by Jaime Maddox
Jess stripped the bed, then neatly folded the linens and deposited them on a shelf in the closet. Next, she made the bed with her own linens, then arranged her clothing in the closets and her personal items on the shelves and dressers before sitting down.
She had nothing left to do. She’d spent fifteen minutes unpacking, and now nothing stood between her and her first group meeting other than her fear. She’d never discussed her problem with anyone. The only people who knew were a few dealers and drug addicts who’d been her suppliers when she lived in Philly. Was she ready to confess her sins to a group of strangers? Forcefully blowing out a big breath, she realized it was easier than talking to people she knew. That, she would never do.
But what if she did know someone here? The clinic had boasted of its success with treating professionals. What if one of her former colleagues was in the same predicament and had come here for help? That would just stink, because she refused to admit this part of her life to the medical board. She wouldn’t spend the remainder of her career a marked woman, under constant scrutiny, like some criminal. She’d deal with this problem, and the board would never know a thing.
“I should go to a meeting,” she said, but then she lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, wondering how she’d ever gotten into so much trouble.
She barely had time to consider the question when loud footsteps and the sound of the door slamming startled her. She sat up, stared in that direction, and tried to focus her eyes through the haze of sleep still covering them.
“I am sooo, sooo sorry.” A voice spoke as Jess blinked. “They told me you were coming, but I didn’t know you’d be here,” whoever it was said, her voice unbearably loud after the quiet Jess had been enjoying.
Finally, her eyes recovered, and the image of a woman in her thirties with short dark hair came into focus.
“It’s okay,” Jess said. “I was just napping, but I guess I need to get up.”
“I’m Bonita Brodhead, your roomie.” She bounced across the room and energetically took Jess’s hand. “Welcome, and good luck!”
“Jess,” she answered, deliberately omitting her surname. Why hadn’t she registered under an alias?
“Nice to meet you.” The woman sat on the side of her bed, facing Jess. “I hate not having a roommate. It’s sort of lonely, you know? Have you been here before? I just got here yesterday, but this is my third time in rehab, so I feel like I’ve been here forever.”
It was hard to sort out the details in Bonita’s fast-flowing speech, but one thing stood out. “Third time here?” Jess was concerned. Maybe the clinic wasn’t as good as they claimed.
“No, second. I came here a few years ago and got clean. I was determined to make my marriage work, for the sake of the kids. But my husband wasn’t interested in getting his shit together, and he started selling my bup to get heroin, and then after a few months, I started using again, too, and, well, you know the story. Here I am again.”
Once again Bonita’s words flowed too quickly to allow any interjection, and when she stopped, Jess wasn’t sure how to reply. It seemed sad, though, that this woman had tried to straighten out her life, and the one person who should have been supporting her had brought her down. Jess was relieved to know she’d never have to worry about that. “Wow. It must be tough when your partner is using, too.”
Suddenly, Bonita bent her head and buried her face in her hands, sobbing hysterically. Jess wasn’t certain what to do. They’d only just met, and she’d seemed fine, and then the waterworks began. She turned to Bonita, stepped across the gap between their beds, and sat beside her. Wasn’t this supposed to be the other way around, with Bonita, the veteran, comforting Jess, the rookie? Jess rolled her eyes as she patted Bonita’s leg. “Hey, you okay?”
Suddenly, Bonita looked up to face her, pools of tears flooding her big eyes. “I killed him.”
“What?” Jess asked before she could filter her reply.
“My husband…Ryan…I, I, I…killed him,” she sobbed.
Jess swallowed and considered the situation. Did she really want to know any more? Did she want to get caught up in someone else’s drama when she could barely manage her own? Bonita’s pressured speech suggested she could be manic, and that wouldn’t surprise Jess at all. Bipolar patients turned to drugs to induce calm. Jess contemplated leaving the room so Bonita could deal with this on her own, but then the healer in her came out, and she patted her knee.
Bonita took the gesture as a sign to tell all, and she began talking. More slowly this time.
“He spent his paycheck on pills, and I was so mad, I used them all. When he came home from work looking to get high, he was furious and stormed out of the house. That was the last time I saw him.”
She leaned into Jess’s shoulder and punched herself repeatedly in the head. Jess wasn’t sure what to do, so she remained motionless. Suddenly, Bonita sat up and wiped her eyes. “He couldn’t find his normal dealer so he went to some other guy and bought heroin, because it’s cheaper than pills. It was a strong batch and he overdosed that night. The cops found his body in his car the next morning. I checked myself in because I couldn’t face our kids. How can I be with them at the viewing when I’m the one who killed their father? How can I look at him in the casket, knowing what I did?”
Fuck. That was awful. “I’m sorry about Ryan, Bonita. But it wasn’t your fault he got bad stuff. It could happen to anyone. And maybe he just used too much…it might have happened with the pills if you hadn’t taken them first.”
Just as suddenly as she’d begun crying, Bonita stopped. She looked at Jess, and a light filled her eyes. Her face lifted, and the change was so dramatic Jess wouldn’t have recognized her in the hallway if they’d passed each other. “You’re right! I didn’t kill him. He would have died anyway. This is such a relief. I think I’m going to check myself out of this place so I can make it to the viewing tonight. So many people will be there that I want to see. It’ll be like a reunion!”
Bonita jumped from the bed and ran to the door, opened it, and sped through it without looking back.
Shaking her head, Jess moved to her own bed and sprawled across it, resting her head on her elbow. “What the fuck am I doing here?” she asked the pillow.
Still in the same position a few minutes later, she watched as Bonita rushed back into the room and hastily swept the contents of her dresser into her suitcase. Then she dashed out the door without saying good-bye. Jess rolled over and watched the sky outside her window fade to darkness. She monitored her body and her surroundings, tracking her symptoms as minutes ticked by on her watch. Finally, she reached her limit.
“I think it’s time,” Jess said. The nurse studied her for a moment and nodded before ordering her to sit.
“You look like crap,” she said, and Jess detected no humor in the remark. It was an accurate description of her state—aches and pains, diarrhea, sweating, sniffling, yawning, and a sense of anxiety that conjured up thoughts of a tall bridge to end it all. Her symptoms had become intolerable, as bad as they were the last time Jess had tried to quit, more than a year earlier when her Philadelphia supply had suddenly dried up.
“That’s about how I feel.”
The nurse handed Jess a COWS form to complete, and she did. Fuck, she was only eighteen on the scale, and she wanted to die. The scale went to forty-three. What must forty-three feel like? She hoped she’d never find out.
After taking her vital signs—which were terribly abnormal, objective proof of the stress her body was under—the nurse handed her a white foil packet. It was just about an inch wide and slightly more in length, and paper-thin. Jess’s hands were shaking as she followed the nurse’s instructions and opened it. A sip of water prepped her mouth, and then she carefully placed the thin strip of medication under her tongue.
“Don’t talk. Don’t swallow. Just let it melt until it feels like it’s all gone. The longer you wait to swallow, the better the medication will work.”
Having been
instructed not to talk, Jess simply nodded, trying to concentrate on something other than the acrid taste of the medication in her mouth.
Fifteen minutes later, the film had dissolved but Jess felt no better. “Another half hour and you’ll know how it’s working. Report back to me in forty-five minutes, and I’ll give you another strip if you need it.”
Too anxious to sit, Jess paced the hall, watching the clock. To her surprise, half an hour after she’d taken the medication, her symptoms had improved. Everything except the anxiety. She still wanted to crawl out of her skin, and so exactly forty minutes from her last appearance, she knocked on the glass partition at the nurses’ station.
“You’re early.” Looking up from the computer screen, the nurse frowned.
“I figured by the time you take my blood pressure, it’ll be an hour.”
“Come back in ten minutes,” she said, and so Jess paced again.
“It’s ten minutes,” Jess said when the time had passed, and the nurse glanced at the clock.
“So it is.”
She didn’t bother with vital signs this time, just pulled a strip out of a box that had been labeled with Jess’s name. Once again she handed the packet to Jess, but this time, she instructed her to take only half.
“But why?”
“We’re titrating the dose, trying to figure out how much you really need. So this time, instead of eight milligrams, you’re getting four. And then if you need more, we’ll give you two.”
“Why are you torturing me?” Jess asked. She felt horrible and knew if she took the entire strip she’d feel much better in half an hour. The way Nurse Ratched was planning this, it could take three more hours for her to get the entire dose. But Jess realized that argument was futile, and she took the half strip as directed. Half an hour later, she was surprised that she felt much better. When an hour had passed, she reported back to the nurse.
“Two more?” she asked.
Jess hesitated. The anxiety was still there, but very mild, as if she’d had a double espresso on an empty stomach. All the other symptoms were gone. “Is it okay if I wait for a while? I think I’m okay.”
For the first time since she’d met her hours earlier, the nurse smiled. “That’s good, Jess. The less medication you take, the better. It costs less, and one day, it will be easier to wean down from twelve milligrams than twenty.”
“Okay, I’m going with this. As long as I can get more if I need it.”
The nurse swallowed a smile. “It’s here in that case.”
“Can I get a sandwich or something? I was too sick to eat dinner.”
The nurse directed Jess to the self-serve area, where she found a premade ham-and-cheese sandwich on a hard roll, wrapped tightly in plastic wrap with packets of mustard and mayo squished inside. After adding a touch of both condiments, Jess ate her sandwich while standing at the counter.
The food tasted good. Great. She felt great. No, that wasn’t it. She didn’t really feel great; she just felt okay. But okay in an ordinary way. For the first time in years, she felt like herself. She felt normal.
Chapter Seven
Booming Business
Derek leaned against the van just as a sleek, black Mercedes sedan began circling the lot. The driver settled on a spot far from the other cars in the parking area. In the three years he’d been doing this, Derek had never seen the car before, but he knew who was inside. He’d noticed the occupants many times—affluent suburbanites, hooked on narcotics, coming to Dr. Ball for the cure. These people in the big cars were the VIPs, the patients the doctor took on an emergency basis, for outrageous fees. In spite of their status, they were just like all his other addicted patients—desperate. From years of watching, Derek knew some would make it and some wouldn’t. They’d disappear from the office and reappear in the obituaries shortly afterward.
Three of the car’s doors opened, and a middle-aged couple and a young woman appeared. The couple seemed anxious as they surveyed the parking lot, smoothing wrinkles and chewing lips. The girl, on the other hand, seemed proud. She showed no signs of withdrawal—her hair was combed, her posture erect, and she didn’t seem to have the anxiety or muscle pain that came with it. She glanced around, though, more curious than nervous, and met his gaze. He smiled, and she answered with a cold stare before turning away, following her parents into the office.
Something in her attitude told him she’d be selling her bup to him soon.
His phone vibrated, and he pulled it from the clip on his belt. There was a text from Pete. “Get the fuck in here. We’re done.”
Derek pulled the van to the front of the building and began the slow process of loading his human cargo. First the patients, then their chairs. They were halfway back to the nursing home when Pete spoke. “We’re done for the day.”
“What?”
“Dr. Ball’s nurse said he’s canceling his afternoon patients. He’s probably going golfing.”
“Hmm. Can’t blame him. It’s a beautiful day.”
“Yeah, except I have fuckin’ bills to pay, and how am I going to do that when this jerk-off keeps cutting my hours?”
Derek understood. At least two or three times a month the doctor canceled his patients, and since he provided transport strictly for PATA, usually to the doctor’s office, he was short hours. Without the money he made selling pills, he’d be in trouble. He’d made a few grand on the robbery in Mountaintop, so he wasn’t worried, but he still needed his supply of drugs. He’d have to hurry back in his car to catch the scraps from the orthopedics office before they closed for the day.
The drive was uneventful, and fortunately Pete didn’t want to waste his money on fast food, so they were back at the garage promptly. He didn’t bother changing, just hurried back to Dr. Ball’s office hoping to do business. He breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled in. The lot was still full, as was the lot in front of the orthopedics office. Maybe the day wouldn’t be a bust after all.
His efforts were soon rewarded. A regular customer emerged from the doctor’s office and then the pharmacy, and Derek met him by his clunker. He couldn’t help stealing a glance at the big black Mercedes, still parked at the edge of the lot. What was going on with the girl?
He bought the pills, and then a few more from another customer, and decided to call it a day. He had his quota, and it was still early enough for him to enjoy the sunshine. Perhaps he’d meet his buyer early and spend some time at the park working on his tan.
He started his car just as the well-heeled family with the Mercedes emerged from the pharmacy. The parents seemed exhausted, walking slowly with their heads down. The girl appeared happy and energetic. Maybe it wasn’t as he’d first thought. Perhaps she’d brought her drug-addicted parents in for the cure, rather than the reverse. He laughed at the thought. That wasn’t it, he was sure. They’d strong-armed her into coming, and she was still denying her disease. She wasn’t ready to quit. They were wasting their time with her, and a whole lot of money, too. That could be good news for him.
On a whim, Derek held back, watching. When the father took the wheel and guided the car out of the lot, Derek followed. They zigzagged through traffic and onto the Cross Valley Expressway. They didn’t exit until they reached the affluent suburb of Dallas, and then Derek slowed down, putting distance between the vehicles, knowing how conspicuous his small American car looked compared to the expensive foreign models he saw on the roads and in the driveways. Just as he was contemplating abandoning his pursuit, the Mercedes turned left at a large stone sign marking the entrance to a housing development.
Rather than follow them, he kept driving. He knew enough. How hard would it be to find that car in a development of twenty or thirty homes? He didn’t even know why he’d followed them or what he’d do if he found their house. Probably unload some of the drugs in his lunch cooler. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d marketed directly to a user, rather than through his buyer. The risk was higher, of course, but so were the profits. He’d
keep an eye on this girl and perhaps help her out with some pills. After all, that was why he’d gotten into health care, to help people.
Driving back toward his apartment in Kingston, he couldn’t help but notice the visual reversal of fortune that marked the landscape. The houses and cars became smaller and the weeds taller as he made his way from suburbia to the real world. His phone rang before he could lament any further.
“You up for a transfer?” the dispatcher asked him.
Derek looked at his watch. It was close to four o’clock. Between the drives back to the station to pick up the ambulance and then the patient, the voluminous stack of paperwork they’d need to complete to get paid, and the trip back, he knew he’d be committed for the next few hours. “What’s the rate?”
“Regular rate, plus overtime if you’re eligible.”
With the canceled hours this afternoon, Derek knew he wasn’t eligible for overtime for the day, or the week. But, of course, his job was all about the fringe benefits. “What’s the transfer?”
“Some old guy up at Garden Memorial. Hip fracture. He’s one of Dr. Ball’s patients, and he needs a ride from their inpatient rehab unit to his house in Wilkes-Barre.”
And there it was, he thought. Opportunity. A patient with a hip fracture was likely to go home with a prescription for pain meds, and in addition to the money he’d make for his time on the ambulance call, he’d likely pocket another hundred if he could pilfer some pills. And then, when he got the elderly guy home, who could anticipate what they’d find? Money? Jewelry? Probably no electronics, but you never knew. “Okay. I’m in.”
It was an hour’s drive to Garden, with Derek taking his time behind the wheel, and Ned, the paramedic, humming tunes from the passenger seat. They were paid hourly, after all. The large highways and congested towns along their borders shrank before their eyes as they climbed into the mountains. Derek knew the route; several times a month they were called to transfer patients from Garden’s ER or inpatient units to the hospitals in Scranton and Wilkes-Barre.