by Sandra Block
I log into my computer. “Is that a rhetorical question?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Tariq the guard is on the phone. Andre’s father is here. He came to visit, but obviously that’s not going to happen. So he’s demanding to see the attending.” He says the word with false esteem. “I don’t know what the hell to tell the guy.”
I think for a second. “Tell him the attending is deeply involved in a case of numismatics, but I can see him if he’d like.”
Jason stares at me. “Numis-whats?”
“Numismatics.” I write the word down for him, and he grabs the paper.
“Okay. I don’t know what that even means, but I will tell him.” Jason faithfully relays the message, and I make my way down through hell hall, complete with “ooh-baby-come-fuck-me, show-me-your-pussy-girl, I-can’t-wait-to-titty-fuck-you” et cetera, but finally I get to the visiting room, and Tariq leads me over to a table.
I’ve never been in the visiting room, and it’s pretty nice. New paint, fresh carpeting. Mr. Green sits with his legs crossed, reading the Wall Street Journal. His double-breasted gray suit strains against his broad chest. Former football player, maybe. Looking up at me, he smiles, revealing a gold eyetooth, and stands up. “Dr. Goldman?” He offers a vise grip of a handshake.
“Hi, Mr. Green.”
“Abraham,” he says. “Friends call me Abe.”
“Zoe,” I return, taking a seat next to him. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, not for me, so much as my son.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just…” He squeezes his hands together, his fingers rubbing against his large knuckles. “Trying to understand this all.”
“Yes, I know. It’s hard.”
“And I would like to know what’s being done for Andre. When he’s going to get better.”
I nod, wishing it were that simple. “Just so you know, I talked with Dr. Chen.”
“Oh.” He squints, as if the name rings a bell. “His old principal?”
“Yes, that’s right, to get some more history. And she said this started after his mother died?”
“That’s right, my wife, Charmayne. She passed about a year ago now.” His voice is hushed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” There is the uncomfortable pause that always follows such exchanges.
“No inklings of anything before that?” I ask.
“No. He was fine, just fine. But after she died, he…he just…” His voice is gravelly as he searches for the right word. “Changed. That’s all. He changed.” The story of schizophrenia, when a promising young brain turns cruelly upon itself.
“Go on.”
“He was convinced the devil got her. Just kept saying that. And that he should have saved her.” A man walks by our table for a hug from his family, sending the scent of cologne wafting up. “And then, over time, somehow it became me. I was the devil who killed her.” Abraham slumps a bit, as if sickened by the words. “The first time he just took a swing, and that was one thing. But then he came at me.” He makes a stabbing motion toward his chest. “Luckily he’s not very athletic or I wouldn’t be here to talk about it.”
It seems an oddly uncomplimentary thing to say about your son, though maybe he’s just being honest. And Andre did try to stab him and beat him with a wrench.
The heat turns on, crackling his newspaper. “Maybe it would help to think of it this way: It isn’t actually your son doing these things.”
His eyebrows invert, puzzled. “How’s that?”
“It’s his brain. The chemicals misfiring. Not him.”
Abe looks at me as if he’s not buying it. “That’s just words, don’t you think, Dr. Goldman?”
“No, not really.” I ponder the best way to put this. “Do you think Andre wants to see the devil? Or hurt you? Or wear red gloves?”
He shakes his head. “Not the Andre I used to know.”
“Exactly.”
Tears jump into his eyes. “He was a fine boy. A good boy.”
“And he still is,” I tell him, “underneath all this. That’s what I’m saying. I’m just trying to reach that boy again. Get his brain chemicals right.”
“It did seem like he got better after the first time in the hospital,” he says, almost as if convincing himself. “When we got him on those meds.”
“And that’s a good sign. We can get him there again.”
He exhales. “I’m just afraid to get my hopes up, I guess. After last time.” He puts in elbow on the table, and a gold cuff link shines in the sun. “And he said he was taking all those medicines. He swore it up and down.”
“The thing is,” I say, “he is still a kid, who doesn’t always want to do what he’s told, or what he should. But unfortunately, he’s also got a bad disease.”
Mr. Green scratches at a bushy eyebrow. “And I didn’t even want to put him in jail. I just wanted him safe. They said that was the only option.”
“I don’t know what happened there,” I say, thinking of Jason’s assessment: bad lawyer. “But we’ll get him better again, and he’ll go home. He’s got his whole life ahead of him.”
Abraham folds up the newspaper, stiffly. “You really think you can help him? I’m putting my faith in you now.”
“I know I can.”
He grabs my hand then, which is unexpected. “Thank you.” His eyes are desperate and fierce. “I just want my boy back.”
* * *
Her forehead bruise is eggplant purple now. “I think those pills might actually be working,” Aubrey says with obvious surprise.
“Good,” I say. But I’m thinking placebo effect. It’s only been a few days.
She twists a lavender friendship bracelet on her wrist. I don’t remember seeing it last visit. “It wasn’t just the letter, though, that got me going. Just so you know.”
“No? What else was going on?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear, three empty holes dotting the cartilage. “It sounds stupid.”
“Try me.”
She pauses, then looks at me. “You remember that girl I was telling you about, Portia?” Aubrey twirls her hair. “Supposedly she told Stacy that she wasn’t that into me, and then Jasmine told me she was dating Brianna on the side.”
“Oh,” I say, at this preposterous soap opera that also happens to be her life.
“Dumb, right?”
“Well, I understand if you were upset. It’s only natural.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She looks relieved at this cheap bit of validation. “Anyway, it wasn’t even true. Stacy admitted she and Jasmine were just fucking with me.”
The cuffs of her pants are rolled and dusty. She suddenly seems too young to be in prison wear. “Sounds kind of high-school-ish,” I say.
“Totally,” she agrees.
I pause. “Hurting yourself, maybe that’s a little high-school-ish, too?”
She shrugs her birdlike shoulders. “I guess.” Her cheeks flush, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. I don’t mean to shame her, just help her make the connection. “Maybe,” she admits. She plays with the ends of her friendship bracelet.
“We need to talk about other coping mechanisms. More healthy coping mechanisms. That won’t land you in solitary.”
She flicks the frayed bracelet ends. “I used to steal my mom’s pain pills.”
I pause. “Your mom was on pain pills?”
“Yeah. She had gobs of pills, from like ten different doctors.” She gets a faraway look. “She was so out of it half the time, she didn’t even notice.”
“Addiction’s a tough one,” I say. “And it does run in families.”
“Yeah, I heard that before.”
I give her a gentle smile. “Still not a very good coping mechanism.”
“It worked pretty well for a while, though.” She drops her head, her hair falling over her face. “Until it stopped working.”
“And then you s
tarted cutting?”
“No. Then I met Todd. And he showed me that pills were kid stuff. He showed me the real thing.” Her expression morphs into a dreamy, magical look, speaking of the man who adorned the left side of her chest with a calligraphy tattoo heart, before he broke it.
“You mentioned a room.”
“What?”
“A room,” I say, to change the subject from heroin and the suddenly exalted Todd. “When you were being restrained, you said something about that.”
“A room?” The dreamy look vanishes, and her lip twitches. “I don’t remember that.”
“Okay,” I say, to her obvious lie. “If you do remember, Aubrey, and you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
* * *
Destiny (the guard, not the manifest kind) brings in my next patient: Barbara Donalds, a forty-three-year-old white female. Under the “Appearance” heading of the mental status exam, I could write, “Rode hard and put away wet.” We shake hands, and she sits down as Destiny leaves. I barely had time to look over her chart, but the chief complaint was: Patient is sad. Which could describe most people in this place.
“How can I help you?” I ask.
Her eyes fill up, and I offer a tissue. “My daughter,” she says, her voice strained.
“Yes?”
“She just died.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Donalds.”
“Barbara,” she says. “And thank you.” She rubs her nose, which is red and swollen from crying already. “Ran into a tree. She was drunk.” I shake my head, because I can’t think of any words to offer. “It was my fault.”
“Your fault?” This gives me pause. “What do you mean by that?”
“She was just following in her mother’s footsteps.” She lets out a laugh that is also a sob. “I was a rotten drunk for her whole childhood. Then I came here and got clean so I could miss her adulthood.” She shakes her head. “Want to guess what got me in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Very ironic,” she says, bitterly. “Manslaughter. Driving without a license after my third DWI.” She dabs at her eyes. “Ended up killing a woman on her way to get married.” She sighs, her eyes filling again. “I knew God would punish me somehow. Take something away from me. I just didn’t think it would be her.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. I could say it’s not her fault. I could say her daughter’s in a better place. But the words won’t help her. So I reach over and put my hand on her arm, and she grasps my hand, as if it’s a lifeboat. Her grip is strong and warm, her skin scratchy-dry.
We talk then for a while. Mostly she talks, and I listen. I set her up with a grief support group in the prison and some Prozac. And I am sure to ask the question. Ever since that first week, I always ask the question. “Barbara, are you thinking about killing yourself?”
“No.” Her answer is immediate. “Never. I was taught you go to hell for that, and I believe in that completely.”
“Okay. Then I’ve made an appointment for next week. Let me know if you have any problem on the medication. And promise me, if you even think about harming yourself, you’ll tell someone. You can call me anytime, or tell anyone.”
“I’m not going to. As I said, I’m a strong Catholic, and I believe it’s a sin. But I promise, if I ever changed my mind, I would tell you.”
“Good.”
It’s a natural end to the meeting, but she is still looking around the bare room, as if there’s something more she wants to say.
“Is there something else I can help you with?”
She bites her lip, looking uncomfortable. “There is just one more thing.” She hands me a torn-off piece of paper, shoves it at me really. “Someone wanted me to give you this. She said it would help you. But please don’t get me in trouble, okay?”
“In trouble? Who said—”
Destiny is back to collect Mrs. Donalds before she can respond, and I close my hand over the paper. As soon as they leave, I open my hand up again and read the message.
Meet me, Tanya. Or I’ll tell the news reporter everything.
Tanya was my old name, before my parents adopted me. And there’s only one person who calls me that.
My ex-patient. Sofia Vallano.
* * *
After seeing two more patients, I’m finishing up my notes when Jason comes out of a room and sits down at the computer next to me. He lifts a tea bag out of his mug, filling the air with a spicy scent.
“Tea,” I remark. “How civilized.”
“It’s echinacea, okay?” he grumbles. “I’m getting a cold.” His voice does sound a bit raspy. His phone rings then, and he looks down, then turns off the ringer. “Jesus, that newspaper guy won’t stop calling me.”
“Who, Logan? You met him, too?”
“Yeah. He wants to ‘interview’ me.” Jason uses dramatic air quotes.
“So what? He wants to ‘interview’ me, too,” I say with air quotes of equal gravitas.
“Oh, please, Zoe. That guy is so gay it isn’t even funny.”
“You think?” I consider it. “Maybe. I didn’t get a vibe one way or the other.”
“He so is. He was two seconds away from asking me out.”
“Maybe,” I say, considering it. “Either way, I’m just trying to avoid him.”
“You and me both,” he says.
We sit in silence for a bit while I watch him typing in his computer chart, debating the best way to broach the topic of Sofia.
“What?” he asks, looking up from his screen.
“What what?”
“You’re watching me type a note. That is not normal.”
“I’m allowed to watch you type a note,” I argue.
“Whatever.”
He keeps typing, and I keep watching. “Okay, fine,” I say, relenting. “It’s about Sofia.”
“Okay.” He keeps typing, hunt-and-peck style. “What about Sofia?”
“How is she doing?”
He turns from the screen, giving me a questioning look. “She is doing fine.”
“What do you mean by fine, exactly?”
“Zoe, what are you trying to ask me?”
I take a deep breath. “Did Dr. Novaire tell you he thought we should meet?”
“Yes, he mentioned that.”
“That he wants to do some meshuga project on CBT for sociopaths?”
“Yes, he mentioned that, too.”
I find myself chewing on my eraser, a nervous habit that hasn’t emerged since grade school. “So, what do you think of the idea?”
“Honest opinion? Completely moronic.”
“So you don’t think she’s reformable, then?”
He guffaws. “You seriously need an answer for that?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Novaire said she’s found religion.”
“Yeah. Her and everyone else in this place.”
“That’s true.” I turn back to my notes. “I will probably meet with her, though. Just to get Novaire off my back,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. I don’t mention the fact that Sofia is blackmailing me. Though any reporter worth his salt could dig up the information on his own. But it would take time. And he’d probably be done with the feature before I’d even have to worry about it.
Or Sofia could hand him the irresistible scoop on a silver platter. “Yeah, I think I will.”
“Up to you,” Jason says, sipping his tea again. “She’s your sister.”
I feel it as an actual blow, as Jason explodes the land mine that I’ve been tiptoeing around. That everyone’s been tiptoeing around, ever since I found out. “Biological sister,” I stress.
He doesn’t answer. And the truth is, the distinction is inconsequential. It doesn’t matter if I didn’t grow up with her or even know she existed until she tracked me down. Until she became my patient and I finally learned the whole truth about my birth mother’s death. That the reason my birth mother died, the reason I was adopted in the first place, is that, on one dark night, wh
en I was only three years old and Sofia only fourteen, she killed our mother. It was a night I’d completely blocked from my memory. And my adoptive mom (may she rest in peace) tried to hide the ugly truth from me for as long as she could.
And I can pretend Sofia doesn’t exist, but she does. And for better or worse, the bald fact remains. She’s not just an ex-patient who stabbed me in the neck. She’s also my sister.
“Yeah, I’ll talk to her,” I say, to myself as much as anyone. And Jason sips his tea and doesn’t answer.
Chapter Nine
Maybe it was the dream that called you forth, conjured you to me.
Maybe it was all those nights staring up at the ceiling and picturing you. Luring you with my thoughts, with the pure need, the pure desire in my head.
After class, the girls had left. You were looking at someone’s journal and it was like déjà vu, my dream of you in the corner, your presence drawing me in like a net. I walked toward you, my heart pounding so hard it hurt, and you looked up.
I was about to say something, but you grabbed the V neck of my shirt, pulled me toward you, and kissed me. Hard.
I remember every second.
The warmth of your lips. Your open mouth as soft as the inside of a grape. Your hand gripping the back of my neck like a vise until the room was tilting and I could hardly breathe. It was like the romance novels the girls in here are always going on about. Bullshit, I always thought. But that was before I met you.
You’ll think I’m foolish. Maybe I am. It’s not like I’ve never been kissed before. I’ve been with plenty of men. Too many men. I’ve slept my way through my share of rough spots, like every other girl in this place. And sure, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with someone. Other than stolen, sloppy kisses from some of these bull dykes trying to act like men.
But it was more than that, I’m telling you. This was different. Different than I’ve ever felt before. When you pulled away, I nearly fell over. I had to catch my breath. And you looked me up and down with a smirk. That same sly smile as the very first day I met you. Like you were measuring me, checking out a new purchase. Like you owned me, and I didn’t even mind.
Then you looked around to make sure no one was there and leaned in again and whispered, I heard you know someone. Someone important to me.