by Jack Kinsley
"You know what the terrible thing is?" she said. "I really believed I had finally found my perfect match. A man who actually accepted all my flaws and could deal with my emotional roller coaster. I know deep down that unconditional love doesn't really exist, but I wanted to believe it, and it was the closest I'd ever come to it. But now I know it was only because he knew he would never have to commit. There was no threat of permanency, having to live a lifetime with a silly, neurotic girl." A couple tears balanced inside her eyes, but she caught them with a tissue before they fell. "It just doesn't exist."
"You don't want to start heading down that road," he told her. "That's just gonna breed bitterness, you know that. You go ahead and cry all you want — it's okay — get it all out. There's no harm in that... You'll feel better tomorrow. Why don't you take the day off? Go home and get in bed. Maybe take five milligrams of Valium to help calm you down?"
Sarah gave him a brief, inquisitive look at the mention of Valium, and he suddenly felt a spike of fear rise in him. Was his slip starting to show?
"No, it'll be worse if I'm home alone," she said, dismissing any suspicions. "Besides, there're memories of him everywhere — littering my condo."
Normally, Sarah was the unwavering pillar of strength at Crystal Heights, no matter what the circumstance, but today he was getting a glimpse into a very human side of her that he found unexpectedly attractive.
"Well, you decide what is best for you. Okay? If you feel the need to go home, take a walk on the beach...or even have a shot of tequila," he smiled. "You do what you gotta do. No questions asked. I can cover whatever needs to be done here."
"What's best for me?" she repeated, and laughed. "You think I'm in any position to know what's best for me right now?" She put on a coat of red lipstick. "Besides, I couldn't leave you here alone — you wouldn't know what the hell to do."
"I suppose you're right."
Then another knock at the office door.
This time Travis checked with Sarah, who nodded to go ahead and let them in. She grabbed a handful of makeup and went into the adjoining bathroom.
"Come in," Travis called to the door.
It was Dr. Haycock, wearing a stethoscope around his neck and a distasteful smile. He was half dressed as a doctor, wearing a white coat with old faded cord trousers hanging out the bottom, and his shoes were in desperate need of a polish — or to be thrown out.
"Good morning," he said, carrying in a client's chart. He took a seat where Sarah had been sitting, on the owner's side of the desk — leaving Travis seated across from him as his subordinate. Purposeful of not, the doctor never failed to grate his nerves.
Dr. Haycock was a Mexican immigrant who had, granted, climbed a difficult social ladder, but once there he had claimed ancestry from Spain, preferring the affiliation with European descent. It was a lie without telling one, since he only spoke of family in Spain and trips to Barcelona, and everyone automatically assumed that was where he was from. It was nearly a year before Travis became aware he was born and raised in Oaxaca, Mexico. It had been his wife who had unknowingly let his secret slip when she had come with the man to visit Crystal Heights. Travis couldn't have cared less, as with the rest of the staff, but the fact he had insinuated he was from Spain for so long made it shameful; a closet racist against his own nationality.
The doctor was also shady in his business practices, particularly in his billing. There was always reason for Sarah to hash over his invoices and reference back to what his original contract defined as 'additional expenses.' He was already making an inflated salary, but found it necessary to constantly nickel and dime Crystal Heights — to the extent of charging twenty-five dollars for a disposable syringe that cost him a few cents at most.
This morning, while Travis sat opposite him — on the wrong side of the desk — he thought how gratifying it would be to bend the doctor over the desk and stick one of his overpriced hypodermic needles where the sun don't shine.
"I just came from seeing Betsy Sterling," Dr. Haycock said, already exuding his air of physician pomposity.
Sterling? Really? Was the last name truly necessary?
"Yes...and?" Travis was forced to prod him with a question.
"We both know she's a very sick woman. Just in a terrible state." He shook his head with false sympathy, leaned back into Sarah's chair, and formed a triangle position of power with his hands. "I believe we could keep her much more comfortable if she was in a real hospital. It would be the humane thing to do. And I would also like to run other tests on her. See if every avenue has been exhausted."
Travis's first thought was, It took you a week to come up with this bullshit?
He was well aware of what the doctor really wanted. Dr. Haycock was running his own mini-detox program over at UCLA Medical Center, as well as a general practice on another floor. Travis was sure he was getting some kickbacks for clients admitted through him. The son of a bitch was trying to steal Betsy from Crystal Heights.
"What other kind of tests could possibly be run?" Travis asked, just to humor himself.
Sarah appeared from the bathroom, having overheard the doctor's request, and didn't give him a chance to respond. "There will be no transfer of any kind," she told him. "And certainly, she would never go to UCLA Medical Center." She was all business, looking refreshed and surprisingly radiant. The next thing she did was oust the doctor from her chair with a wave of her hand, as if she were shooing away a pesky fly, and pointed at another available seat at the side of the desk. "Sorry," she apologized, "I need some records."
The doctor slowly removed himself and sat in his appointed chair.
Sarah opened a drawer, pulled a file, and slapped it on her desk. "They've already run every imaginable test on her," she said and opened the file. She proceeded to read off all the names of the tests performed — which came to an exorbitant amount.
Travis was less surprised by the number of tests, than that Sarah had actually pulled a copy of Betsy's file. He suspected she'd drawn a random file for dramatics. It was going to be a pleasure to watch her mop the office floor with Dr. Haycock.
"If you insist that she be given more tests, then we'll reluctantly oblige you, but she'll be transported to West Hills, where she'll get the preferential treatment we can offer her. They already have all her records and medical history. And the doctors have already ruled out surgery, radiation therapy, and chemotherapy." Sarah counted these out on her fingers in front of Dr. Haycock. "It's a terminal brain tumor. This is far removed from simply getting a second opinion. She's already had three, if not four. How exactly do you believe we can help her more than we already are?"
The doctor considered this, crossed his legs like a woman, and said, "I'm concerned about her well-being, her suffering. In a hospital, she can be monitored 24/7, given the proper care, and the proper medicine until she passes."
"But those issues have already been addressed, Dr. Haycock. You personally appointed Nurse Haley to be with her 24/7. She is, after all, one of your staff, and in your own words you told us she was 'fully qualified.'" Sarah paused, giving the doctor a moment to oxygenate himself in her casino. And then with a beautiful move, she gave the doctor back the control he never had. "We will keep Nurse Haley until you deem it unnecessary, or you find her unfit to continue her duties with Betsy. The medical decision, of course, ultimately resides with you." She had the doc marinating in a pickle jar, and Travis loved it.
The doctor kept his game face and repositioned his lady legs. He took his prescription pad from his shirt pocket and scribbled his terrible chicken scratches on it. He tore the top page from its glued edge and handed it to Sarah.
"Okay, but instead of every other day, I'll come in every day for the next two weeks."
Of course, Travis thought, doubling his sessions still made him a winner.
"We'll commit every day for the next five days, Dr. Haycock, and then you can reassess and we'll have another meeting then. Okay?" Sarah still had a sweetness in her vo
ice, but it was clear the subject wasn't open for further discussion.
The doc eyed her for a moment and then stood. "Please have the script filled for her and ready for her first dose tonight," he said.
"Sure, I'll have Lucy bring it to CVS immediately." She gave him a wink and handed the script to Travis.
"I'll be in tomorrow and my secretary will ring you later to let you know when I'm available." The doctor nodded goodbye to Travis and left the room.
"I'm sure glad you're not going home today," Travis told Sarah. "You have every qualification of being my house manager."
She smiled at him, but it was only a mask of happiness; he could see the pain behind it and knew something inside her had broken.
"I can't believe that prick wanted to take Betsy from us." Sarah put Betsy's file back in the drawer and then told him, "Dallas would like to have a word with you when you're ready."
Travis was at the door ready to make his exit when she called out to him, "Travis." And then she fell quiet. He saw her chest quickly rise and fall with a few short breaths.
"Yes?"
She stood from her chair and then looked at her watch for too long, pushing back another approaching storm. "Please remind Dallas he has a massage this evening at seven o'clock."
"Okay, anything else?" He was on the brink of going over to her and holding her for a moment, but her next words made the gesture impossible.
"And tell him in your most diplomatic way, never to ask the masseuse again for a happy ending."
"Okay. You got it," he said and left.
— — —
Just outside the office door, Travis saw Lucy doing the maid's job, holding up a vase and dusting the table where it normally stood. He waved her over for a private chat, and she came over, all nerves, looking like a guilty child.
He handed her the script. They spoke quietly in the hall. "I need you to go have this filled immediately, but before you do, I want you to ask Betsy if there's anything you can get her while you're out."
"Okay, I can do that," she answered, seemingly memorizing the two big steps he'd given her. He could almost see the mouse getting started on its wheel in her wide pensive eyes.
"And don't focus so much on cleaning around here," he told her. "The maid can take care of all that. I want you to — first and foremost — take care of the client's immediate needs. And it's important to think about what they will need, predicting their needs before they have to ask. Okay?"
"Okay," she told him and started in the opposite direction of Betsy's suite.
"Lucy!" he whispered loudly, stopping her. "Go see Betsy first."
She nodded okay, but still looked confused and started in the general direction of the Florence suite.
Suddenly Travis remembered he'd never given her a reprimand about sleeping on the overnight shifts — when Devon and Nathalie had been able to sneak past her and knock boots in the middle of the night.
"Hey!" he called to her again, trying to get her back — but the little mouse had already taken her far, far away.
Travis simply gave up. He wondered what Dallas wanted to talk about, but before finding out, he wanted to stop in the kitchen and grab a cold beverage; it was starting to feel like it might be an Indian summer.
Chef Tom was in his usual Zen state, completely absorbed in front of an array of fruit and vegetables with petite piles of diced items. He was cubing a carrot when Travis walked in.
"Hey, do we need the construction inspector to come in and measure your petite four by four?" Travis asked.
Chef Tom didn't even look up, but welcomed him with a chuckle, shaking his head no. He made a final cut and rested his blade. "Are you here for lunch?" he asked.
"Is that little carrot of yours still orange?" Travis opened the fridge and opted for a bottle of iced tea.
"Okay, seven salads then, and one with my own special sauce," he shot back.
Sarah entered just in time to hear the banter. "If I didn't know you two better, I'd think you guys were whistlin' more than your Dixie's."
"Maybe we are...in someone's fantasy," Travis said and nodded over to Chef Tom. He cracked open the iced tea and handed it to Sarah. She welcomed it and took a long pull. He grabbed a second from the fridge.
It was clear Sarah didn't want to be alone this morning.
"Hey, while I have the two of you here," said Chef Tom. "I want to tell you guys something. Some disturbing news." He picked up his knife only to put it back down again. "I just found out Nathalie bought another dog. And according to my good friend Barbara, Devon is already treating it like shit."
"What? How do you know this?" Sarah asked.
"Who the hell is Barbara?" Travis wondered.
"Barbara, the hairdresser," Sarah said impatiently. "She's only come in here like twenty times to cut the clients' hair."
"Oh," he said, still not certain.
Chef Tom picked up on this. "Yeah, my sister-in-law," he told him. "You know, the one with the big boobs, long blonde hair."
"Oh yeah, Barbara, that's right." Travis drank from his bottle, and could see Sarah in his peripheral vision shaking her head at him.
"Well, she was over there last night doing Nathalie's hair and said the new dog was locked out on the balcony the entire time. And that it looked like it had been out there for days."
It always amazed Travis how his independent contractors managed to keep working with his local clients after they left Crystal Heights. He imagined the marketing done for the rehab had stretched in just about every direction.
"Barbara offered to let the dog in," Chef Tom continued, "saying it wouldn't bother her if it was running around her feet while she cut, thinking it was the reason they had put it out there in the first place. And then Devon told her 'that's where the fucking dog stays.' Nathalie didn't even say a word about it, just took it like she was some abused, submissive wife. Barbara said he was just being a total dick."
The soap opera continues, thought Travis, and wondered if it was one of those bad-things-come-in-threes scenarios. And just what the hell did it mean, all these dogs suffering around him?
"I told you he was a sick son of a bitch!" Sarah told Travis. There was an underlying viciousness in her tone that could well have been intended for another man in her recent past.
"Yep," Chef Tom agreed. "And Barbara said it was like the shittiest haircut she'd ever given, because she's so worried about the dog the whole time. It's been hot during the day, but pretty cold at night. And even though it's a golden retriever and has a heavier coat, it's still just a pup."
"Did you say it was a golden retriever?" Travis asked, thinking of the dead dog he'd seen only hours before. There really was some kind of twisted dog shit karma going on in his life. Then he had the random thought Nathalie had purposely chosen a larger, more durable dog, that could possibly defend itself against her maniac boyfriend — but would he live long enough to grow?
"That's right — maybe three months old, but still young," said Chef Tom.
"Did they ever bring the dog in?" she asked.
Chef Tom went to the fridge and helped himself to an iced tea, catching their thirst as well as their heightening concerns. He took half the bottle down while they waited for him to answer.
"Barbara told me she sat in her car in the parking lot next door, where she could see the dog on the balcony," he said, a bit breathless from his long drink. "She waited like forty-five minutes before she had to go, because her babysitter was waiting. But she drove by their place this morning and said the dog was still outside. She thinks it was there all night."
The three of them shared a tennis match of what-to-do glances and drank from their bottles as they considered the appropriate course of action.
"All right, I'm calling the Humane Society and getting this handled pronto," Sarah said.
"I was thinking the same thing," Chef Tom agreed.
"No," said Travis, and they both regarded him with surprise. "I'll handle the matter personally. And C
hef, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't share anything about this with anyone else. Have you?" Chef Tom shook his head he hadn't. "And Sarah, I know you won't say anything. So, let's just keep all of this between us." He looked back at the chef. "And be sure to tell Barbara it's already been taken care of. There's no need to call anyone else and no need to worry. Okay?"
"What are you, some kind of pup renegade now? Going to personally save them from the world?" Sarah asked, looking at him with a touch of admiration, but mostly concern.
"Don't worry." He patted her arm. "It'll be okay. I've got a good home for that dog."
Chef Tom seemed to appreciate his brazen do-it-yourself approach, summing up his opinion in two words: "Get him." And he toasted the last of his beverage to him.
I will, Travis thought.
— — —
Before meeting client Dallas poolside, Travis stepped into the common bathroom and popped two Valium. He needed to turn his dial down a notch from his morning Adderall and help him stop looping about scumbag Devon torturing yet another helpless dog. Inside the bathroom, he found a cell phone left behind. He didn't know whose it was until he pressed the display button and a picture of Lucy lit up the screen. She was with a friend, looking wasted, and they were cheering wine glasses. Not exactly the pic he'd want his clients to see.
Travis made a decision right there that her days were numbered, no matter what Helen might say. She'd be the death of him if he didn't fire her. He stood in the bathroom for another two minutes, making a conscious effort to keep his cool as he mentally prepared himself to talk with Dallas. The two blues would soon take effect.
Outside, the sun beamed and the yard was staked with hot rays that shot through the umbrellas of the trees. A faint smell of chlorine emanated from the pool. There was often a vacation look and feel around the water, with clients sipping fancy fruit smoothies and reading gossip magazines, taking the occasional dip. Travis had to remind himself of his own marketing smokescreen; these people were in fact battling life-threatening addictions.