by J. J. Murray
He dialed the main number for the hospital.
“Good afternoon, how may I direct your call?” a bored female voice asked.
At least it’s not a computerized system with all that button-pushing. “Could you transfer me to Dr. William Wick’s office? Thank you. It’s an emergency.”
A few minutes later, a woman answered. “This is Dr. Wick’s office. How may I help you?”
“I need to talk to Dr. Wick,” Matthew said breathlessly. “I’m just back from Afghanistan, and I’m in crisis. A buddy of mine told me Dr. Wick was the man to talk to in case of emergency.”
“Are you currently contemplating or in the act of committing suicide?” she asked.
What a question! “No, ma’am, but thanks for asking.”
“Would you like to set up an appointment?” she asked.
Ignore the question. “My buddy’s name is Second Lieutenant Timothy Simmons. Dr. Wick helped him about two years ago. I really need to speak to Dr. Wick.”
“One moment.”
I hope she’s checking the records. She’ll see I’m telling the truth—at least about Timothy. The next part is going to be tricky. “You still there? It will only take a few minutes, I swear. Please. I beg you.”
The woman sighed. “I’ll transfer you.”
I like receptionists who have a heart. Many don’t, acting as if their bosses are demigods who can’t be bothered without an official appointment that only they can approve.
“This is Dr. Wick. To whom am I speaking?”
No more lies now, and it’s time to talk fast. “Doctor Wick, I’m Matthew McConnell, and I’m calling in reference to a former patient of yours who I am representing, Second Lieutenant Timothy Simmons. You assessed him two years ago after an incident in the OR at Woodhull Medical. Does any of this ring a bell?”
“First of all—”
“I know you can’t talk about any of your patients, Doctor,” Matthew interrupted. “I just want to know if you remember treating Timothy. He was an anesthetist at Landstuhl who claimed to have PTSD.”
“I can’t—”
“All of this is completely off the record, I promise,” Matthew interrupted. “I only need some hypothetical information for argument’s sake.”
“What kind of information?” Dr. Wick asked.
Always confuse them with vague phrases. “Or I can talk, and you can feel free not to answer.”
“I’m really very busy,” Dr. Wick said.
“Yes, I’m sure you are very busy denying PTSD status to suffering soldiers,” Matthew said. We’ll let that hang in the air a second to let him feel the real reason I’m calling.
“I’m going to hang up,” Dr. Wick said.
“If you really wanted to end this conversation,” Matthew said, “you would have already hung up. You remember Timothy, don’t you?”
“I can’t say whether I remember him or not,” Dr. Wick said.
“Let me refresh your memory then, hypothetically speaking, of course,” Matthew said. “Let’s say an OR anesthetist witnesses hundreds of gruesome operations and amputations, say, at Landstuhl, operations made necessary by combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and two years after his discharge this anesthetist has severe difficulties. He comes to a VA psychiatrist, someone very much like yourself, for help, only this psychiatrist determines there’s nothing wrong with him because he was not in active combat.” Matthew took a breath. “This hypothetical anesthetist then becomes numb, never leaving his apartment for two years, unable to hold a job or sleep through the night without terrible nightmares. You still there, Dr. Wick?”
“I am,” Dr. Wick said.
This is a good sign. Maybe his conscience is bothering him about Timothy. “What do you think of my hypothetical situation?”
“Is this hypothetical anesthetist still taking the hypothetical antidepressant I might have hypothetically prescribed?” Dr. Wick asked.
Aha! Dr. Wick prescribed an antidepressant. Why do that if Timothy wasn’t depressed? “He cannot currently afford to take antidepressants because he cannot hold a job. He and his wife are living on her salary and the help of their church. Why would a psychiatrist prescribe an antidepressant to a soldier who had been out of the service for two years? Hypothetically speaking.”
“Perhaps because of separation anxiety,” Dr. Wick said. “Soldiers sometimes get depressed when they leave the service. They miss the order of things. They miss their comrades-in-arms. Thus, a psychiatrist might prescribe something like Abilify to ease the transition.”
Matthew found and circled “Abilify” in his notes. “In this hypothetical case I’m describing, is the only reason this soldier wasn’t granted PTSD status because he was never in combat?”
“Hypothetically speaking, yes,” Dr. Wick said.
“This hypothetical soldier saw the results of combat, Doctor Wick,” Matthew said.
“And so did other military medical personnel and thousands of combat soldiers who are currently leading normal lives,” Dr. Wick said.
“As far as you know,” Matthew said.
“I only see them when they’re in crisis, Mr. McConnell,” Dr. Wick said.
“So you agree that my hypothetical soldier was in crisis,” Matthew said quickly.
“This conversation—”
“What about the nightmares he has every time he closes his eyes?” Matthew interrupted.
“Can you prove he has nightmares, Mr. McConnell?” Dr. Wick asked.
“No, but you can’t prove he doesn’t have them, can you?” Matthew asked.
“Good day, Mr. McConnell.”
Click.
Matthew frowned and finished his cup of coffee.
If I were still at SYG, at this point I’d have our investigators dig up some dirt on Dr. Wick to use against him. There was always some kind of dirt, and that often gave us the advantage we needed to win the case. I wish we already had Wi-Fi so I could do some Internet searches on the guy. Patients “grade” their doctors more and more online. Maybe he’s an incompetent doctor.
No. I didn’t get that vibe. The fact that didn’t hang up on me speaks volumes. He listened. That’s more than I expected him to do. Maybe he feels some regret and will give Timothy another exam.
He also made an outstanding point. How can you prove a person has nightmares? If I can prove that Timothy has debilitating nightmares, I have a case.
How do I do that?
Angela refilled Matthew’s cup. “That didn’t sound too good.” She rolled her eyes. “You were in crisis?”
Angela’s cute little ears pick up everything, even when she’s swamped with customers! “I had to get my foot in the door somehow.”
“You’re a pretty convincing liar,” Angela said. “I only caught the first part, though. Who were you talking to?”
“Doctor Wick, the psychiatrist who originally examined Timothy after his meltdown,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “You know, if Timothy went out and committed a crime, he wouldn’t be able to use PTSD as a defense because according to the U.S. Army, he doesn’t have it, and if the U.S. Army says it, it must be true.”
“Get another psychiatrist to examine him,” Angela said.
“I could, but I don’t know that many psychiatrists, especially ones who deal with PTSD on a regular basis,” Matthew said.
Angela went behind the counter and came back with a business card. “You could call him.”
Matthew looked at the card. “Doctor Kenneth Penn.” With an address on North 7th Street, a few blocks from here. “How do you know him?”
“He’s a friend of the family,” Angela said. “He’s retired now, but he still sees patients.”
“How long has he been retired?” Matthew asked.
“Five, maybe six years,” Angela said.
Shoot. “I need a practicing psychiatrist.”
“Doctor Penn served in Vietnam as a medic,” Angela said. “And if a Vietnam medic turned psychiatrist says a current vet has PTSD . . .”
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“He was regular army?” Matthew asked.
Angela nodded.
“So he should know all about PTSD,” Matthew said.
“Yes,” Angela said. “Want me to give him a call?”
“You’re not my receptionist. Angela. I’ll call him.”
“I know the man,” Angela said. “I have to vouch for you first. He’s retired, remember? He has his own hours, just like you do.” Angela placed the business card on the table and picked up Matthew’s phone. “May I?”
“Sure.”
She punched in the number. “Oh, I have some cookies coming out.” She walked around the counter. “Hi, Doctor Penn? Angela Smith . . .”
Matthew stared at the business card. What makes a person become a psychiatrist? How can anyone listen to other people’s misery for a living? Hmm. I kind of do that, too, don’t I?
Angela returned a few minutes later. “The doctor will see you now.”
“Just like that,” Matthew said.
She handed him the phone. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Where are the cookies?” Matthew asked, putting on his coat.
“Oh, they weren’t quite ready.” She smiled. “Hurry back, or I’ll eat them all.”
“Okay.”
Matthew walked through snow flurries that turned into a steady rain of snow by the time he reached North 7th and Roebling and Dr. Penn’s all-brick house, a classy brass nameplate on the door announcing : “The Doctor Is In.”
Matthew rang the bell, and a tall black man wearing jeans and a T-shirt under a brown blazer opened the door.
“Mr. McConnell?” he said.
He was in Vietnam? His hair doesn’t have a speck of gray in it. “Yes sir,” Matthew said.
“Come in, come in,” Dr. Penn said.
Matthew followed Dr. Penn up a shiny wooden staircase to an open area where comfortable-looking brown leather couches and wingback chairs surrounded a coffee table.
Dr. Penn sat in one of the wingback chairs, Matthew in the other.
“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Penn,” Matthew said.
“I’d do anything to help another soldier,” Dr. Penn said. “We’re all in the same family. Tell me about his case.”
Matthew took the microcassette recorder from his briefcase. “I’ll let him tell you.” He played the tape.
When he finished, Dr. Penn smiled. “You drew him out very well, Matthew.”
“It wasn’t easy,” Matthew said. “Do you think we have a case?”
“It seems clear-cut to me,” Dr. Penn said, “but I will need to examine Timothy in person to make a more accurate assessment.”
“I can set it up,” Matthew said, “but as you heard on the tape, Timothy hasn’t left his house in two years.”
“I’ll gladly make another house call,” Dr. Penn said. “I need the exercise.”
Matthew took out his phone. “When would be the best time for you to meet with Timothy?”
“Soon,” Dr. Penn said. “He needs help now.”
“Could you see him today?” Matthew asked.
Dr. Penn looked out the window at a literal wall of snow. “Hmm. Today would be fine, but only if I can see him within the next two hours. Will you look at that? It’s been a couple years since our last blizzard. We were due for this one.”
“They live over near Milly’s at Berry and South Second,” Matthew said.
“I know the place,” Dr. Penn said. “It still has the old vinyl Coke signs out front.”
“So . . . in an hour? Two?”
“Make it two,” Dr. Penn said. “I need to find my snowshoes.”
Matthew blinked. “Your . . . snowshoes.”
“I have a pair,” Dr. Penn said. “Got them after the blizzard of 2006, and they came in mighty handy during the blizzard of 2010. Go ahead and call them while I try to find those shoes.” He stood and walked downstairs.
Matthew called Gloria’s work number. “How’s Timothy doing?”
“Better,” she said. “He’s eating two meals a day now. He even answered the phone when I called him during my lunch break.”
That sounds promising. “When will you be home?”
“They’re sending us home early because of the snow,” Gloria said. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes or so. Why?”
“I’m sending a psychiatrist named Dr. Kenneth Penn to talk to Timothy,” Matthew said. “Dr. Penn was an army medic in Vietnam, and he’ll be there in about two hours. I thought we could use his expert knowledge.” Matthew told her about the call to Dr. Wick. “I hope this doesn’t put you out.”
“No,” Gloria said. “I’m simply amazed how fast you work, Mr. McConnell.”
Dr. Penn clunked up the stairs holding an enormous pair of snowshoes.
“Expect Dr. Penn to arrive at your place in two hours,” Matthew said. “He will be wearing his snowshoes.”
“His . . . snowshoes,” Gloria said.
“I’ll let him explain why he has them,” Matthew said. “Give my best to Timothy.”
“I will,” Gloria said. “Thank you, Mr. McConnell.”
He closed his phone. “Those are huge.”
“They work,” Dr. Penn said.
“About your fee,” Matthew said.
Dr. Penn set his snowshoes on the floor. “Don’t worry about it. Glad to help.”
“Are you sure?” Matthew asked.
“Sure I’m sure,” he said. “I’m doing this as a favor to Angela.” He placed his feet on the snowshoes.
Matthew stood. “How do you know the Smiths?”
“Oh, only in passing,” Dr. Penn said. “Whenever I need real coffee I can afford or the most delicious pastries on this or any other planet, I go to Smith’s Sweet Treats. My children always loved their cookies.”
Matthew waited to hear more, but Dr. Penn said no more. How, then, is he a friend of the family?
Dr. Penn stepped off the snowshoes. “A pleasure meeting you, Matthew. Thank you for being Angela’s friend.”
“Sure.” Something’s not clicking here. A friend of the family should know more about the family.
“After I meet with Timothy, I’ll write up my report,” Dr. Penn said. “I assume you’ll need me for court.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, yes, I will need you,” Matthew said.
Dr. Penn extended his hand. “I will be glad to help.”
Matthew shook his hand. “Thank you.”
While shaking off snow as he returned to Angela’s, Matthew couldn’t shake off his suspicions. Dr. Penn is a retired psychiatrist who still makes house calls. He said he’d be glad to make another house call. He’s doing this as a favor to Angela, who says he’s a friend of the family but acts as if he doesn’t know them well at all.
And Angela punched in Dr. Penn’s phone number without looking at the business card.
“Thank you for being Angela’ s friend,” he says. Is Angela his patient? She might be. She’s certainly anxious when she’s out with me. She’s anxious whenever she’s outside at any time. All those locks and the heavy-duty steel doors in the back. She’s afraid of something, and maybe she hugged me so fiercely because she was scared.
But she let me leave right after that hug.
What could that woman possibly be afraid of? Love? I hope not.
She takes my elbow, not my hand, hugs the skin off me, and seems hesitant to touch me unless she initiates the contact. And when I touch her, she . . . recoils.
What happened to her?
Snow cascaded like a waterfall in front of Angela’s, and the sidewalk was covered by at least four inches of snow. He glanced across the street and didn’t see La Estrella’s garish neon lights.
He stamped his feet just inside the door, and the sound seemed to echo. The dining area was empty, and Angela sat on her stool in front of the counter reading a newspaper.
“When did La Estrella close?” he asked.
Angela folded the paper. �
�About an hour ago.”
“Good for us.” He advanced toward the counter.
She looked around the empty dining area. “Really?” Angela poured him a large cup of coffee. “How’d it go with Dr. Penn?”
He reached for the cup.
Angela drew it away and walked around the counter to the booth.
So now she wants to talk. So do I.
Matthew sat, Angela sliding in beside him.
“So, how did it go?” she asked.
She certainly seems eager to know. “Dr. Penn is going to make another house call.”
Angela exhaled softly. “Oh?”
“I didn’t know psychiatrists made house calls, did you?” Matthew asked.
“Dr. Penn evidently does.” She gripped her cup. “When will he see Timothy?”
She’s about to crush that cup. “In about two hours,” Matthew said, taking a sip of his coffee. “This is so good. It’s like taking a sip of heaven.” He nudged her knee with his. “Dr. Penn says he likes your coffee and pastries. Does he visit you often?”
“Not . . . very often,” Angela said. She looked at an older white couple banging through the door and shaking off snow. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Visco.” She stood. “They’re kind of loud,” she whispered. “And they never tip.”
“Angie, did you see?” Mrs. Visco yelled, “La Estrella is closed!”
Angela rolled her eyes and went behind the counter, popping up two large cups. “Some people just can’t handle a little storm, Mrs. Visco.”
“Why’d they even open for business in the first place?” Mr. Visco asked. “They’re open, they’re closed.”
Angela poured their coffee. “The usual?”
“To go this time, Ange,” Mr. Visco said. “We want to get home before it gets too bad out there. The wind’s already kicking up.”
Angela bagged two of everything in her showcase.
That’s a substantial “usual.”
“It has all the ingredients of a blizzard, Angie,” Mrs. Visco said. “Will you be open tomorrow?”
“I’ll be open.” She took their money, gave them their change, and handed Mr. Visco the bag.
A buzzer sounded from the kitchen.
“I’ll be back,” Angela said, and she hurried back to the kitchen.
Yeah, I’d run away from them, too. Oh, here they come to shout at me.