The Antidote for Everything

by Kimmery Martin

  Mark smiled at this, but in truth, despite her attempt at a joke, she was barely holding it together. There were times—many times—in life where ignorance was bliss. She thought of the happy tots darting around in the ICU family waiting area, clueless of the tectonic shift in their lives as their mother clung to life in the next room. Once you grew up, you never again enjoyed that level of protection from reality, but when things went badly in a hospital, most people were at least somewhat shielded by their lack of medical knowledge. They held on to hope when there was no hope. Not Georgia; she’d taken one look at Jonah’s labs today and she knew it meant his organs were shutting down like falling dominoes. The Celestial Discharge, The Eternal Care Unit, Hailing the Jesus Bus—all examples of the bluff posturing doctors employed to mask the antagonism they felt toward the Grim Reaper. It turned out, despite all their euphemisms for death, doctors weren’t any less gutted than anyone else when it was their person circling the drain.

  And yet. This wasn’t her area of expertise. She knew a crappy renal function test when she saw one, but how much did she know, really, about toxicology? Maybe you could fry your kidneys and poison your liver and shred your muscles and marinate your brain in a high-quality vodka and still come out of it okay. Maybe she was being too grim. Maybe she was overanalyzing. Maybe she should leave this infernal hospital and try to get a little distance.

  Mark was on board with this idea. He’d be leaving in the morning for meetings in North Carolina, and although he offered to cancel to stay with her, she refused. She’d have to go to work in the morning too. She could call in again, legitimately claiming an emergency, but she’d always been loath to cancel surgeries. It caused disruption for her patients and created a headache for the OR and the schedulers. Plus, she knew sometime soon, for one reason or another, she’d need to be off again: either Jonah would recover, and she’d need to help him; or he would not recover. As far as tomorrow went, she could come back if anything changed; so far, Dr. Levin had been true to her word in keeping her informed.

  Stewart’s behavior, on the other hand, had been mysterious. They’d exchanged voicemails, but his was short and cryptic, stating he was trying to verify some final information and he’d be in touch when he could.

  She motioned to Mark’s newspaper, which he’d lain on the table, both hoping and not hoping there would be a story in it about Jonah. “Can I see that?”

  “Wait,” he said. “There’s Jonah.”

  There was a confused pause as she tried to figure out how Jonah could have been miraculously resurrected in the moments since she’d left the ICU. Then she followed Mark’s gaze and realized Jonah’s image was on a TV screen across the room, just as the picture changed and went to a commercial. They’d been too far away to make out the caption under the photo or to hear the accompanying narrative, and in any case, the sound on the TV was muted. Georgia jumped up but Mark pulled her back down.

  “That was a teaser,” he said. “The story’s coming up and I bet we can stream it. What channel is that?”

  They huddled over Mark’s phone. Georgia watched with ill-concealed impatience as the news show resumed with an interminable weather report on rain that might or might not be imminent, followed by a sports story about a team that might or might not have a winning season. Finally, after another commercial, they got back to the story on Jonah.

  “And now for an update in the case of the local physician accused of drug theft,” said a beautiful female anchor, “we turn to reporter Ashley Evans.”

  The screen changed to show an equally beautiful reporter with big brown eyes and a pert expression. She was standing in front of a sign reading EMERGENCY, which Georgia recognized as the entrance to the emergency department of the building in which they now sat.

  “Thanks, Molly,” said the reporter. “Dr. Jonah Tsukada, a family practice physician, has been under a cloud of suspicion after accusations that he stole powerful medications meant for surgeries.” The screen switched again, this time demonstrating a generic stock shot of a syringe dripping a clear liquid from its tip. The syringe rested in front of a bunch of glass vials labeled POTASSIUM CHLORIDE. This, of course, was not what Jonah had been accused of taking: you wouldn’t steal potassium chloride to inject at a party unless your idea of partying entailed instant cardiac arrest. Nonetheless, the photo did its job: it was creepy and vaguely ominous.

  “Now, however, there have been significant developments. Dr. Tsukada has reportedly been hospitalized and is in critical condition. It is not known whether this is related to the theft of the drugs, but Dr. Tsukada’s attorney, Stewart Hessenheffer, issued a statement earlier today asking for privacy regarding Dr. Tsukada’s condition. He also discussed a startling announcement: he contends Dr. Tsukada is not only innocent of the charges against him, but that he was framed by someone at the medical clinic where he works.”

  Now a prerecorded segment with Stewart came on the screen. In contrast to the reporter, Stewart did not radiate a wholesome telegenic look. He’d been interviewed standing outside his office in what appeared to be a major gust of wind, and he kept blinking. His cautious oratorical style did not translate well to TV either; he had a tendency to use qualifiers in every sentence, so as not to overcommit. Even so, he managed to get his point across.

  “We’ve asked the police to reexamine the investigation of the potential misappropriation of these drugs.” He paused, eyes fluttering. “New evidence suggests it was an unknown individual entering the medication storage area, not Dr. Tsukada.”

  The cameras cut back to the reporter outside the hospital. “Molly,” she said, “Dr. Tsukada’s attorney says he will have more information soon. As you know, Dr. Tsukada was in the news earlier for discrimination claims against his employer. Could this be related? Right now we have more questions than answers.”

  The view switched back to the anchor in the studio. “It certainly sounds like it,” she said. “Thank you. Keep us posted, Ashley.”

  25

  A DOWNWARD SPIRAL

  Not much had changed at the clinic in the days since Georgia had been away from work. The protestors and the counterprotestors still lined up outside the clinic lobbing spit bombs at one another, still flanked by news crews and gawkers. She avoided them all, hustling by with her eyes down. It burned her: Jonah lay unconscious, his liver slowly dissolving in the indolent grip of poison, and the universe had the gall to grant some of these dipshits perfect health? Why?

  In the doctors’ lounge, the conversational buzz fizzled as she made her way through the room. People who’d been speaking normally a second ago clamped their lips shut as she passed them. It was as if she possessed repellent superpowers: she could stifle speech and force people to avert their gazes, even send them spinning in the opposite direction.

  Only McLean approached. “Hey there,” he said, thrusting something in his hand toward her. To her surprise, it was URINE GOOD HANDS, already filled with hot coffee. Gratefully, she gulped it. McLean’s small act of kindness had the paradoxical effect of strangling her; she wanted to thank him but couldn’t get any words out. If he recognized she was suffering from social paralysis, he didn’t let on; in an easy tone, he began to chat about an upcoming case, asking simple yes-or-no questions until she’d recovered enough to sound normal. Ignoring the stares, they walked from the lounge to the OR hall, still talking, where they set up to scrub at their respective sinks. Letting the water run over her hands, Georgia tried to banish everything from her mind except the surgery she was about to perform.

  By the time she reached the physician’s parking garage, many hours later, it had taken on a look of eerie desolation, the remaining cars casting long shadows from the overhead fluorescent lights. A parking garage in a medical facility was never empty, but this was as close as it got; her floor contained a handful of nice SUVs, a minivan plastered with soccer and lacrosse stickers, and Donovan Wright’s stupid Ferrari, parked as usual ac
ross two spaces in a prime spot near the exit. Shuddering at the sight of it, she hurried to her Prius, which she’d left around a corner just as the floor began to slope upward to the next level. Rounding the last concrete wall, she almost swallowed her tongue in fright as she spied someone lurking at the door of her car.

  Recovering, she nodded at Darby, who handed Georgia a small quilted bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a care bag,” said Darby. Briefly, she clasped Georgia’s arm. “I figured you’ve been living at the hospital for the last few days.”

  “Oh, Darby,” she said. She peeked inside the bag: on top were homemade energy bars, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a gingham bow. “That’s so kind.”

  “I was wondering . . .” Darby’s hand curled around the strap of her shoulder bag. “I know this is out of the blue. But I was wondering—could I go with you? To visit him?”

  Before Georgia could answer, Darby preemptively answered her own question. “Of course not,” she said. “What an intrusion. I’m sorry.”

  “Why do you want to go?”

  Her eyes closed. “I’ve been thinking about him.”

  Unbidden, a lump asserted itself in the middle of Georgia’s throat. She worked to swallow around it. “Sure,” she said finally. “I bet he’d appreciate that.”

  * * *

  —

  Georgia started the car, angling the Prius around and around the twisty expanse of concrete leading to the bottom floor of the garage. It occurred to her the path to the exit was a pretty good metaphor for her life right now: a downward spiral. When was the last time things had been normal?

  “I should have told you this before,” Darby said, after miles of silence. “He called me.”

  Georgia’s hands left the steering wheel, flying into the air toward her face, and just as quickly returned to the wheel as the car began to drift into the adjacent lane. A BMW careened past at high speed, the pitch of its horn receding as it Dopplered into the distance. Georgia must have lifted her foot from the gas pedal; hastily she returned it, and the car leapt forward.

  “He called you? When?” she asked.

  “Before . . .” Darby faltered. “I guess it must have been shortly before whatever happened. His voice sounded off, like he was confused.”

  A flash sizzled behind Georgia’s eyes. “You knew he was messed up?”

  Even in her peripheral vision, she could sense the shame in Darby’s body language. “I thought he’d been drinking,” she said, her words almost inaudible.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said . . . he said he wanted to tell me how much he’d enjoyed the morning at my house. How he thought I was a . . . good person. I thought: Okay, this is goofy, but it was also sweet. But then it got stranger.”

  “In what way?”

  “He told me he’d done something bad, something he wanted to take back but he couldn’t.”

  Regret choked Georgia into silence. A chain of cars passed them on the right. Georgia put on her turn signal and eased back into the right lane, resolving to pay attention to her driving, no matter what Darby said next.

  “I know I should have done something, because he sounded so . . . off. But I thought he’d finish drinking and sleep it off and then maybe he’d be embarrassed if I showed up.”

  Georgia waited.

  “Here’s what was strange: he said again he’d done something wrong, and of course at the time, I’d just heard he’d taken those medicines and I thought he was talking about that. But now, I think he meant something else.”

  Georgia could barely swallow. “Why?”

  “‘I had to help her,’ he said, ‘that’s why I did it; it was for her.’ That makes no sense if he was talking about a suicide attempt, obviously, and it doesn’t make sense if he was talking about stealing medicines from the clinic, either. Why would a woman want him to steal medicines? As far as I know, Jonah isn’t close with any woman besides you, and you’d never want him to steal anything, let alone dangerous drugs. I have no idea what he was talking about.”

  By now, they’d almost reached the hospital. Georgia gripped the wheel tightly as she turned into the vast visitor’s lot, inching up and down the crowded rows of cars until she found a space. Darby waited as she guided the car between an enormous black pickup truck and an enormous black SUV. Cutting off the engine, Georgia angled her torso toward the center console, taking care to speak in measured tones.

  “Is that it? Did he say anything else?”

  Darby shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve tried to remember but I was driving the girls when he called and he was on the speakerphone and I worried he’d say something they shouldn’t hear. I took him off it and held the phone, but I hate driving that way, especially with the kids in the car; it makes me nervous. So I was distracted.”

  The parking lot seemed to ripple and buckle for a second as they exited the car, everything slightly, subtly off before Georgia blinked and it went back to normal. She waited for Darby to cross around the car. “Come on,” she said, taking Darby’s arm. “Let’s go see him.”

  * * *

  —

  They crowded on the elevator along with a group of others, alighting in front of the doors to the ICU. Across from the elevator, a few doors down the hall, Georgia could hear sounds from the waiting room as they drifted out of the open doorway: someone crying quietly, the background buzz of the TV, several murmured conversations. A little black-haired child stuck his head out of the door, laughed at nothing, and popped his head back in. Above her head, a fluorescent bulb spat and fizzled.

  She pressed the buzzer to the ICU. The doors clicked and Georgia motioned to Darby to follow her past a long central counter dotted with computers. The patients’ rooms ringed the perimeter of the space, granting each of them access to natural light from a window. She sped up as they neared Jonah’s room; even before they approached the door, Georgia could tell something was wrong. There were at least five people visible through the glass of the interior window and all of them were moving.

  She burst through the door, Darby on her heels, and came to a stop.

  * * *

  —

  It was a scene from a slaughterhouse, dominated by red. Soaked sponges; packets of viscous ruby liquid; and everywhere lines of crimson from Jonah’s nasogastric tube and IVs and catheters. Dr. Levin, a blur at the foot of the bed, was issuing orders to a nurse and a respiratory therapist and several others Georgia couldn’t immediately identify. Alarms beeped and voices blurred into a cacophony of sound. For an indistinguishable period of time none of them noticed Georgia until finally Dr. Levin looked over her shoulder and acknowledged her. “Coagulopathy,” she said.

  Georgia felt her face contort. She knew what this meant: Jonah’s liver, stressed beyond redemption, was giving up. His blood couldn’t clot—or sometimes in these cases, the body developed a ghastly condition where uncontrolled clotting and uncontrolled bleeding occurred at the same time. Often signaling the end game in liver failure, it was a nightmare to treat.

  “Acidosis?” she barked, trying to mask her terror with doctor terminology. “Encephalopathy?”

  Dr. Levin threw her a look of profound sympathy instead of answering, her smooth forehead knotting up. “There’s hope. He’s still on the transplant list.”

  “Will they . . . will they consider him to be a good transplant candidate? Because of what he did?”

  Although she could tell Dr. Levin knew what she meant, she didn’t answer right away.

  This was terrible news, not only because of the obvious—Jonah was dying—but also because if his only hope was a liver transplant—even a partial liver transplant—the odds were grim. On average, twenty people a day in the United States died needlessly, waiting for an organ donation that would never come. And while many transplant lists prioritized the
sickest patients first, there were ethical issues associated with choosing people as organ recipients who had attempted to take their own life. What if they did it again? The last thing anyone wanted was to undertake the immense cost and effort of saving a life with a surgery that could have saved someone else, only to have the recipient kill themself afterward. There was also the issue of alcohol abuse: for obvious reasons, it was less than ideal to get a new liver and drown it in booze. Georgia raced through a mental catalogue in her mind, trying to remember what she might have said to Dr. Levin about Jonah’s alcohol use that could have wound up in his chart.

  “This was situational,” she blurted. “He’s young and he wants to live, I know he does. He’s healthy otherwise. He’s not an alcoholic, he’s not chronically depressed.” Was this a lie? He’d certainly battled depression on and off, but that didn’t preclude saving his life, did it?

  Given the circumstances, Dr. Levin’s voice was calm. “We’ll talk to you about it as soon as we can. We’ve got to get him stabilized.”

  Nodding her understanding, Georgia took a step backward and bumped against Darby. In the shock of Jonah’s deterioration, she’d forgotten she was in the room. She’d pressed herself against the window looking out into the hall, watching in glassy silence as the team caring for Jonah buzzed around him, hanging blood and drawing labs and adjusting his ventilator settings. Georgia grabbed Darby’s elbow and steered her into the hall, where they both leaned, speechless, against a wall.

  Darby broke the silence. “I didn’t know it was this bad.”

  A passel of student nurses went by, their voices cheery.

  “I know I don’t have any right to ask,” she went on. “But will you tell me what happened?”

  Of course: Darby didn’t know for sure what Jonah had done. She remembered the odd looks people had given her in the lounge this morning and grimaced. “What exactly have you heard?”