The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  “They’re talking about him.”

  They caught the tail end of the local news segment: it was indeed about Jonah. For a moment, Mark flinched, thinking they were going to report that he’d died, but this was something else: the reporter sounded upbeat, even intrigued.

  “. . . certain to be more to this developing story,” she said. “In the meantime, though, we’ll continue to try to reach out to his place of employment for comment on the allegations against them.”

  “Did she say allegations against him?” asked Georgia, echoing Mark’s thoughts as the story ended and the anchor began talking about white supremacists. “Or allegations against them? As in, allegations against the clinic?”

  “It sounded like them,” he said. Georgia bent forward, searching for something on her phone. After a moment of frustrated tapping, she set the phone down. “I can’t find anything on the news sites.”

  “What about Jonah’s lawyer?” Mark suggested. “Maybe he’d know.”

  She cocked a finger at him. “Brilliant.”

  She put the phone on speaker so Mark could hear. “How is he?” barked the lawyer as soon as she identified herself. “Any improvement?”

  “No. Stewart, I just heard them mention Jonah on NPR,” she began, but the guy, sounding revved up, interrupted.

  “I can’t talk,” he said. “I’m on the phone about it now.”

  “Can you just—”

  “I don’t know quite how to tell you this,” Stewart said. “But it looks like someone at the clinic may have framed him. I’ll be in touch.” He hung up before Georgia could say another word.

  Mark tried to take in Georgia’s face from the corner of his eye, but all he could make out was that she was staring dead ahead. “He said ‘framed,’ right?” he asked. “I can’t believe it!”

  She still didn’t react and so he took his eyes off the road, briefly, to swing his head in her direction. Why wasn’t she more surprised? She caught his movement. “If Jonah dies and then he’s exonerated, it won’t matter one bit. I get why Stewart’s worked up, but . . .”

  “Hard to blame him for being excited about that if it’s true, though,” Mark pointed out. “Not only an innocent client, but somebody actually framed by the other side? It’s every trial lawyer’s dream.”

  “I don’t give a damn about what makes trial lawyers happy. I only want him to be okay.”

  “It’s absolutely crazy, isn’t it? That someone would do something so dishonest as to manufacture evidence against someone they wanted to be fired? If it’s proven to be true, the clinic is going to get crucified in the press.”

  “Yes,” she said dully. “It would be utter vindication. His patients would have their doctor back. If he’d only hung on another day or two, everything would have been fine.”

  * * *

  —

  It turned out to be a good thing they’d gone back: Jonah’s patio door was not only unlocked but also open a crack. Mark entered with trepidation, wary that the house could have been burglarized but also cringing from the awful memory of having found Jonah here near death. He went first, his body tense, standing directly in front of Georgia.

  “It’s okay,” he said, after a moment. “No one’s here. I don’t see anything out of place, but maybe you want to look around? You know his stuff.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I want to look through his stuff.”

  Mark accepted this without comment. He turned toward the glass door of the patio, through which they could see the ocean sloshing around in majestic indifference. The color of the sky had deepened; it was almost navy at the horizon.

  Georgia started toward the door but Mark spoke before she could open it. “Hey,” he said quietly. “We should probably check for a note.”

  She startled, as if this had not occurred to her.

  “If he expected to die, he might have left you something.” He kept his voice soft. “Don’t people often do that? Leave instructions for their things or a list of goodbyes or . . . an explanation?”

  She blew out a shaky breath. “Okay,” she said. “Will you . . . will you check around for me? I’m going to step out on the porch.”

  Mark nodded assent and she eased out of the room, leaving him standing alone in the dark living room. He flicked on a light. The junk drawer, still open, sat in a state of disarray, the neat little divider within it separating a mishmash of pens and pieces of paper and batteries and all the extraneous crap that accumulated, as if by magic, in a household. Given what he knew about the man’s extravagant personality, he might have assumed a certain wanton disregard for order on Jonah’s part had Georgia not told him Jonah possessed a meticulous nature when it came to his environment. According to her, he was tidy, almost fastidious, at home. He color-coded his drawers, arranged the contents of his closets on identical custom hangers. He made his bed daily. He had a standing appointment, every three weeks, for haircuts.

  He left the kitchen and stepped into the bedroom. Here, again, was evidence of Jonah’s neat nature: aside from the messy bedside table, still littered with the remnants of Jonah’s overdose, everything seemed to be in place. Idly, he poked his head into a closet and he peered onto a shelf. Nothing. He exited and returned to the bed, lifting up Jonah’s pillow.

  Jackpot.

  Footsteps sounded close by and he turned to see Georgia standing behind him. He shifted from one leg to the other, his hand behind his back.

  “You found something,” she said.

  He brought his hand forward. “It’s a note. To you.”

  “A note?” Terror slashed across her face. “Did you read it?”

  “I did.”

  “Oh,” she said, the word coming slowly. “Can you—will you read it to me?”

  Mark extracted the reading glasses he’d just returned to his pocket and put them on. “It’s for you,” he said, again, moronically, as if she could have missed that. He cleared his throat and began to read.

  Dear George,

  It’s midnight and I’m back. You’re going to be pissed but I left the mountains. Turns out it is not as exciting as you’d think to be an outlaw. It’s not exciting at all, actually. It’s . . . excruciatingly lonely.

  I’ve been giving a lot of thought to my situation and the only thing I am sure of is that I don’t want to think any more about my situation. I don’t want you to have to think about it anymore either.

  And I’m sick of my demons.

  I thought I’d go home, get stupidly drunk, pass out, and wake up with new insight but the only thing I’ve achieved so far is getting stupidly drunk.

  So . . . I am making a list of my favorite things about you, just in case I forget to tell you in person.

  Top Ten Things I Love About Georgia

  10. Angry hair

  9. Smarter than Wikipedia

  8. Has way more facial expressions than other people

  7. Sings like an angel on crack

  6. Knows how to make vodka from potatoes

  5. Extravagant kindness

  4. Adds extra money to group tips when she thinks no one’s looking

  2. Thinks I don’t know about my Christmas gift this year

  1. Is the only person I’ve ever loved

  Georgia sucked in a breath and turned away from him so he could not see her face. “There’s no number three.”

  Mark flipped the paper.

  “On the back. It says: Fuck. I forgot to write number three.”

  “Ah,” she said, and then folded, jackknifing her chin toward her knees so violently that for a second he thought she’d cracked herself in the jaw. After a startled moment he rushed to her, pulling her onto his lap. A great tide of pain distorted her features before she buried her face in his shoulder. Her body felt so tense it might have been mad
e of iron.

  “Georgia,” he said, helplessly, once she’d managed to dial it down to a series of dull hiccups. Gently dislodging her from his lap, he rose, went to the kitchen, and returned with a paper towel, which he used to dab at her face. She eased under his arm and together they lay down, flat on their backs, staring up at Jonah’s bedroom ceiling.

  “You okay?” Mark asked finally.

  “I’m better.”

  “I wondered . . .” Mark hesitated, wary of following the spectacularly stupid question he’d just asked with another one. “What did he mean by his demons? Do you think he wishes he weren’t gay?”

  “Oh!” she said, surprise in her tone. “No. Even before this, Jonah’s been through plenty of crap as a result of being gay—his family, various teenaged torments—but he likes who he is. He doesn’t want to be something he’s not.”

  “Then what did he mean?”

  “He means his depression,” she said simply.

  “Ah,” said Mark again, adding, “I understand depression.”

  “When your mother . . .”

  He nodded, feeling a dull, familiar tug in his chest. He’d been depressed when his mother died—of that, there was no question—but depression had sought him out at other times as well. As with Jonah, sometimes it struck him without warning, rising up from some unknowable neurochemical wasteland in his brain.

  The wind kicked up outside. It was fully dark now, the last traces of purple gone from the sky. He slid his arm under her neck, brushing his hand against the side of her still-damp face.

  “I know you sing well,” he said. “I’ve heard you in the shower. I know you overtip. I didn’t know you could brew vodka but I’m not all that surprised. But what did he mean about the Christmas gift? It’s not even Thanksgiving.”

  Her voice held a hint of a smile. “I don’t know how he found out. They promised me they wouldn’t say a word.”

  “Who did?”

  “The people at the medical college. I made a donation to have an area in the research lab named in honor of Jonah’s Nana.”

  “That sounds . . . substantial.”

  “It’s hard to get anything for Jonah,” she said. “We try to outdo each other every year. His Nana is the one who encouraged his interest in medicine. I wanted to do something he’d truly love.”

  “I’d say you succeeded. I’ve never known anyone with so many photos of their grandmother by their bed.” He was quiet a moment, then added, “I don’t know if I should mention this, but there’s more.”

  “More what? Another note?”

  “No. A postscript.” He could hear the sheepish tone in his voice. “I’m a little hesitant to read it . . .”

  “Just do it.”

  His other arm still pinned down by her head, Mark struggled to get the letter out of his pocket, where he’d tucked it during her meltdown. Eventually he managed it and held it straight up in front of his face.

  “P.S.” he read, “Promise me you won’t screw it up with Mark.”

  “Mark . . .”

  “I swear, I’m not making it up. He actually wrote that.” He thrust the letter into her line of sight so she could see for herself. She almost, but not quite, managed a smile. “Well,” she said, “I finally have proof: Jonah would micromanage my love life from beyond the grave if he could.”

  24

  THE CELESTIAL DISCHARGE

  She sat up. “Do you mind giving me a moment?” She staggered to her feet and waited, pushing the door shut as soon as Mark left Jonah’s bedroom. She’d been in here a thousand times, but never alone. She surveyed the room as if she’d never seen it before.

  Jonah was one of those people who cast a larger-than-life vibe. Even when he was quiet—which wasn’t often—he drew your attention. His facial expressions, his body language—even his thoughts—seemed to broadcast themselves on some dominant frequency, pulling your attention toward him. The room without him was shaded and dull. His things were just things. For the first time, it struck her how little of his personality was reflected in this room. A nondescript bed. The S&M chair, which he never sat in. Even the pictures of his Nana were colorless and generic, as if they’d been selected on the basis of the photographic quality, rather than as a representation of the person within.

  She sat on his bed, avoiding the side where they’d found him, and ran her hand along the edge of the bedside table, which had already accumulated the tiniest film of dust. She looked across to his shelves—the one area of the room that captured an element of his personality—and scanned the books: mostly nonfiction—biographies and military history—which she knew he liked. But one volume was different: a slim, fabric-bound tome, light blue, with a faint ingrained pattern woven into the cloth. She crossed the room and plucked it out.

  A journal.

  Again, she was surprised. For all that she loved reading, she’d never kept a diary, believing it to be an introspective waste of time. And it required creativity: even the most basic recounting of one’s day had to be embellished with interesting language, so as not to bore the reader, even if the readership was limited to the author. Thumbing through it, she saw Jonah had taken this sentiment to heart; his journal was lengthy, with multiple pages per entry and little drawings in some of the margins. She started to read it, then shut it abruptly. What right did she have to spy on Jonah?

  But then she opened it again. Yes, it would be a breach of his privacy to read it, but what if he died? Someone would go through his things. It would probably be her, but she knew the hospital would reach out to Jonah’s family as soon as they tracked down the contact information. Even if he didn’t die, his family might come to his house, they might search his belongings, and they might take this journal. It might contain exculpatory evidence as far as the drug theft was concerned, but it could contain other material too, things Jonah would never want them to read. For that matter, it could contain things she’d never want them to read either.

  She opened the cover and began to riffle through the pages without actually diving into any individual entry. Jonah had been an erratic chronicler of his own life, skipping weeks or months at a time before sinking into frenzies of what appeared to be near-obsessive detailing. He employed various methods of capturing his thoughts: occasionally straightforward narration, but more often verse, poetry, or even drawing. Consequently, the diary looked to be more of a reflection of his moods than a recounting of events.

  The writing, what little she allowed herself to read, was shockingly good. She’d had no idea Jonah was capable of writing a grocery list, let alone an exquisite verse. She turned to the last page and, abruptly, her gaze sharpened. She read and reread the words on the page, analyzing each one with the fervor of a scholar, tracing her finger along them until she’d committed them to memory. Carefully, she creased the bound edge of the page and tore it from the corner until it ripped from the book, folding it into a small square, which she placed in her pocket.

  Lifting the edge of Jonah’s mattress, she slid the journal between it and the box spring. If he died, she’d return and retrieve it before anyone found it. She stood for a moment at Jonah’s window, bathed in moonlight, watching the surf as it drifted and receded in an endless loop, and then she turned and went back to the living room.

  * * *

  —

  Tuesday also passed without a change in Jonah’s condition. Or at least it passed without a positive change; his liver enzymes continued to worsen. After a conversation with Dr. Levin, Georgia walked back to the waiting room to talk with Mark. She watched him for a moment before he saw her. He sat, his back straight, on one of the uncomfortable plastic couches, reading a newspaper. Even seated, his head loomed a good six inches higher than the heads of the other people in the room, who, like her, all looked wrecked.

  By now Georgia recognized some of the other families in the ICU waiting room, including a larg
e group containing at least six or seven weepy adults and several oblivious small children. The children’s mother occupied the bed next to Jonah, and, like him, she was unconscious and on a ventilator. Georgia didn’t know what had happened to her.

  Mark looked up, searching her face. Immediately he tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed to her. “C’mon,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “I’m taking you to the cafeteria. We need to move a little and you need to eat.”

  Despite its subterranean location, the cafeteria was bright and appealing, with clean white-tiled floors and blond wood tables. Georgia didn’t want food, but she also didn’t want to disgrace herself by fainting, so she choked down some yogurt once they’d settled at a table at the back of the room.

  “What did Dr. Levin say?” Mark asked.

  She told him about the liver enzymes.

  “But didn’t she say those labs don’t correlate with the ultimate outcome?” Mark asked. “Even if they get very high, he could still recover, right?”

  She pulled her spoon in a listless path through the half-eaten yogurt. “That’s true, but there’s more. Some of his other labs are starting to tank as well.”

  “Like what?”

  “His kidneys are failing.”

  Mark frowned. She explained: in the hours immediately following his ingestion of the drugs and alcohol, Jonah had apparently passed out so deeply he hadn’t moved at all. When they’d found him he’d been in an awkward position, with one leg folded under the other in a manner eventually compromising the blood supply to that leg. Because of that, Jonah’s muscles had started to break down, releasing large amounts of protein and metabolites into his bloodstream. This in turn had begun to fry Jonah’s kidneys.

  “Can they fix that?”

  “They’re giving him massive amounts of fluid to try to flush out the metabolites. And he may need dialysis.” She hesitated, trying to think of a way to describe Jonah’s appearance right now. “If he wakes up today, he’s going to be pissed,” she said, finally. “He looks like a swollen tick.”