by G. H. Ephron
“Hello, Peter,” he said congenially. “Yes, I thought you might be able to help her.”
“Hmm, right,” I said. “How long have you been treating her?”
“I’m not treating her right now.”
“Yes, she mentioned that. But you were, weren’t you?”
“Yes. For the last two years.”
“What did you see as her problem?”
“She’s an incest survivor.”
“Actually, I meant what kind of symptoms were you treating her for.”
He cleared his throat and I could hear some papers rattling. “She has an eating disorder. You know, Peter, eating disorders often indicate repressed memories of sexual abuse. In addition, she was anxious, depressed, had night terrors. Typical situation. Cold, distant mother. Abusive father and uncle. She adored them. Married a control freak hoping he’d be able to get a handle on what she couldn’t.”
As I listened, Mr. Kootz scuttled by, his shoelaces flapping, muttering to himself. He paused, mid-flap, to stare at an exit door on which a hand-lettered sign stated tersely, SPLIT RISK, a reminder to us all how quickly a patient like Mr. Kootz can slip out behind you through a locked door without even being noticed.
Then the elevator across from the nurses’ station opened to reveal Mr. O’Flanagan standing inside. It closed again.
“Did you prescribe medication for her?” I asked.
“Medication?” he said vaguely. “Oh, yes. Of course.”
“What did you prescribe?”
More papers shuffled. “Xanax for anxiety. Prozac for depression. Lithium to stabilize her moods. And some Halcion for sleep.”
To name a few, I thought. “I understand you terminated her?”
“That’s right. I’m no longer seeing her.”
“I understand she was still symptomatic.”
He cleared his throat. “When I discharged her, she was stable and in control. There was no reason to expect anything would happen. I gave her prescriptions to continue the medications and told her to check back with me in six months.”
The elevator opened and an orderly stepped out pushing a metal cart filled with juice and crackers. I could just make out Mr. O’Flanagan lounging against the back wall of the elevator as the door slid shut.
“Peter,” Dr. Baldridge said impatiently, “I’ve got a survivors group starting in a few minutes. Will there be much more?”
“No, I’m just about finished. I was wondering, why did you terminate her?”
“I didn’t terminate her. Part of her therapeutic regimen is that she needs to find her own way in the world. I’d done as much insight work with her as possible. I’d helped her recover her memories, given her the understanding of what happened to her, helped her to confront her abusers. Now she needs to integrate that.”
“And what was the insight you gave her?”
“That she’d been repeatedly raped by the uncle and by the father from the time she was three until the time she was twelve.”
“She told you this?”
“I suspected as much when I first saw her. All the telltale signs. Of course, the memories were repressed.”
“So you stopped treating Ms. Whitson and yet you continued to prescribe drugs for her?” I knew it was provocative but I couldn’t help myself.
He didn’t answer.
“You do know what you referred her to us for, don’t you? She tried to kill herself with a self-administered overdose of prescription drugs. She mixed herself quite a lethal cocktail.” He may as well have given her an artillery of loaded guns to choose from.
“Peter,” Baldridge said, indulging me, “you don’t work with many incest survivors, do you?”
“I don’t make it my exclusive practice.”
“Then you probably don’t realize that I was following the regimen I outline in my book, Surviving.”
I thought, too bad Ms. Whitson didn’t read your book. But then, she probably had to as part of her “treatment.” I wanted to ask if he had a stack of copies he sold to patients. But I didn’t. We were on a lot of the same committees. It wouldn’t pay to piss him off more than I already had.
“Will there be anything else, Peter?”
“Not right now. But I might need to contact you again.”
“Any time at all,” he said pleasantly. “And do let me know how she’s getting on.”
As I hung up the phone, the elevator door opened. This time, one of the neurology residents stepped out. Mr. O‘Flanagan was still inside. I lunged at the open door. Mr. O’Flanagan looked startled. I led him out of the elevator and down the hall to the common room where the orderly was distributing an afternoon snack to all takers.
When I returned to the nurses’ station, Gloria was there talking to Suzanne. “You don’t know, by any chance, how Mr. O’Flanagan ended up stuck in the elevator?” I asked.
“The elevator got stuck? I didn’t hear anything,” Gloria said.
“No, it didn’t get stuck. He did.”
“Wasn’t he upstairs with you?” Gloria asked Suzanne.
“He was with me earlier. I was finishing up my evaluation of him. But that was about forty minutes ago. Oh, Jeez! You found him in the elevator, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
Suzanne hit herself in the head with the butt of her hand. “Dumb! And you know, that’s just what I keep finding in all the test results — no short-term memory. None.” She looked like she wanted to dig a hole in the floor and climb into it. “I’m so sorry.”
“He’s already forgotten all about it,” I said.
“It’s a good thing Peter noticed,” Gloria added, “or Mr. O’Flanagan could have been riding around forever in the elevator, like Charlie on the MTA.”
“It’s a good lesson,” I said. “There’s nothing theoretical about test results. They can explain past behavior and predict what someone’s likely to do.”
“Right,” Suzanne said. “If a patient’s got no short-term memory, don’t stick him in an elevator and expect him to get off when he reaches the first floor.”
“And don’t leave medication lying around his room,” I added.
“What? Of course not,” Gloria said indignantly. “That would be an accident waiting to happen, much worse than getting stuck in an elevator.”
I knew Gloria expected all the nurses on the unit not only to watch each patient take their pills, but to check hands and mouths afterward. It was standard operating procedure. But then, our average patients don’t know the time of day, never mind whether they’ve taken their meds. “Gloria, what about at other hospitals, say one that treats trauma victims, physical rehab? Would a nurse leave pills for a patient to take?”
“It’s just not done,” Gloria insisted. “Any nurse worth her salt isn’t going to leave medication in a patient’s room.” Period. End of discussion.
So if Sylvia Jackson’s goody basket of pills hadn’t been left for her by a nurse, then how had those pills found their way to her bathroom?
18
A FEW days later, I returned to the hospital to finish testing Sylvia Jackson. When I arrived, Angelo was shouting encouragement from one end of the hall while Syl struggled on crutches, painstakingly inching her way along the corridor. When she saw me, she flashed an enormous smile, obviously well pleased with herself.
I went to stand alongside Angelo.
“She’s determined to walk to the witness stand,” he told me.
It was smart. The jury couldn’t help but be moved, as I was watching her.
“Come on, baby, I know you can do it,” Angelo called out.
Just then, Sergeant MacRae appeared at the far end of the corridor. He’d been barreling ahead, in a hurry to get somewhere, but when he saw us he screeched to a halt.
Syl struggled forward, her right leg dragging, gradually closing the gap between us. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five feet. Two feet. As Syl lurched to one side and fell toward me, I found myself reaching out to catch her. She dropped the crutches to
the floor and struggled to a standing position, rubbing up against me. I adjusted my grip and held her at arm’s length. How had I gotten myself into this position?
MacRae bumped my shoulder going past in high gear, scowling, but Syl didn’t see him. She had reached for Angelo and shifted to where she could nestle up against him, oblivious to his stiff coldness. In sixty seconds, she’d managed to piss off two boyfriends. As Annie said, Sylvia Jackson did have that thing about her.
The wheelchair sat empty at the other end of the long corridor. I fetched it and pushed it back. Syl struggled to move closer, to position herself near the chair. Angelo gave her a rough push and she landed on the arm of the wheelchair, arched her back, and slid into the seat. “Angelo, what the —” Syl started to protest. But the words died when she saw his dark, angry face. There was an awkward silence. Then Angelo turned on his heel, stomped down the hall, and disappeared into Syl’s room.
I pushed Syl quickly toward the conference room. She reached down and held the wheel of the chair as we were passing the open door of her room. The chair skidded to a stop. Inside, Angelo was shrugging on a windbreaker. “I’ll meet you in a minute,” she told me and rolled silently inside. I continued to the conference room.
I was still arranging the test materials on the table when Syl joined me. She pulled herself into position at the head of the table. “Men,” she sighed. “Can’t live with ’em. And I sure as hell can’t live without them.” She cupped her hand over her mouth and leaned toward me. “Tell you a secret. Today’s my birthday.”
“Well, Happy Birthday! Are you going to celebrate?”
“Carolyn is taking me out for drinks. Right after we’re done, in fact. You know, I even had to get permission from the docs. Just like being a teenager again. Oh, God, I haven’t been out for actual drinks for — not since …” She steadied herself. Then she gave a forced smile, lowered her eyelids, and asked, “So what do you think about a woman my age seeing a younger man?”
I didn’t know what to say. I reminded myself — frontal lobe damage. She couldn’t keep herself from breaching those unseen boundaries that keep inappropriate thoughts from popping out. She’d probably always been a sensual person, hyperattuned to body language and sexual nuance. But now, that aspect of her overpowered the rest.
Smiling brightly and tossing her head, she asked, “Can you tell? He’s five years younger than I am. Of course, I haven’t told him exactly how old I am.” I didn’t point out that any newspaper account of the crime would have tipped him off.
I looked at my watch and said, “We need to get started, Ms. Jackson. Taking tests isn’t a very nice way to spend your birthday —”
She continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “And know what else? I’m going home! At the end of the week. I’m counting the days. Angel’s been getting the house ready for me. Mowed my lawn. Built a ramp. When I try to thank him, he says it’s the least he can do for Tony.”
“He and his uncle must have been very close,” I said.
“They were. Just like this.” She held up two fingers, side by side.
“They were in business together, too?” I asked.
“Mmm,” she said vaguely. “Tony and Angelo Ruggiero. People used to say they were like brothers. They really are a lot alike.” Her lower lip trembled. Syl closed her eyes and bent her head. She unlocked the wheelchair’s brakes and put her hands on the wheels, pushing and pulling the chair back and forth, rocking herself gently in place. Then she reset the brakes.
“Sorry,” she said, fiercely wiping away the tears that were making their way down her face. “This happens all the time. Whenever I think …”
I’m right there with you, I thought. I handed her a tissue from the stash I always keep in my pocket. “Loss leaves your life pockmarked with holes that you’re constantly falling into. You can’t really forget because there’s so much that reminds you.”
“But then, would you really want to?” she said. “At least let them be remembered. Because after that, what is there?”
I didn’t trust myself to look at her. Remembering was too painful. Keeping busy, that had been my salvation.
“You would have liked Tony,” she said.
“I’m sure I would have.”
“He was a sweetheart. I knew the first time I met him, he was something special. He brought in a car to be appraised. I wrote it up. Damaged front fender, dented hood, cracked windshield, a ding in the roof. See, my memory’s not so bad.”
It was true. Her memory for some events predating her injuries did seem to be intact, preserved like a fly in amber. It was the present that was drifting away like smoke.
“Tony was real anxious about that car. He was bringing it in for Angelo. Came on like a tough guy. Lots of attitude. People always assumed I’d be out to get them when I was just doing my job. But we hit it off anyway.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I wish I could remember. Angel says the three of us spent lots of time together. And I can sort of remember, but it’s like shadows dancing in the back of my brain. There’s a lot I can’t remember. Do you think it will ever come back to me?”
“Your doctors know how you’re doing. You should ask them.” I was grateful that it wasn’t my job to tell her that six months after a brain injury, what you see is pretty much what you get.
She paused, appearing to size me up before continuing. “Carolyn doesn’t like you very much.”
“Nurse Lovely?”
“Of course she doesn’t have any real reason not to like you. I mean, she hardly even knows you. She just thinks you’re going to hurt me.” She leaned forward in her chair, beseeching me. “But you’re not out to get me, are you?”
Was I out to get her? In a sense, I was. And Sylvia Jackson didn’t need another betrayal from someone she trusted. On the other hand, if Stuart Jackson was innocent, would I be “getting” Sylvia Jackson by testifying that the memories that condemned him might be less than genuine?
“No, Ms. Jackson, I’m not out to get you. And I have more good news for you — today’s tests are the last. After this, we’re finished.”
“Yes, I guess that is good news.” She didn’t look convinced. “So, maybe I’ll see you at the trial?” It felt like the end of a date when one person says, “So, you’ll call?” and then waits for the answer to find out whether or not they’re getting dumped. Wrong context, but still, that’s how it felt. Sylvia Jackson lived in a world where everything had become personal.
“Actually, probably not. We’re both witnesses. Neither of us can watch the trial. That’s the key to being a good witness, expert or otherwise. You’ve got to remain unbiased.”
She didn’t look too disappointed. “I feel real bad about Stuart.” She took a deep, shuddering breath.
“You were married for a long time.”
“Ten years. And we’ve been friends — seems like forever and ever. He knew what I was thinking before I did. And I used to be able to finish his sentences. That pisses him off. See, he can’t figure out how come I can finish his thoughts when he’s so much smarter than me. And he is. But still, half the time, I know just what he’s going to say.”
I thought about how Syl was coming out of her ordeal incomplete in so many ways. And it would be my job to point out to the jury just how broken she was. I felt like a heel. I consoled myself by remembering the lack of physical evidence. Surely whoever shot Syl and Tony left behind or took with them some link to the crime.
I arranged my test materials and taped a TESTING, DO NOT DISTURB sign to the door. Then I gave Syl a piece of paper and a pencil and asked her to draw a person. She held the pencil, hesitated, then started to draw. She sketched out the figure of a woman that filled most of the page. The marks were hard and clean. The face was oval, with well-defined eyes, ears, and mouth. Shoulder-length hair. Then she drew shoes that looked like Mary Janes. But when she handed me the paper, the body was nothing but the outline of a dress. There was not a single detail — no buttons, no collar, no curves. Noth
ing but flat emptiness.
Then I gave her a second piece of paper and asked her to draw a man. She approached it in the same way — sketching the overall shape, starting with an oval face. She drew eyes, a nose, and a mouth, longish strands of hair on the head. She added shoelaces and heels to suggest oxfords on the feet. But after that, the difference between the two drawings was striking. The man had broad shoulders, narrow hips. He wore a suit. The jacket had carefully drawn buttons and lapels; the shirt had a collar, the corner of a breast pocket, and buttons; the pants had a belt, and even a line to suggest the fly on his pants.
“Thank you. Very nice work,” I said as I tucked the drawings away. She beamed.
I reached for the stack of inkblots. Syl looked at them warily and swallowed. “Right,” I said, “here’s where all hell broke loose last time. You okay today? Need to take a break? After this, we’re done.”
“No, I’m okay.” She took a breath. “Let’s do it.”
I went through my opening spiel and handed Syl the first card. She took it from me slowly and, as I timed her, she rotated it in a complete circle, coming back to what is considered the right-side-up position. It was a full two minutes before she said anything.
She exhaled and then filled the breath with sound. “It looks like a butterfly. With wings. Or … a bat. Here are its teeth,” she said, indicating sharp little points along one edge of the inkblot — the teeth of a vampire bat silhouetted against the upper half of the bat’s mouth.
She pivoted the card a quarter-turn and smiled. “It’s a flower.” She pouted, adding, “The flower doesn’t have many leaves.” Then she brightened again. “There’s a butterfly, over here, coming to the flower.”
She turned the card again and wrinkled her brow. “It’s a face. With four eyes and a mouth. The mouth is down here.” She pointed to the lower edge of the inkblot, which was shaped like an open half-circle. “Well, it would be a mouth, if it were all there. And the eyes are staring straight at me.”
She put her hand over the inkblot before turning it again.