by Sandra Block
“Oh, all right.” I pull out my phone. “Do you have the medical record number?”
“Just the name,” he says. “Sofia Vallano.”
My mouth goes starchy.
“Listen, I know you have a certain…relationship with her.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Which is why I’ve been taking care of her up until now. With Jason’s help, of course,” he adds. (Or, to put it another way, Jason has been treating her while Dr. Novaire is off shining his coins.) “Now, I know this might seem a tad unconventional, but…” He claps his liver-spotted hands together. “I truly believe she’s the perfect candidate.”
I swallow. “Sofia?”
“Yes.”
I pause a moment and realize he is quite serious. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”
“See, now, I think it could be a fine idea, for a couple reasons.” He must read my face. “Hear me out, okay? Number one, she’s become quite religious—”
At that I start giggling, shocking both him and myself. Dr. Novaire raises a thin gray eyebrow. “Dr. Goldman?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not funny.” I giggle again and then cough, refocusing myself, trying to think about unfunny things, like starvation and avalanches. “It’s not funny in the least, obviously.” Then I start laughing again and cover my mouth. Jesus, what is wrong with me? I shoot my memory back to the morning and definitely recall taking my Adderall. So that can’t be it. Dr. Novaire is staring at me in obvious displeasure. “I’m sorry. I laugh when I’m nervous sometimes.”
“I don’t see what there is to be nervous about,” he says. “Ms. Vallano has made a lot of progress thus far. I think her focus on religion is a big part of that. She has expressed interest in being part of the project. And she was thrilled with the idea of meeting with you as well.”
I’ll bet she was. I pull at my turtleneck sweater, which is suddenly stuffy and tight. “It’s not that I’m against the pilot. But maybe we should start with a different patient.”
“Zoe,” he says, “I understand your trepidation. But this is more than just about the project. I think this could be perfect. Not only are we helping a patient, but it might also help provide some closure.”
“Closure.” I chew on my lip. “For which one of us?”
“For both of you, of course.”
“Of course, of course,” I say. I chew on my lip some more, pausing, stalling, while he waits for my answer. Sofia has found religion, right. It appears our narcissistic, sociopathic Sofia is back at it. A vision of her comes to me then, her shiny black hair, her deep-blue eyes, that furtive smile.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
* * *
“No fucking way,” Scotty says.
“I haven’t said yes.” I take a burning sip of cappuccino.
“You haven’t said no either.”
I shrug, licking some foam off my lips. “I’m not exactly Dr. Novaire’s favorite fellow. I have to be diplomatic, at least.”
Scotty snorts. Which is an entirely appropriate response to the idea of my being diplomatic. “The woman is a fucking sociopath, Zoe.”
“I know. Which, I guess, is unfortunately the point.” I take another sip. “They’re saying she’s grown quite religious.”
Scotty rolls his eyes. “That’s a joke.”
“Probably.” I put my mug down with a clink. “I don’t want to think about her right now. Let’s hear about you! Tell me all about it. What happened, every detail.”
“There’s not much to tell,” he says, blushing. Scotty never blushes.
“How did you do it?”
“Nothing too crazy. Took her out to Oliver’s. Booked a violin group to play her favorite song.”
“Aw, that’s romantic. What’s her favorite song?”
“‘Moondance.’”
“A classic.” I drink the remaining foam. “I always thought that song was kinda boring, though.”
“Yeah, me too.” He stands up, grinning as if he’s just won the lottery. And he did win the lottery. My little brother, who flunked out of college and has worked at the Coffee Spot for the last five years, somehow snagged Kristy, a knockout who just got promoted at the top local venture capital firm. I asked her over too many glasses of wine one night what she ever saw in my little brother.
“Po-ten-tial,” she slurred. “And nice eyebrows.”
Which I found an odd answer at the time, but by the next morning it made sense. He’s a start-up, and she’s providing just the right amount of capital. Plus he does have nice eyebrows.
“Do you have a date picked yet?” I ask.
“Kristy’s looking into it.”
“Uh-huh.” Knowing Kristy, she has a spreadsheet prepared already. “You having it at temple or no?”
“I doubt it. She wants it at Westminster.” Scotty straightens up in his chair. “Don’t talk to Sofia. There’s a reason Dr. Nowhere is taking care of her and not you.”
“Yes, yes,” I say without a fight.
“Seriously, she stabbed you in the fucking neck. Remember?”
“Yes,” I grumble. “I remember.”
“And I don’t care if she’s your…” Scotty pauses, but doesn’t say the word. “Just don’t see her, okay?”
Chapter Four
One week you were sick and we had to miss class.
That’s when I realized it beyond all doubt.
The guard, that asshole Maloney, told us the news like it was no big deal. No college today, sweethearts. You’ll just have to think big thoughts in your cell.
The other girls were disappointed, I could tell. But I was hollowed out, gutted. Of all the things that have happened since I got here, this was the worst. Worse than the mushy breakfast that ushers in every morning. Worse than the female guard thrusting her hips against my ass when I was about to take a shower. Worse than the hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about my sister, who won’t even speak to me.
But the next week you came back. And it was like someone turned on all the colors again. I could feel the numbness fading, like novocaine wearing off, and the messy, stinging, gorgeous sensation of life surging back into me. We all sat around the beautiful circular scratched-up desk, and you asked us to write about one of our earliest memories. One of your exercises, as you call them.
I remember exactly what I wrote that day. I described the gold chain my mom wore.
I loved that chain. It was thick and heavy, like a snake. Easy to grab on to without breaking it. I remember doing that, when I was a child. The warmth of her neck, the comfort of hanging on to her. And she let me play with it sometimes. Twirling it in looping circles with my hand. Watching it dance and glow until I felt dizzy.
I read my memory exercise out loud. All the other girls were jealous, I could tell. They had been clowning around.
Oh no, I don’t wanna read mine, Prof.
Okay, Mr. Teacher, why don’t you make me?
So I raised my hand. I volunteered, and I read mine. My voice sounded stupid, reedy, little-girl-ish. But I just kept reading. I saw you watching me. And the girls were watching me, too.
I think of the necklace now and all I feel is sickness, guilt. Thinking about what I did to her. But I didn’t tell them that part. I just told them about the weight of it in my palm, that gorgeous, glittery chain. Then I came to the last line, when I told them where I saw the necklace for the very last time.
On my mother’s neck, when they buried her.
When I looked up, the room was silent. You didn’t say anything at first. But you looked at me with pure appreciation. Not horror, not sadness, just understanding. Like you knew me and accepted me. Like we were one and the same.
I think maybe that’s when you started loving me, too.
Chapter Five
Your boy lost it,” Jason says.
“Who?”
“Mr. Red Gloves,” he answers.
“What happened?” I ask, opening Andre’s chart in the computer.
�
��No idea,” Jason says. “I was dealing with some tweaked-up-on-bath-salts guy.”
“Got in a fight,” says Harry, the guard with salt-and-pepper hair and a beaked nose.
“That’s not like him. I wonder what set him off.” I start reading though his chart. “Looks like his father just visited. Maybe that was it?”
“Doubt it,” Harry says. “They seemed to be having a good time in there. You know, drinking pop, joking, and all that.”
I log off the computer. “He’s in his cell?”
“For now,” he says. “Wanna see him?”
So we walk over to the C wing, where Andre is pacing the shoebox of a room, rubbing his red-gloved hands together.
“What’s going on, Andre?” I ask.
“Some kid tried to take them off me,” he complains. “I told him not to touch me.”
“Your gloves?”
“Yeah. And now he’s getting inside me. I know it.”
“Who’s getting inside you?”
“My father.”
I pause. “I thought it was the devil.”
“He is the devil. Head devil. He’s got a whole army. They’re trying to seed me.” Andre starts madly waving his hands in my face, which bizarrely reminds me of an angry mime. “Seed me. Don’t you get it?”
“Whoa there, fella,” Harry says, closing in on us.
“He wants to convert me,” he says, but steps away again, pacing. “But I won’t do it. I told him I won’t do it. He can’t get in me, though. He can’t get through. I told him that. It’s impossible. I got Techno Glove.”
“Techno Glove?” I ask.
Harry busts out laughing. “He’s talking about Doom Patrol.”
I stare at both of them as if they’re speaking a foreign language.
“Comics,” Harry says. “But a pretty obscure one.”
“Doom Patrol is not at all obscure,” Andre argues, sounding at once oddly normal. “Anyway, that’s not the point. He can’t get through them. I made sure. They’re antidevil.”
“Uh-huh,” Harry says.
Suddenly Andre leaps to the side, banging into the bars and surprising us both. He looks up at me in panic. “Did you see that?”
“See what?”
He motions to the corner of his cell with his chin, just an inch, so as not to draw attention. “In the corner,” he whispers. And despite our better sense, Harry and I both look. “Did you see him?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer.
Andre looks disappointed now and points, forgetting all decorum. “Over there!” he whispers, his face pale. Harry steps closer to him again. “The Gollum.” His breathing is rough. “You don’t see him?”
I shake my head.
“He’s got a hundred ribs going up and down under his fur,” he whispers. “And his tongue is moving.” He points to the corner again. “Clear as day. You don’t see him?”
“I’m going to give you something,” I say. “Something to fight the devil.”
Andre scratches at his scalp, viciously. “He’s planting the seeds in my head, too—”
“Medication, Andre. It will help.”
“No pills,” he argues.
“Not just any pills,” I counter. “Magic pills.” This gets his attention. “Pills that will ward off the devil. They’ve been blessed.” Harry is looking at me now as if I might be the crazy one.
“Magic pills,” Andre says, his voice wavering with a tendril of hope. “Like Nuke has?”
“Right,” I say, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “With an antidemonic coating,” I add, for good measure. He stares at me a long moment, debating, then nods. The coating seems to seal the deal. “At noon. The nurse will hand them out. Blue ones,” I say. “Make sure.”
He nods again, looking hopeful for the first time. As if I just gave him the secret code—access to a superpower. It’s all I can do until I can get him out of prison and into a hospital, where he belongs. And I’m not lying to him. Antipsychotics do fight the devil.
Sometimes.
* * *
Later in the day, I’m walking down the hallway of the women’s wing when a bright light stops me. One flash, then another, like a strobe light, leaving a fuzzy afterimage of the bars burned into my retina.
A gaggle of prisoners run up to check it out and are waved off by the guards. “Don’t worry, sweethearts. You’ll all get your turns,” Officer Maloney says. He’s your standard-issue officer, buzz cut and beefy arms.
“What’s going on?” I ask him.
“I don’t know.” He sounds annoyed. “Some kind of crap for the Buffalo News.” Another flash goes off. “I have no idea why the warden would agree to this shit. Just gonna make us look like a bunch of turds.”
I wonder if he realizes that he has used three different words for feces in the last twenty seconds. “Maybe it won’t be a bad thing,” I say.
“Jee-yeah,” he scoffs, something between Jesus and yeah. “We’ll see. These bleeding-heart libtards sure aren’t gonna write about how great a job the COs are doing.”
I debate schooling him on the offensiveness of adding tard to any word, but decide not to waste my time. Which means the extra Strattera dose is working. A flash lights up a cell, turning it ghostly white. “Who’s writing it?”
“I am,” says a young man, coming over from his spot beside the photographer. “Logan,” he says. I shake his hand, and Maloney offers only a terse nod. Logan is pure hipster. Eyebrow ring, nose ring, and earring. The circle kind that stretches out your earlobe. Puppy dog–brown eyes, and longish sideburns that will probably be in style in two weeks. “Just doing a feature, nothing heavy hitting. It’s my first year at the News.”
“I’m Zoe Goldman,” I say. “It’s my first year at the prison.”
He smiles. “You’re a—”
“Psychiatrist,” I fill in. “In the forensic psychiatry fellowship.”
“Cool.” He looks impressed. “I always thought psychiatry would be so fascinating.”
“It can be.” Depending which side of the couch you’re on.
The photographer jogs over. He’s wearing a beret. He actually is. “I think we’ve wrapped up. I was just going to get some outside shots.”
“Sounds good.” The photographer nods and heads back to the cell to start packing up. “We’re going to do some staff interviews, too,” Logan says. “You want to contribute? I’m sure your viewpoint would be enlightening to a lot of folks.”
“No thanks,” I answer. Too quickly to be polite, I realize, as Logan laughs.
“So I take it you don’t want to think about it, then?”
“It’s just…not a good idea. Clinically,” I add, which makes no sense, but sounds more official. “So, what got you interested in prison life anyway?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Actually, my brother was in prison,” he says with some pride. “Briefly,” he amends, so as not to boast. “So I try to help prisoners, send care packages, do some volunteering and that.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say with a smile. He’s a do-good hipster.
“And we’re working closely with the warden on this one.” He lowers his voice, as if this is in confidence. “It’s no secret. You guys have had your share of bad press lately.”
“That’s true,” I admit.
“Every month it’s something,” he goes on. “The one lady who got murdered in the shower, the d.t.’s guy. Then that kid who hanged himself over the summer.”
My smile stiffens.
“The warden wants to highlight the new programs in place. Reformation,” he says with grandeur. “That’s the theme, anyway,” he says, toning it down a notch, “for both the inmates and the officers.” He looks back at his photographer, who is zipping a bag. “Plus I’m trying to get my way out of the wedding beat. If you know what I mean.”
I don’t, really. But I would imagine it’s similar to digging myself out of my own hole. The photographer emerges at our sides then, beret and all. “Yo
u all set?”
“Sure.” Logan turns to me. “Hey, Zoe, if you change your mind about that interview.” He hands me his official Buffalo News card.
“Thanks.” I pocket it, politely. Until I can find the nearest garbage can, that is.
* * *
That night I decide to visit Mike in the ER, ostensibly to surprise him with dinner, and less ostensibly to do reconnaissance on Serena, the woman who’s been XO-texting him about tibial fractures.
“Do you know anything about comics?” I ask.
“Comics?” Mike asks, through a yawn. “I think I have a Calvin and Hobbes book somewhere.”
“No, I mean real comics. Like action heroes and stuff.”
“Oh no. I was never really into that.” He signs off on an order from the computer. “My brother Anthony was. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing really.” I yawn, too. It’s contagious. “Just trying to figure out one of my patients. He’s built this complex delusion around various comics characters.”
“Huh,” Mike says. “Interesting world you live in.”
A patient is whisked by us then, only moving the right side of his body. His expression is shocked, though on the right side of his face only. The left side remains slack. “Looks like a stroke,” I observe.
“Ooh!” Sean, his asshole PA-in-training, says. “Nothing gets by the ultraclever psychiatrist, huh?”
Mike gives him a death stare, and Sean vacates the area with an obnoxious chuckle. Sean is fairly detestable. He’s the type of person who calls everyone bro or dude. “One more month,” Mike says.
“’Til what?”
“Sean goes to Derm. The entire ER is counting the days. Felicity is even throwing a last-Sean-day party.” Felicity is the head nurse in the ER. She is fair, and smart, but not particularly felicitous. You really do not want to fuck with her. Mike motions to my white plastic bag. “Did you bring something for me?”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” I start laying out little trays, wrappers of soy sauce and duck sauce. A veritable picnic in the central ER station.
“Sweet.” Mike gives me such an earnest, happy look that I feel like a cad for not doing this more often.