Mother's Milk

by Charles Atkins

  Jerod nodded.

  ‘Good, and it looks like it’s keeping you comfortable, that’s great. OK, now all that’s left is to get you a flu shot and we can send you back to your room.’

  Jerod waited as the doctor unlocked one of the overhead glass-fronted cabinets and pulled out a box that contained small glass ampoules. From one of the drawers he grabbed a plastic-wrapped syringe and drew up a small amount of the liquid. He then methodically put the box back into the cabinet, locked it, and threw all of the wrapping materials into a red hazardous-material container mounted on the wall. Approaching Jerod with the loaded needle, he asked, ‘Any allergies?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jerod said, feeling his paranoia swell as the doctor swabbed his shoulder with an alcohol wipe before the needle made contact with his shoulder.

  ‘You’re going to feel a little pinch.’

  He wanted to run, and the voice screamed, ‘Get out, Jerod!’ but he held rigid as the tiny needle sank into his flesh.

  ‘All done,’ the doctor said. ‘You can put your shirt back on.’

  The voice shouted in Jerod’s head, like someone standing just behind him, ‘That was stupid, Jerod. Now you’re in for it. Now you’re in trouble.’ He tried to ignore it as he pulled on his brown pajama top with the words PROPERTY OF CROTON FORENSIC HOSPITAL stamped on the front and back. He barely heard the doctor call for the guard, telling her that he was ready to go back, as the first finger of discomfort hit and then blossomed into a searing pain, like a knife that ripped through his gut.

  The guard appeared as Jerod clutched his stomach, doubled over, and vomited. At first nothing came and then he heaved again and again, his supper and then dull greenish bile flew out of him. His eyes teared and he gasped from the pain that seemed to start in his gut and then spread through every bone in his body.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ the guard asked, trying to avoid the puking man.

  ‘He said he was starting to feel sick,’ the doctor said, putting his hand on Jerod’s forehead. ‘He’s burning up. We need to get him to the hospital … Now! You call the ambulance, and I’ll see if I can get him stable.’

  Jerod tried to stand, it was hard to breathe and his heart pounded way too fast. The room shifted, the glass cabinets, the doctor all spinning at crazy angles. He shivered as the nausea came again. He tried to vomit but nothing came, he gagged and spit, his jaw ached. He looked up at the doctor, who was standing back by the counter, just watching him.

  ‘What did you do?’ he gasped.

  ‘Not a thing,’ the doctor said, not moving to help or even offer him a basin or water to wash out his mouth.

  The female guard returned with a pair of burly aides. They helped Jerod into a wheelchair. She grabbed a pink plastic bedpan and put it on his lap, as he heaved and retched, now only bringing up the tiniest bits of brown bile. ‘The ambulance should be waiting,’ she told him.

  To Jerod it was all white noise and pain, the voice now screaming, ‘Stupid, Jerod. Real stupid. Stupid stupid stupid stupid.’

  ‘You’re going to be OK,’ the guard said, as they wheeled him out. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

  Dr. Jack Nader, in his final year of residency training, watched and listened for the retreating footsteps to vanish. He pulled his cell out of his lab coat’s breast pocket and dialed. ‘Marky, it’s me. He’s on his way to the hospital … no more than ten minutes. I don’t feel good about this. When can I get my stuff?’

  He hung up, glanced around nervously, closed the door, and then reached deep into the inside pocket of his lab coat and retrieved a small Ziploc bag filled with ten white pills.

  He thought how he’d no longer have to count these so carefully. Only ten left, only eight left, only six left, will they have more? Will I have enough money? His entire life, since the dental surgery three years ago, revolved around his Oxies and Roxies, Percocets, Vicodin, Dilaudid. Even working as the on-call doc at Croton, a moonlighting job that left him drained and exhausted for his daytime assignment, was just so he could have enough cash. At ten pills a day, five to ten dollars a pill, he was burning through thousands a month. Every time he tried to cut down or quit, he’d get sick and depressed. Never going more than a day without a pill, before he’d call Marky, begging. At least he hadn’t shot dope … although he’d come close. It was cheaper than the pills, but that was the one line he swore he’d never cross – he’d never shoot. But in his heart he knew it was just a matter of time, constantly needing more to not get sick.

  He shook two pills into the palm of his hand, and popped them dry. After tonight he’d be set … at least for a while. Marky had just wanted this one little favor and in exchange he’d have pills for a year. ‘I’ve got a friend in there,’ Marky had said and had given him the information on Jerod. ‘I need you to get him out. He’s also got some stuff of mine, so when he goes make sure it’s with him.’

  Dr. Nader picked up the phone and called security. ‘Hi, this is Dr. Nader. The man that just went to the hospital – Jerod Blank – won’t be back tonight. If somebody could arrange to have his belongings transported to the hospital that would be great … No, it should be tonight. Thanks.’

  It’s not like that Jerod kid had done anything really bad, he told himself, he’d read the chart. He wasn’t a murderer or anything, getting him out of here wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  He felt the bag. Now only eight pills left. He’d meet Marky tomorrow and get more, get lots. He promised himself that he wouldn’t take more than ten a day; he made plans to cut down. Maybe take one pill less a day every week – I should be able to handle that. And after that, he thought, I’ll quit. I’ll really quit.

  ELEVEN

  Barrett hadn’t been inside her condo thirty seconds before her mother started in. ‘What’s wrong, dear?’

  It was a simple question, and as she bent down to pick up Max from his Pack-N-Play, ‘Long day, Mom,’ she said, hoping that Ruth, who was rapidly surveying the living room and gathering up her belongings, would let sleeping dogs … cower in corners. It was also a day that wasn’t nearly over, and she hoped her mom would be out the door before Hobbs showed up. ‘And I’m sorry that I’m late. I know you wanted to go home before your shift. It’s just …’

  ‘It’s OK, Barrett, at least I’m not going to be late for work, I figured this might happen so I hand-washed the puke off my shirt and used your blow dryer … good as … well, good enough, and thank God for low lights.’

  Barrett felt a surge of gratitude as she cradled Max, and followed her mother’s rapid progress. ‘I can’t thank you enough for helping out.’

  ‘Well, that’s what grandmothers are for.’

  ‘You sure don’t look like one,’ Barrett said, taking in her mother’s curvy figure in skin-tight jeans, a black T-shirt with the Night Shade logo, and burnt-red sling-backs with four-inch heels.

  ‘Yet another advantage of unwanted teen pregnancy – you get to be a grandmother before fifty.’ Using the mirror by the front door, Ruth piled and twisted her thick auburn hair into a purposefully untidy bun, setting it in place with rhinestone-studded hairpins. She pulled out long tendrils and twirled them with her finger, making quick curls to hang loose on either side of her face. Glancing at the clock she pulled out lipstick and quickly put on her face. ‘I look like day-old crap.’

  Still holding the baby, Barrett came up behind her and looked at their reflections. ‘You look beautiful. Course … none of the men in the Night Shade are really going to notice.’

  ‘You’re so wrong,’ her mother said, ‘and I wish you wouldn’t make stereotypical judgments about my patrons – and besides it’s not just men. Many of the women find me very attractive.’

  ‘Is there something I should know?’ Barrett asked, catching her mother’s eye in the mirror.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it,’ Ruth said, ‘with my record with men, it’s a damn shame I’m not wired to be a lesbian … and how did the conversation shift from your bad day to
me?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mom.’ She looked away, and her eye caught the blinking light on the phone.

  ‘Who called?’

  Ruth cast a worried look at her daughter. ‘Those people about the hearing for Jimmy Martin, seems they really want to talk to you.’

  ‘That’s all I need.’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, pursing her lips and dabbing a bit of the same blood-red lipstick on the apples of her cheeks, ‘if it’s one thing Conyors women know about, avoiding stuff doesn’t make it go away, just makes it fester.’ She smiled and using her deepest Southern drawl added, ‘Like a big ol’ boil.’ She caught her reflection and then looked at her watch. ‘I’ll do the rest on the bus.’ She grabbed her bag, went over to Barrett and Max, rubbed her nose against his, and hugged her daughter. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ And she was out the door, her high heels clattering down the stairs.

  Still in her work clothes, Barrett closed the door – she was exhausted and the thought of the day not being over was depressing. It would be so much nicer to just stay in. She put Max down. ‘It’s OK, sweetie.’ He started to cry. She quickly stripped off her blazer and unbuttoned her shirt. He watched her, now making goo sounds as he waited to be picked up. As she nursed, she took in her surroundings, so familiar from the green-and-white-striped sofa, two armchairs upholstered in rough-woven beige, the framed family photos, her wedding picture with Ralph, Justine’s graduation pictures from medical school, the galley kitchen, and her ebonized Mason and Hamlin grand piano that had once belonged to Sophie. She’d not played much over the past year, not since … There was no getting away from him. Her mother, as usual, had hit the nail square, there was no running from Jimmy Martin and what he’d done to her. He was still alive; she’d seen videos of him in his super-max cell at Croton. For the second time in his life he’d avoided prison and gotten a not-guilty by reason of mental defect. They said he would never be released; they’d said that before. And like every long-term patient at Croton, every six months he would go before the release board and they would have to determine if he was well enough to be discharged back to the community.

  She looked down at Max as he suckled; he had Jimmy’s blond hair and blue eyes. He was a beautiful baby … like Jimmy had been. ‘What have you done, Barrett?’ she said aloud. She had nearly terminated the pregnancy, and only three other people knew the truth – Hobbs, Justine, and Houssman; they’d all encouraged her to go through with the abortion. And now … ‘Hi, Max.’ He was in a blue-flannel one-piece, his skin soft against hers. At four months, he was getting big, no longer the passive bundle of flesh that just ate and pooped. She rocked and held him, her gaze resting on her wedding picture with Ralph, her in a white-silk flapper dress, him in tails – a carnation in his lapel; he’d not been a perfect husband, but she had been hopelessly in love. She looked down at Max, contentedly suckling, making squishy gurgle noises. In a couple months she’d be able to start him on solid food, and a couple months after that he’d be weaned. She’d told everyone, including Ralph’s parents, that the baby was his. If the blond hair and blue eyes didn’t darken, the lie would be impossible. Ralph had been half Cuban with swarthy skin, liquid brown eyes, and full lips that knew how to kiss, to smile, and to tell her lies.

  When Max had his full, she burped him and gently placed him back down; she looked across at the piano. Music had been her first passion, a full scholarship at Julliard turned down in favor of pre-med and then medical school. But life as a concert pianist was too uncertain, she had people depending on her, and becoming a doctor had been the practical thing.

  She crossed the room and walked up the single step to the raised area in the center. There was a thin layer of dust on the closed keyboard. She lifted it back and sat down. What to play? She let her fingers drift down to the keys. Without thinking the notes of an Erik Satie tone poem – one of Ralph’s favorites – wafted through the room. She glanced across at Max, who appeared to be asleep. The music felt good, calm, and peaceful, and then the phone rang. She tried to ignore it, but the ring was joined by her pager’s metallic bleat and then the doorbell. ‘You have got to be kidding.’ She stopped playing as her cell phone joined in.

  Startled by the noises, Max let out a cry. ‘It’s OK, baby.’ Barrett stepped down from the piano and lifted him out of his pen. Holding him tight, she glanced down at the caller ID on her cell. The number was unfamiliar but above that was the ubiquitous State of New York ID, which meant it was from one of the facilities or agencies. Letting the landline ring, she picked up her beeper and saw a Croton extension on the LED readout, as Hobbs’s voice came through the downstairs intercom, asking her to buzz him in.

  With Max nestled in her arms, she walked across the room and hit the button. Behind her, she heard the answering machine pick up, and then Hugh Osborn’s voice. ‘Dr. Conyors … It’s Dr. Osborn. I have to speak with you about my evaluation, I’ve been leaving messages, and I would appreciate you doing the courtesy of calling me back.’

  With everything inside of her screaming to not answer the phone, Barrett unlatched the door for Hobbs and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Hugh.’

  ‘Dr. Conyors, finally,’ and he launched into what for her was a dead topic. ‘I need you to redo my evaluation. I’ve asked around and everyone else got better reviews. It’s clear that you have something against me. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but it’s unfounded, in all my years in state service I’ve never been so insulted or so …’

  Before he could say more, the pager went off for a second time, and Max, who had finally quieted, let loose with a piercing scream. ‘Look, Hugh,’ she said, having to almost shout to be heard over the baby, ‘it’s late; I’m not changing your evaluation. You know what you need to do to improve the next one. And as I told you multiple times, you have every right to go to the union. And please do not call me at home with this again. Good night.’

  As Barrett, not waiting for any response, hung up, she saw Hobbs, dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and a leather jacket, his tall frame filling the doorway. When could he have found the time to go home and change? Or was he like her keeping several changes of clothes at the office?

  ‘You OK?’ he asked, looking at her holding a screaming Max whose face had turned an alarming shade of red.

  ‘Been better, can you take Max?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, depositing his jacket on the couch.

  ‘Please take that thing off.’ She pointed to his shoulder holster.

  ‘Afraid the kid might get ideas?’ he quipped, while unbuckling his sidearm.

  ‘Now is not good for jokes,’ she said rubbing a hand over Max’s back and trying to calm him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, taking Max in his muscular arms.

  ‘I don’t know, but I am about to find out.’ And her beeper sounded for a third time. ‘All right, already.’ She dialed the Croton extension. ‘This is Dr. Conyors, someone trying to reach me?’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. It was me.’ A woman’s voice spilled hurriedly over the line. ‘We’ve had a security breach involving one of your patients.’

  Barrett’s first thought was Jimmy Martin, but the woman on the other end went on, ‘Jerod Blank got violently ill and was taken to the hospital. Apparently he’d faked the whole thing, because he somehow managed to run away. We have the local authorities looking for him and they need to speak with you for information about the patient.’

  ‘You have got to be kidding. How did this happen?’ This was too bizarre. Jerod was intelligent and certainly resourceful, but with his heroin addiction and schizophrenia he was not the type to mastermind an escape from Croton.

  The guard went on with the details. The more she said, the less sense it made. ‘I saw one in his chart this morning,’ Barrett grumbled. ‘Why would he have a second one?’

  ‘The on-call doctor said there wasn’t one in the chart, and it had to be done within twenty-four hours of admission.’

  ‘This is a huge screw-up,’ Ba
rrett said, wondering where Jerod could have gone. She didn’t even want to consider the horrible press this could generate. The local community was still enraged by a recent incident when an inmate had escaped and killed his ex-wife.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr. Conyors, but you don’t have to use that tone with me. I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘OK, so who needs to talk to me, just give me the name and number.’

  She fished paper and pen from her shoulder bag, and wrote down the info for the Croton police sergeant. Not stopping she dialed, and got through. ‘I’m Jerod Blank’s admitting psychiatrist at Croton, I was told you needed to speak to me.’ She quickly gave him the overview – ‘No, he’s not violent’ – choosing to ignore yesterday’s incident with the gun. ‘The only one he’s ever harmed has been himself. He does need to be found as he’s the only witness in a case that could possibly turn into a double homicide … Yes, it’s very possible that he did not act alone … No, I have no idea as to who might have arranged this.’

  As she hung up, her cell went off.

  Hobbs, who having two children of his own was no stranger to babies looked up from the couch where he had managed to calm Max, who nestled on his chest, his tiny body held fast in hairy arms. ‘Not good,’ he commented.

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ she said, and picked up her cell. Her gut turned at the sound of Janice Fleet’s tightly clipped words.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you so late at home, Barrett,’ her boss began, ‘but we were never able to complete our business yesterday and I needed to be certain that you were fully prepared for tomorrow’s conference.’

  What is she talking about? And then she remembered the meeting with the two commissioners … and Hugh, and their talk of some kind of interagency emergency something or other that would involve way too much manpower from her agency. ‘Yes, of course. I haven’t checked in with my office this afternoon. I’m sure my secretary has all the details.’

  ‘Barrett,’ Janice warned, ‘it starts at eight in the DFYS downtown building. It’s important. I need you there the whole day, and you have to represent the department with some workable solutions. I know you have other priorities, but those come second. Am I understood?’