by Jaime Maddox
That was fine by her. Jess didn’t plan to ever divulge her secret to her health insurance company. That was the first step to informing the world about her addiction.
“And our only openings are in the IOR program.”
“What’s IOR?”
“Intense outpatient rehab.”
“What’s the difference between intense and regular?” She’d gotten quite the education at Hartley, but this was a term she hadn’t heard before.
“This is a program for people at high risk. The doctor sees you more frequently, monitors you more carefully, and sometimes prescribes higher doses of bup or even other drugs.”
Jess thought for a second. Could that be bad? It might be inconvenient to see the doctor more frequently, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt her. And it might even help. Determined to stay on track, she found herself nodding at the phone.
“Yes, okay. IOR sounds good.”
“Okay. He can see you tomorrow morning. It’s a thousand, in cash.”
“Dollars?” Jess was startled. Most of the clinics charged between two and four hundred dollars. A thousand was unheard of.
“Well, that’s for the month, dear. And, of course, for all your medications.”
“Every month?”
“No.” The woman laughed. “Just the first month. After that, it’s five.”
“Hundred?”
“Yep. Five hundred. So should I book you? I’ve got a waiting room of people here who want to talk to me. I gotta get off the phone.”
Jess thought of the dozens of calls she’d made. Her best chance was at an office in Scranton, where the waiting list was only about two months. Between the cost of gas and the cost of her time, in the end, it was probably less expensive to pay the thousand dollars than to drive back to Hartley. If it was only for a few months, Jess could afford the expense.
Still, this habit was proving to be expensive. She’d spent thirty thousand dollars on her inpatient stay, and her medication would cost her about five hundred a month. Add another five for the doctor, and it was almost more affordable to buy pills on the street. Almost. She shook the thought out of her head. Money wasn’t an issue here. Her life was.
Jess couldn’t believe how good she felt since beginning treatment with bup. Gone was the anxiety about her supply, worrying about her doctor cutting her off, wondering what she’d do for pills if that happened. The fear of discovery had dissolved. Instead of sneaking her meds every few hours, now she took two tablets in the morning and was set for the day. Bup’s long half-life allowed that convenient, once-daily dosing. There was no withdrawal, no sweating or shaking because she’d pushed herself to go an extra hour without her drugs. She couldn’t say anything bad about bup or the way it had changed her life. Even if it cost her fifteen hundred dollars a month, it was worth it.
“Okay,” she said at last. “I’ll take the appointment.”
“Fine. Dr. Ball can see you at ten tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Fifteen
Dark Knight
Humming a tune, Derek poured tea over the ice in two tall glasses. He couldn’t help feeling happy. Business was better than ever, and his cash flow was steady. Using a tip Lucy had unknowingly supplied, he had robbed her aunt’s house while she was out of town and now had a few extra bucks in his savings account. Lucy was crazy about him, and he was beginning to like her almost as much as he liked her money. For once in his life, everything was going great.
“I’m really sorry about your kidneys,” he said as he fluffed the pillow behind Tim’s head and handed him his tea.
“Oh, Derek, thank you!” Tim said in his typical dramatic manner, his arm brushing along his forehead before falling back onto the pillow. “I don’t know what I would have done without you all these years.”
“Oh, you would have managed. I mean, a lot of eager teenagers want to walk dogs at six a.m. and wash antique cars by hand. In the hot sun.”
“A man can’t be rushed from his sleep at an early hour, Derek. It’s unhealthy. And don’t forget the skills you’ve learned. How many kids your age can practically run an entire apartment complex single-handedly? Probably not too many.” He answered his own rhetorical question before continuing. “And I know why you did it all, Derek. I know why you’re so good to me. It was all for Rita, Derek, wasn’t it? If you hadn’t helped me out the way you have through the years, I wouldn’t have been able to keep her here on such cheap rent.”
With a shrug, Derek took the cup back and placed it on the table. He remembered the times his mom couldn’t afford the rent, yet Tim had never thrown them out. All he’d asked from Derek was snow removal in the winter and lawn care in the summer. And walking his dog, morning, noon, and night. Then some garden work, and plumbing and electrical. Derek couldn’t count the shocks he’d suffered trying to rig the old fuse boxes in the complex. Tim hadn’t done badly with Derek’s free labor, but still, he’d been kind.
“If I didn’t have a handicapped cousin, Derek, I’d leave it all to you.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Derek said, and just the thought made him happy. It was good to know Tim cared about him, because he certainly cared for Tim. He would have been an easy target if Derek was so inclined, but he wasn’t. It was about structure, and stability, and companionship. Tim provided all of that.
It was never about money with Tim. If he left the apartment complex to his cousin, that was fine. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a rent spike. As long as he continued to help out around the place and keep an eye on things, he could probably negotiate a fair rent with the new owners. But hopefully, that wasn’t something he’d have to worry about any time soon.
Another worry was on his mind, and as he sipped his tea, he wondered how to introduce it. He needed a new car, and he needed it now. With his vision failing, Tim no longer needed his. Derek had been taking care of that car, detailing it inside and out, since he was old enough to ride a bike. He had the money, and he’d checked the value of the car on the Internet. He just needed to work up the nerve to ask Tim to sell it to him.
“Do you want to do the bills, now, before I go out?” he asked Tim.
“Sure, sure.”
“And you’re going to let me take the car, right?” Derek sucked in a breath. It’s now or never, he thought. “Would you consider selling me the Benz?”
Suddenly anxious, Derek pulled out the stack of mail and began sorting through it.
Tim patted Derek’s thigh affectionately and laughed. “I’ve been waiting for you to work up the nerve to ask me that. No. I won’t sell it.” He paused and looked at Derek with vacant eyes. Then one corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile. “But I’ll give it to you. You’ve been good to me, Derek, and I want you to have it. You’re the only one who loves that car as much as I do.”
“You don’t have to give it to me, Tim. I can afford to buy it.”
“Been saving, have you?”
Derek nodded.
“I’m proud of you. That’s why I’m giving it to you.”
Derek could have kissed him, or at least hugged him, but they didn’t have that sort of relationship. Instead, he squeezed Tim’s hand. “Thank you, Tim.”
“You’re most welcome.”
“I’ll have you sign these checks, and then I’ll balance your checkbook for you, okay?”
“How many checks?”
“For all the bills, it’ll be seventeen checks. Just over eight thousand dollars.”
“And the deposit?”
“The usual. Just over twenty.”
“Okay, where do I sign?”
Derek placed Tim’s hand on the business check ledger, and he began signing. His vision was poor but good enough for this task. While Tim worked his pen, Derek threw open the blinds and let in a squint-inducing light, then wiped down the dusty surfaces that appeared in the gilded rays. When he’d finished, he began stuffing checks into envelopes. Running a large apartment complex entailed paying many bills.
“You�
��ll feed me before you leave, won’t you?” Tim asked.
Full of adrenaline now, Derek made a bold suggestion. “How about if I let you rest, and then we’ll go to the notary and sign over the car?”
Tim seemed to be thinking. “Can we go to the pancake house?” he asked after a moment.
An hour and a half later, Tim’s belly was full and Derek’s step was light. They’d signed the papers. The car of his dreams was now officially his.
“Watch it!” his mother screamed when he rushed into her apartment and threw open the bedroom blinds.
“It’s after five, Mom. Time to get up. I have something to show you.”
Yanking the covers over her, she refused to listen.
“C’mon,” he said as he handed her a breath mint. It did nothing to combat the odor of stale alcohol on her breath or in the room, but it was something. In a little while she’d pull herself together, and for an hour or so before he went out to meet Lucy, they’d pretend they were like a normal family, watching game shows together. Before his vision went, Tim used to join them. Now it was just Derek and his mom. They’d watch until his mother grew bored and decided to head out to the local pub.
“What?” she asked, peeking out from under the covers.
“Tim gave me the car!”
Squinting, she shook her head. “You’re a lucky fucker, do you know that? No one ever gave me anything in my whole life. Everything I have, I worked for.”
Feeling a little sad, Derek couldn’t help looking around the room. Seventies wallpaper blanketed the room, a dilapidated bedroom set sat in the center, the bed covers were old and faded. The things she’d worked for were right here, in four rooms. She had no property, no car, no savings. In forty-five years of life, she’d accomplished nothing. It made him sad but also determined. His life was going to turn out differently.
“I’m going to get one of those vanity plates,” he said. Grabbing a piece of paper, he wrote some letters on it and handed it to her.
She squinted at the writing before breaking into laughter. “Cool. Derek Knight, right?”
Derek looked at the paper. DrKnit. Dark Knight. “Yep, that’s right,” he said.
Chapter Sixteen
Healer
Chirping birds greeted Jess as she opened her back door and walked the few steps off her porch to the detached garage that housed her car. A bright, cloudless sky overhead told her it was going to be a magnificent fall day. After debating for a moment, she began the process of taking the roof off her Jeep. It was a long drive to Wilkes-Barre, but she was betting on the forecast. She’d stay dry, and the sweater over her shoulders would keep her warm enough. The sun and wind would do her good.
The reporters had left Garden when the next big story came along, and while Jess cringed about yet another oil spill, she was grateful for the relief. Multiple people had assured her she’d be safe from reporters, for a while, at least. She had Hawk’s trial to look forward to, and that was sure to be a zoo. She wasn’t taking any chances, though. Since the picture aired around the world showed Dr. Jessica Benson with long, flowing, dark-red hair, she’d lightened it a few shades and started pulling it up. Today, she wore a French braid. With her sunglasses on, she was sure no one would recognize her.
Navigating the smaller roads on her way to Wilkes-Barre proved a challenge. The neighboring town was having a garlic festival, and a parade of cars sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic as a tractor-trailer attempted to back into a spot where other vendors had parked in a converted farm field. Who would have known? Once she cleared the traffic, she quickly reached the highway, and before she knew it, the exit for Dr. Michael Ball’s office was on the right. The drive had taken more than an hour, and Jess was disheartened to think she’d have to make this trip regularly. The elevation of Garden, at sixteen hundred feet, was more than a thousand feet higher than Wilkes-Barre. That meant much more snow, and she dreaded making that drive during a storm. The same cold front that dumped heavy rain on Dr. Ball’s parking lot would leave a foot and a half of snow in Garden.
Don’t get down, she told herself. You’ve come this far. What does a drive matter? Besides, when something opened in Scranton, she’d make an appointment there. It was twenty minutes closer, and they were cheaper. Frowning, she thought of the thousand dollars she’d be paying Dr. Ball to treat her today. Ouch! She supposed it was money well spent, but still, she wasn’t wealthy. Her savings had a limit. She hoped the IOR plan included a massage and a pedicure. She could really use both, and with the money she’d spent recently on her addiction, she hesitated to blow another two hundred bucks at the spa.
The parking lot was packed, and Jess opted to park away from the other cars. Surveying the place as she walked, she concluded that the strip mall was an impressive piece of property, with nice landscaping in front and around the large marquee. The fronts were made of stone and glass. Most of the offices were medical, and Jess liked that. She imagined a nice network of colleagues referring to each other and communicating well about patient care. It made sense.
Dr. Ball’s door was a grand glass structure, plainly painted, with no indication that he treated addicts. Dr. Michael Ball, Family Medicine, it said, and listed the phone number below. Inside, it was much the same. Jess felt as if she’d entered a medical spa instead of an office. There was marble tile everywhere, and brightly painted walls gave the office a cheerful appearance. Tasteful drapes adorned the windows, and pleated shades were open to allow in the sun. Plants sprouted from every open space, and they were fed a stream of sunlight from skylights in the ceiling. Framed replicas of famous paintings adorned the walls. A dozen people waited comfortably on opulent leather couches and chairs, some watching the giant television, others reading magazines.
The waiting room was impressive. Hopefully, the medical care was as exceptional.
Looking around the room, she checked for other addicts. She saw a mother with a child. A father with two. An elderly couple. Several elderly people in wheelchairs, sitting next to an ambulance attendant. A few younger patients sat reading and watching television. No one looked too bad off, she thought. If they’re bup patients, Dr. Ball’s doing a good job in treating them.
The registration process was fairly easy, since Jess was paying cash. No insurance precertification was necessary. They simply scanned her driver’s license, had her fill out a few forms, and took her money. Judging by the waiting room, Jess figured she’d be in the office for a while. She pulled out her Kindle and picked up where she’d stopped reading her book.
An hour later, a nurse poked her nose through the door that separated the lobby from the treatment area and called Jess’s name. The clinical area was just as well done, with the same marble and coordinating colors, plants, and skylights. Following the nurse to her room, she looked around for any sign of other bup patients. All of the dozen doors were closed, though, and the staff members she could see were hard at work at computer screens or scurrying about.
Once inside room seven, the nurse directed Jess to a scale where she measured her height and weight before taking her other vital signs. Then Jess sat on a leather love seat and studied the room. There was a pedestal sink with more marble, a tall armoire instead of cabinets, and more paintings on the walls. A large television was playing mutely on one wall.
“Hmm?” Jess asked.
“Have you used buprenorphine before?” the nurse asked, seeming not at all perturbed by Jess’s lapse of attention.
Jess sat back and told her story. Half an hour later, when it was all recorded into the electronic chart, the nurse excused herself, and Jess turned her attention to the television. After she’d watched a few minutes of golf lessons, the door opened and a man walked in. He was tall and well built, with wavy black hair streaked with silver. Jess figured he was her own age, maybe a year or two older. His spotless white lab coat was neatly pressed, as were the pants that draped from beneath it. His black loafers were freshly shined.
Not surprisingly, his voice boome
d. “I’m Dr. Ball. I read the nurse’s note so I know a little about you, Jessica, but please tell me in your own words why you’re here.”
“I need a doctor to prescribe my medicine.”
He shook his head, seemingly disappointed. “Sobriety is about more than medication.”
His smug demeanor made Jess want to smack him, and it was difficult to hold back a sarcastic retort. “I understand. I’m seeing a counselor and attending meetings as well.” Occasional meetings, she had to admit. And since she’d convinced her counselor of her great progress, her therapy was only monthly.
His smile was much too wide to be genuine, and his perfectly straight teeth were brighter than the sunrise across the Atlantic. “Yes, that’s all very good, but my patients have such great success because of their involvement with my personalized programs. You not only get your medication here, but your therapy and group sessions as well. That way I can monitor your progress very closely, make adjustments if necessary, and ensure your compliance.”
This program sounded like a pain in the ass, but Jess suddenly understood the higher-than-average fees. And if his success rates were high, who was she to question him? She was a newly minted recovering addict, proud owner of a one-month chip from her meetings. Even though she’d been at Hartley for a month and had been studying online, she still knew next to nothing about addiction. She would learn the real lessons with time.
“So how often will I visit the office?” she asked.
“Daily until you’re stabilized. Then weekly, to ensure you’re trustworthy and not selling your medication. And then monthly. Your meetings here will be weekly, but you can come more frequently if you’d like. We have nice groups. They meet every day, morning and evening, and are well attended. Our psychologists will determine how often they need to see you—weekly, biweekly, monthly. Whatever is necessary to get you on the road to recovery and keep you there.”