepped out of the parking garage and squinted into the morning sun, which cast its rays not just over the tropical stucco buildings and the still-exuberant fall flower beds and the neat little crushed-pebble pathways, but also over a massive conflagration of people milling around the clinic’s grounds. She stopped and gaped.

  In the week or so since the conversation at Darby’s house, the clinic had exploded in controversy. Some of the commotion came from news trucks spilling camera-toting men and sound booms and various pieces of unrecognizable equipment; along with them came the talent, who tended to be young, attractive women with bright lipstick and massive amounts of hair.

  Then there were various groups of screamers.

  Along the left side of the clinic bobbed chanting people carrying lots of clever, rainbow-themed signs, and these people seemed to have attracted several other loosely affiliated groups who marched with the seasoned appearance of near-professional protestors; and these in turn had spawned a group of outraged counterprotestors waving signs and placards of the fire-and-brimstone variety, indiscriminately hollering at anyone who went by wearing scrubs. One of them churned the handle of his sign up and down as he loped alongside a hospital worker trying to make it to the door. “God hates fags!” he blared.

  Georgia joined a cluster of three other hospital workers preparing to walk the gauntlet. Keeping their heads down, they took deep breaths and hustled toward the epicenter. “God hates fags,” explained the protestor, transferring his attention to them. Apparently God hates fags was the extent of his oratorical repertoire.

  Two people—a man and a woman—detached themselves from the sidelines and appeared at Georgia’s side, both dressed in the flowing black vestments of the clergy. They linked their arms with hers, angling their bodies as a sort of human shield to protect Georgia from the waving signs and the snarling lips. They passed by the spot where they’d been standing and Georgia realized they were with a church group, standing quietly behind a banner reading

  GOD IS LOVE

  ALL ARE WELCOME

  “Bless you, my dear,” said one of them as she and her colleague deposited Georgia at the door of the clinic. They turned back to escort the next wave of employees flooding from the parking area behind them.

  The clinic had posted a guard at the doors. Georgia flashed her badge and the guard motioned her in. The doors swung shut, cutting off the shrieks and the tumult from outside, prompting a little cloud of simultaneous exhalations from the people standing in the lobby. A nearby lab guy rubbed his hands together. “Did y’all read the paper?”

  The woman beside him shook her head. “Did it say anything about this?”

  “It was about that doc who got fired. He says it’s discrimination, they said he did some kind of malpractice.”

  “I hope he knows what a mess he’s brought down on us,” said the woman. “I don’t see why those people were mad at us. The hospital’s been sticking up for traditional values.”

  “The paper pointed out the doctor who got fired has supporters here,” said the man. “Those guys outside must’ve taken offense.”

  Georgia had read the article this morning, after her run. Stewart had been quoted, and a couple of Jonah’s patients. But there had also been a quote from Beezon.

  “We value all people,” stated John Beezon, 49, the chief human resources officer overlooking Tsukada’s practice. “Personally, I know several gay people. However, Dr. Tsukada’s conduct, and the conduct of his patients, is of concern to us. We reserve the right to require a certain moral standard in our employees. And our employees should not be forced to condone practices contrary to their dearly held religious beliefs. More importantly, in Dr. Tsukada’s case, we have other, more immediate concerns about his fitness as a physician, and those are being looked into at this time.”

  Mr. Beezon declined to specify the nature of the other concerns, stating he would provide an update once the clinic’s investigation is complete.

  Trying to put the newspaper out of her mind, Georgia reviewed her day. Today was all-office—no operating—meaning she’d be home well before Mark arrived in Charleston tonight to visit her. Normally she’d swing by the lounge, but today, especially after the harrowing walk from the garage, she wanted to avoid the gossip.

  In contrast to outdoors, the halls were quiet. She’d almost reached the turnoff to the back entrance to her private office when she heard an unmistakable voice echo down the hall; Donovan Wright was standing down a side corridor, chatting with someone. After wrapping up his conversation, he turned the corner with a tight, drawn face and a sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. As he passed by, Georgia stepped forward, catching the fabric of his blue suit jacket. For a brief second his pale eyes were quizzical and then she saw something else flare behind them. Was that . . . sadness?

  “Donovan,” she said. “Got a minute?”

  “I’m on the way to the OR.”

  “I think we should discuss something.” She stepped even closer, invading his personal space and throwing an arm up to the wall to hem him in. “It won’t take long.”

  He sidestepped her arm. “It’s not a great time.”

  “It’s about Jonah,” she said, moving alongside him as he began to walk. “I read that article in the Post and Courier this morning. There’s a quote from John Beezon insinuating Jonah was fired because he’s a bad doctor. What do you know about that?”

  There was a brief, almost unnoticeable, hitch in his gait. “I haven’t read that yet.”

  “That’s crap, Donovan. You said yourself he’s an excellent doctor.”

  “As I said, I haven’t read it yet.”

  “What about our conversation? You told me last week that you knew he wasn’t a drug thief, that you’d talk to Dan.”

  “I know.”

  She stopped walking.

  “Look.” He’d taken another step or two and swung to face her. “Something really strange is going on. I don’t understand it. Tell your friend Jonah it would be better if he would talk with me.”

  She studied his face. He blanched under her gaze, turning his head to the side.

  “Donovan. I have real concerns that someone, maybe Beezon, is manipulating you here. If there were anything negative about Jonah’s med
ical skills, you’d have all known it.”

  “I didn’t say it was anything about his medical skills.”

  “Beezon did, in the article.”

  “Did he? I’m surprised.”

  She tried, and failed, to recall the exact wording of the quote. “It was something like that,” she said, uncertainty creeping into her voice.

  “Well, I suppose you could say there are elements of his job performance, in a way, relating more to his decisions than his skills.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For one thing”—Donovan raised a finger, as if he were ticking off a list of offenses—“he’s been treating transgender patients with hormone therapy. Testosterone therapy to masculinize women who think they’re men, and vice versa.”

  “So? That’s the worst they could come up with, after all these investigations? Y’all knew that already. People with gender dysphoria can be treated with hormone therapy according to the Endocrine Society. It’s hardly unusual.”

  “The hospital believes facilitating an unnatural physical state is inappropriate.”

  “We do breast augmentations here, don’t we?”

  “That’s not the same thing.”

  “Why not? We’re already allowing people to make changes to their bodies if it pleases them. Because guess what? It’s their body. It’s their life and it’s their decision. Who the hell are we to tell them what they should and should not be allowed to do?”

  He raised his hands. “Hey. There’s no need for foul language.”

  The last vestige of her distress at what Donovan had done in the supply closet rose up, cycloning in the air until it re-formed as pure resolve. Georgia perched on her toes, suddenly twenty pounds lighter. She put her hands on her hips and leaned in. “Really? If this calamity isn’t a call for cursing, I don’t know what is.”

  Donovan scuttled backward, pinned in by the wall behind him and Georgia in front of him. He cast his eyes around for the cavalry. “Uh, the hospital believes changing gender is different.”

  “It’s not done lightly,” she said. “There are guidelines based on research and extensive interaction. The clinic shouldn’t dictate how a physician and his patients make decisions, especially when the doctor is following accepted medical practices.”

  “Of course the clinic can dictate what kind of medical care is provided. It’s a privately run, for-profit business.”

  Georgia thought of Frieda Myers Delacroix: her bright, alert eyes, and the grace in her expression. “I don’t get it,” she said. “Why does anyone care what’s right for another person physically and psychologically? And doesn’t this bother you as a physician? A nonmedical person like Beezon dictating medical decisions to doctors on the basis of his personal beliefs? What’s to stop him from banning birth control? Or cosmetic surgery? Or anything we do? This is our fight too, Donovan. Ignore it, and one day you’re going to wake up and find yourself living in a theocracy where you have to get permission from a religious ruler to provide any medical care at all.”

  Donovan looked stunned by this onslaught. “I’m sorry, Georgia,” he said finally. He paused. “But Beezon has something else on him. And it goes considerably beyond a question of medical judgment.”

  Here it came: the clinic was finally going to announce what they had on Jonah. She’d been waiting, convinced each day that this would be the time. Instead of shadowboxing in the dark, they’d be able to fight in the open.

  “What? That empty bottle of fentanyl? Someone tried to frame him.”

  “No. Ask Jonah. He’ll know.”

  She knew, of course, what Jonah had done, but she couldn’t let Donovan know that she knew. “Donovan—”

  He held up his hands. “Georgia, I’ll still do what I can to help save your job, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to help Jonah anymore, and I can’t tell you more than that. You should have a talk with him.”

  Reeling, she stepped back, but recovered quickly. Perhaps Donovan didn’t know the specifics. And why would he bother mentioning her job? Did he think that would make up for the past?

  There was one good thing that would come of Donovan refusing to help: at least it freed her from this unholy alliance. “Fine,” she snapped. “Jonah didn’t want your help anyway. I should never have discussed it with you.”

  He reached the bank of elevators and stepped onto one as it opened, directing his last comment to her just before the doors closed. “Georgia.” On his face was a look of terrible blankness. “Maybe you’re right.”

  * * *

  —

  By the time she reached home, nine hours later, apprehension had frayed the edges of her stamina. Even though Mark would be arriving in a couple hours, she found herself longing to shut down, to crawl into her loft bed and cocoon herself under the covers. For over a week, she’d been expecting a development in Jonah’s case that hadn’t come. Surely something would change before the day was out. For the millionth time, she checked her phone to see if the clinic had released any information: nothing.

  She sat in the car for a moment, drained, before dragging herself out. Dobby’s head bobbed excitedly around in the window as he barked at the car to lure her indoors, and despite her mood, she couldn’t suppress a grin. As always, Dobby’s unconditional love cheered her. Where would she be without her boy?

  Inside the house, she took one step and came to a dead stop. On her way out the door this morning, she’d noticed a bad smell, but hadn’t had time to investigate. Now, the smell in the kitchen had intensified. Intensified wasn’t quite the right word: it had grown so foul she almost vomited. Gagging, she made her way into the kitchen, where she discovered the problem to be a malfunctioning garbage disposal. A quick investigation revealed the culprit: a bunch of half-disintegrated shrimp peels refluxing up from the pipe beneath the sink, an unwelcome reminder of her dinner a couple nights ago.

  After removing her shirt and donning the denim coveralls she kept for such situations, she eased herself under the sink and instantly regretted not tying a protective cloth over her nose. Dobby, who found the putrid smell invigorating, suddenly stuck his head next to hers and drooled on her face. “Out!” she yowled, yanking her head straight up, hard, into the S-shaped plumbing fitting. Whimpering, she reached up to feel a lump rising on her forehead. For a moment she considered abandoning the project long enough to apply ice to what felt like a huge, burgeoning hematoma, but then reconsidered: she didn’t know if it was possible to die solely from inhaling a disgusting aroma, but if it was, she was toast. She figured she had ten more minutes before the smell disabled her completely. This was enough to spur her back into action; breathing through her mouth, she grasped her wrench and attacked the pipe. Just as she successfully disconnected the slip-nut fittings on the drain trap, the realization struck: she’d forgotten to place the catch bucket within reach.

  “Shit!” she screamed, as a cascade of rotting shrimp peels poured onto her face.

  The doorbell rang. It was still too early for Mark, so she ignored it, thinking nothing could possibly be more urgent than ridding her hair of rotting shrimp, but it rang again and again, so finally, gasping, she tottered away from the sink to open the door.

  Jonah’s eyes bugged as he took in her appearance: hair askew, shirtless, injured, and covered in filth. “Wha—” he managed, pointing at her.

  “I got hit by some shrimp,” she muttered. “Come in.”

  He took a tentative step forward. As the smell hit him, he staggered backward toward the porch swing, one hand waving in circles, propeller-like, and the other covering his nose. “Maybe I’ll just wait out here,” he said.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, trying to summon up some dignity. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Back inside, she discovered Dobby merrily rooting around in the pool of foul water, wearing a tiara of shrimp peels and a look of profound can
ine joy. She managed to throw him in the backyard, get the clog cleared, replace the fitting, clean the kitchen floor, clean the sink, clean the inside of the cabinet, fling her despoiled coveralls in the washing machine, and get herself in and out of the shower in under fifteen minutes. All that remained was to spray Dobby with the hose a few times in lieu of a full-blown bath. She trudged out to the back, armed with a spray canister of dog shampoo in one hand, scooping up the hose nozzle in the other. Dobby, correctly concluding that she planned to rob him of his newfound eau de shrimp, bolted for the back of the shed. With her last burst of strength she lunged forward to grab his collar. He fought the good fight, soaking both of them, but she won: never underestimate the power of opposable thumbs and superior intelligence.

  She should have showered again but she didn’t think she could handle even one more thing. Feeble and heaving, she toweled Dobby dry and shuffled out to the front porch to join Jonah on the swing.

  He eyed her warily. “Everything okay?”

  She grabbed a lock of her hair and sniffed it. “Mark’s coming soon,” she reminded him.

  “Oh yeah! I forgot. I should go.”

  “Of course you shouldn’t go. He’ll be happy to see you.”

  “You sure? I can come back later.”

  “No, no. You’re here. Wait; why are you here? Anything on the news?”

  Mournfully: “Not yet. I just didn’t want to be alone.”

  “You want to come inside?”

  He gave a cautious sniff. “Ten minutes ago, I’d have said yes.”

  She opened her arms. “Mi casa, su casa, amigo. Plus, I think it will smell better in about fifteen minutes. Especially since I opened all the doors and windows.”