The Secret Room

by Sandra Block

  “Sofia doesn’t want to continue?” he probes with concern.

  “Um.” My other foot is tapping now, trying to release the waves of energy trapped in my body. “I think she’d rather do it on her own, maybe. With her studies.”

  “Ah,” he says, his face registering relief. “On her own terms. Well, that’s just fine. It’s unfortunate for the study, but you can’t force her to, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And anyway, I do think her new Jewish outlook is helping her along nicely.”

  “Right.” And she’s playing you quite nicely, too, I want to say.

  “How is the other patient doing so far? Do you think he’s recovering?”

  “Recovering?”

  “His sociopathy, is it responding to CBT?”

  “Oh, I’m…not certain yet. Still in the early stages.”

  “Is that so?” He frowns. “I’d hoped we’d be further along by now. But oh well. You can’t rush genius, right?”

  “No,” I say. “You sure can’t.”

  “Well, keep up the good work. Keep tracking those Hare scores. The final research project is due in May, don’t forget.” Then he heads into the men’s room.

  And I take a deep breath and head back into the conference room, to see Jason clicking to another spinning slide. Getting to my chair, I sit down, trying to decipher the pie chart, but my brain won’t shut up.

  Pregnant baby cranberry bean Mike baby pregnant cranberry bean baby pregnant.

  I drop my head into my hands, feeling nauseous again.

  What am I going to do?

  * * *

  “Hello,” says the polite, but officious, voice over the phone. “This is Dr. Marchand’s office. How can we help you?”

  “Hi, this is…” I stutter, my body in a sudden hot sweat and my brain turned to putty.

  “Hello?” the polite voice repeats.

  I hang up the phone, and in seconds it seems to come to life again, vibrating in my palm. I stare at it in discombobulation, with the paranoid, fleeting thought that Dr. Marchand’s office is now tracking me, but then I see it’s a number that I don’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Marion Thomas. Charmayne’s sister.” Her voice sounds unsure.

  “Oh!” With the cranberry bean on my mind, I had forgotten about her. “Yes, yes. Thanks for calling me.”

  This is followed by another uncomfortably long pause. “Did you know my sister?”

  “No, no, I didn’t. But I do know Andre. He’s my patient.” I explain as much as I can without breaking HIPAA, which means I am definitely breaking HIPAA. “He’s not well, Marion. I’m trying to help as much as I can. But he needs to be in a hospital, not jail.”

  “Andre ain’t like that,” she mutters. “I don’t know what’s going on with him. But he was never like that.”

  “Schizophrenia can be a very difficult disease.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know about all that. The schizophrenia thing. He wasn’t like that a year ago.”

  “Things can change pretty quickly, though—”

  “Which is why I want to see for myself,” she interrupts. “But of course, he won’t let me on the list.”

  “Who won’t let you?”

  “Who do you think? His father,” she says this like a curse. “I just don’t believe what he’s saying. It’s not like Andre to do that, to go and stab his father. He’s very smart, a good boy. He wouldn’t have done that without some reason.”

  “About Mr. Green,” I start, then hear rapid, rhythmic footsteps down the hall, which sound like Officer Maloney coming to peek through the cracked-open door. I catch his figure walking by, but he has no patient for me yet, and the footsteps fade off. “Why did you say he killed your sister?”

  “Because he did.” She says this with absolute certainty. “I don’t know how he did it, but he did.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Here’s the thing. I talked to the coroner,” she says with derision. “She said it was natural causes. But I’m sorry. I just can’t believe that. We don’t have any heart disease in our family, and Charmayne was fine the week before.” She pauses. “Well, I didn’t see her myself, but my family saw her. Said she was maybe coming down with the flu, but that’s it. Nothing to do with her heart.”

  “The flu, you say?”

  She huffs into the phone. “Oh, I don’t even know about that. She was fine, that’s the point.”

  “So you didn’t actually see her?”

  “Well, we were in a bit of a tiff,” she admits. “We hadn’t talked in a few months. I mean, it’s not like we weren’t talking, we just weren’t talking. Sometimes Charmayne could get like that. Very stubborn.”

  “Can I ask what was the tiff over?”

  “What else? Him. I told her straight out. I didn’t like the way he treated her. I didn’t trust him. And she said it was none of my business.”

  I smooth my hand over my desk. “Was he abusive?”

  She pauses. “I wouldn’t say that. He was just controlling, is all. She wasn’t the same when she was with him. She wasn’t herself. It was like she was watching every word, trying not to upset him.”

  “Uh-huh.” So this could be a controlling husband or an overprotective sister. Or both. “And you said there was another wife?”

  “Well,” Marion hedges. “I didn’t know her, but he told us about her. His first wife. April Green. He said she died of a heart attack, too, age thirty-five.”

  I’m writing this down on a spare pad in the drawer. “That does seem coincidental.”

  “It sure does,” she says. “But no one believes me.”

  I draw arrows between “April Green,” “Charmayne Green,” and “MI” with a red pencil. “Did you go to the police about your concerns?”

  “Yes, I did. And I got the same runaround as I did with the coroner. They see a plus-sized black lady like my sister, and of course she had a heart attack. Or whatever they called it. Some rhythmia thing.”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Koneru had a point. Some plus-size black ladies do in fact have heart attacks or arrhythmias. “I have to go, but I’m going to look into this some more,” I say, as I see Maloney coming again, but this time with my next patient.

  “I appreciate that,” Marion says. “I’ll give you my cell. Let me know if you find out anything.”

  “Oh, one more thing, before I forget. Abraham had a picture of another boy in his wallet. Jermaine, he said. Does Andre have a cousin named Jermaine?”

  “Jermaine?” Marion sounds baffled. “No. Not that I know of. No Jermaines in our family.” Her voice softens. “But I wouldn’t blame Andre if he told you that. Could be a hallucination or something.”

  “Could be,” I say. But it wasn’t Andre who told me that.

  * * *

  Officer Maloney leaves as my next patient comes in. Janaya Jones.

  Janaya’s nickname is Ol’ White Lady, which is odd because she’s fortysomething and not white. She smells as if she hasn’t showered in a week, her orange jumper is sweat-stained and straining over her double-D chest, and her hair is standing in a million directions, like Medusa without the snakes.

  “Have a seat,” I say.

  “I prefer to stand,” she answers, holding herself staunchly upright. “And if you please, I’d like to know why I’ve been sent here.” She enunciates every word, sounding like a headmistress of a posh private school. I’m starting to get the nickname.

  “Why do you think you’re here?” I stand up as well, to match her posture.

  “I was trying to explain to the guards my extremely valid concerns about the goings-on in my cell.”

  “Which are?” I glance at my computer to cut to the chase here.

  “It’s unhygienic. Thoroughly.”

  “What’s unhygienic?”

  “The pile in the room. They’ve been stacking them there all week, and I’ve had quite enough of it.”

  “Stacking what?”

  �
��Dead people,” she complains. “I’ve told them again and again. There’s flies everywhere. They’re starting to topple over, and on top of that, they’re a health concern,” she says with a disdainful sniff. “This is how the bubonic plague started. Are you aware of that?”

  Right. A minor issue, just a few stacks of dead people that the guards must have overlooked. “Have you been taking your medication, Janaya?”

  “Miss Jones, please.”

  “Sorry, Miss Jones. Have you been taking your medication?”

  “Of course,” she huffs.

  “Not palming them at all?”

  “Now why on earth would I do that?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, sitting down now because I missed lunch somehow and am getting a bit light-headed. “But it might be the same reason you did it last year and the year before that.”

  “Now that’s a damned false accusation.”

  I start typing orders in the computer. “I’m thinking we might need a blood lab. Just to check your levels.”

  “Oh no,” she says, a bit less strident now. “I don’t see as that will be necessary.”

  “Fine, then. I would like you to take your medications, every single day. Then we’ll check in with you next week. And if the bodies haven’t been cleaned up by then, we’ll probably need a level.”

  She pauses to consider. “Okay, Dr. Goldman, I will accept your offer.”

  “Excellent.”

  She reaches out to shake my hand, sealing the deal, and leans in to me before Maloney steps into the room. “Sofia says three thirty in the library,” she whispers. “She’s got a gift for you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I have no idea why I go there, but I do. Maybe I’m pathetic enough to wonder about the gift. Or maybe it’s because Newsboy hasn’t written his article quite yet.

  “I figured we should go for the library today,” Sofia says. “Too cold for the rec area.” She puts down her book, some thriller with a girl in a red coat standing by a fogged-out iron fence on the cover.

  “So what’s up?” I ask. “You decided to come clean about the texts finally?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not lying about that, Tanya. I didn’t text you anything.”

  “Dr. Goldman,” I remind her.

  “Right, Dr. Goldman.” A couple of inmates laugh behind us, shoving each other playfully, and the guard scolds them. “The truth is, I felt bad about how our last meeting ended. So I wanted to give you something, as an apology.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I know I don’t. But I wanted to. Here.” She hands me a little metal tube with a paper stuffed inside, and scratch marks on it, like hieroglyphics. “Made it in shop class. I wasn’t supposed to, but a friend helped me. And I figured it was worth getting in trouble over if we got caught.”

  I turn the cold metal in my hand, fingering the scratch marks, which suddenly pop with meaning. “Are these Hebrew letters?”

  “Yes, it’s a mezuzah.” She points to the top. “I left a little hole in there for a nail. You put it on the doorpost so—”

  “I know what you do with a mezuzah,” I shoot back at her. But in her ensuing silence, I clear my throat in remorse. The mezuzah is a big thing. The Bible commands that we have it on the doorpost to remind us of our bond with God and to let others know that a proud Jew lives in this house. But there’s no way I want to be reminded of Sofia every time I walk into my house.

  “I can’t take it,” I say.

  “But…why not?” Her face is crushed.

  “I just can’t. I’m sorry. It’s against the rules.” A couple of prisoners stand by us, perusing the mystery bookshelf. I hand the steel piece back to her, and she takes it. “But thank you. It was a nice thought.”

  She bites her lip in thought, then nods. Glancing around at the lavender Formica computer stations and the rows of creased paperback books, I suddenly wonder what I’m doing here. All I want to do is go home and sleep. And talk to Mike. “You okay?” Sofia asks, looking at me with curiosity.

  When I look at her face, her eyes are questioning, caring even. “Oh yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You seem distracted or something.”

  “Just a lot on my mind.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, then laughs at herself with glee at parroting the psychiatric cliché. And all at once I am struck by it, the sudden urge to talk about it. Indeed, to tell her everything. As the silence grows, her look transforms from one of mischief to one of bemusement.

  “Dinner in ten,” the guard calls out, saving me from myself. “Lockdown time.”

  Sofia appears to deflate at the announcement. “Time for some more atrocious food. Four p.m., early bird special.”

  We both stand up. “Worse than hospital food?” I ask.

  “It’s a fractional difference,” she admits. “But there I could go to the gift shop, at least.”

  I point to the ATM-like screen mounted to the wall, where prisoners can check their accounts, court dates, et cetera. “You can’t get anything from the commissary?”

  “No money.” She stretches out her back. “But I’m working on it,” she adds with her inimitable sly smile, and I try not to contemplate what she might mean by that. We are heading out of the library when Newsboy passes us.

  “Oh, hey, Zoe,” he says, touching my arm. A stray sky-blue string sticks out of his sweater cuff. I have the strong urge to yank it and unravel his whole sweater.

  “Sorry, gotta go,” I say, tilting my head toward Sofia in explanation.

  “Oh, sure. Call me, okay? To set up a time?”

  “Definitely,” I say, and I may be mistaken, but I could swear he and Sofia exchange a glance before we lose sight of him in the library.

  * * *

  Andre erases something fiercely, his pencil almost tearing through the paper.

  “Tough subject?” I ask, as the guard leads me into the cell.

  “No,” he grumbles, “easy subject. My brain’s just fucked up.” Sitting on his bed, he turns back to his paper, which is on his lap on top of a comic book.

  I glance over at the work, which is filled with x’s, y’s, and equations I was never any good at. “Doesn’t look easy to me.”

  He scoffs. “I was doing this stuff two years ago. I can barely add two plus two right now.” He puts the paper and comic aside with some frustration.

  “Give it time. You’ll be back to yourself eventually.”

  “Maybe.” He leans down, his back against the wall and his lower body on the bed, as if he’s at a right angle.

  “You seem like you’re doing better,” I observe. “What do you think?”

  “Kind of. They’re still there sometimes, out of the corner of my eye.”

  “The devils?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t bother me as much. They keep pretty quiet.” He is playing with his pencil now, twirling it between the fingers of his gloves.

  “You feel like you still need those?” I ask, pointing at them.

  He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. I’m keeping them on for now. Just in case.”

  We sit a moment in silence. “Can I ask you something, Andre? Not related to your condition?”

  He shrugs. “What about?”

  “It’s about your Aunt Marion.”

  He twirls his pencil again, like a baton. “Okay?”

  “How should I put this?” I drum my fingers on his desk. “She doesn’t seem to have the warmest feelings for your father.”

  Andre chuckles. “Hates him, you mean.”

  I smile at his honesty. “Why is that, do you think?”

  He sits up on the bed now. “I don’t really know. I think she felt like my mom could do better, maybe. Like he wasn’t good enough for her.”

  I adjust myself in the chair. “Do you think your aunt was afraid he was hurting your mother?” As soon as I say it, though, I’m afraid of planting thoughts in him.

  But he shakes his head. “I don’t think s
o. Just oil and water, you know. They didn’t get along. Which meant she and my mom didn’t get along.” His eyes wander over to his math paper again. “Just lots of drama, I guess. I never really got it.”

  I stand up from the chair. “Thanks. Well, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  He nods. “You could talk to my other aunt. Auntie Zena. She might know.”

  I jot this down on his sheet. “Aunt Zena. Is that your mom or dad’s sister?”

  “Mom’s. She had two sisters. Marion and Zena. She always got along better with Zena.”

  I tuck the paper in my lab coat pocket. “Okay, great. Maybe I will talk to her,” I say, and then, pausing at the bars, I turn back to him. “Would you happen to have her number?”

  * * *

  “Did you have a good holidays?” Sam asks politely.

  “Yes,” I answer politely, mentally editing out the less than rosy parts. The vomiting, the screaming three-year-old. And, of course, the cranberry bean. I fiddle with the squeaky knobs on the liquid motion toy.

  “You seem a bit out of sorts today.”

  “Not really.” My foot is drumming the floor of its own accord, which belies my denial of any problems. So I focus back on the toy. “Maybe a little. A lot of stress.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Just life,” I say, which is rather lame and a thing I hate when my patients say, leaving me to guess at what might be ailing them.

  “I got some weird texts,” I offer, remembering I haven’t told him yet. After I explain about the riddle and the burner phone, he looks concerned.

  “What did Detective Adams say?” he asks.

  “They’ve tried to track it down, but they can’t. And Sofia is denying any involvement, for what that’s worth.”

  “Anything new on that front, with Sofia?”

  “We’re still communicating a bit.”

  “And how’s that going?”

  “Okay, I guess. She keeps insisting she’s changed, but I keep thinking she’s up to something. Jack thinks I’m nuts to even talk to her.”

  He adjusts his yellow pad. “I understand his concerns. But you’re not beholden to Jack.”