by Lauren Brown
I knocked on the door. “Hi, Dr. Livingston, nice to meet you.” I stuck out my hand to shake the fat fingers in front of me.
“Dale Donahue. Good to meet you.”
A muscular man with dark hair sat in front of me. He was wearing a casual T-shirt and jeans.
“So, what brings you in today?”
“Well, I had a bad fall repairing my roof last week.”
“How in the world did that happen?” I took a seat in front of him.
“Well, we had a leak. I went up to the roof to check on it and, on my way back to the ladder, I slipped and rolled off the side of the roof straight onto my back.”
The man’s brown eyes moved as he told his story and I couldn’t tell if his story was true.
“Did you go to the ER?”
“Yes, they gave me some medicine, took an X-ray, and gave me a sheet with some exercises to do at home. I’ve been doing the exercises, but the pain isn’t going away. My family doctor referred me. He said he couldn’t write for pain medicine. I mean, I can hardly sleep at night Dr. Livingston.”
“All right, I’ll request a copy of that X-ray.” I set my clipboard down and walked to the back of exam table. “Let’s take a look at you. Can you point to the pain?”
He pointed to his lower back.
“Is it a sharp pain, dull pain?”
“It’s dull and constant. Never seems to go away.”
I felt his vertebrae for a few moments.
“I’d like to get a few more scans to really see what’s going on.”
“Okay,” he said.
“Beth is still working on your chart. I’ll check with her for that X-ray. I’m going to have her go ahead and set you up for a CT scan too.”
“Will she call me?”
“Yes, she’ll call you in a day or so with the appointment time. As for the medicine, what did they prescribe you?”
He handed me an empty bottle.
“All right, I’m going to prescribe you some more of this Percocet.”
“Thanks. And the stretches? Should I keep doing them?”
“It won’t hurt to keep doing them. We’ll know more when I get the X-ray and CT results.”
I pulled out my prescription pad, waiting for him to ask me if I would write extra refills. He didn’t, but I wrote them anyway.
I handed him the prescription.
“That’ll be one-fifty and then, as you probably know, your normal visit fee up front.”
He gave me a confused expression. “This visit is going to be two hundred dollars?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, putting my pen back in my pocket. I was about to pull out three pills when my stomach sank.
“I’m sorry, I, uh, meant to ask you about what you do for a living. That can make a difference on how I treat you.”
He tilted his head and furrowed his brows, confusion marring his face. “I’m a sheriff.”
I suddenly felt nauseous. My face grew hot.
“Oh.” I swallowed. “Well, only reason I ask is because construction workers and laborers already have strain on their back, and this can sometimes create a different situation and thus a different treatment, like a brace. There’s also worker’s comp.” I could feel my cheeks growing hot as I blabbered on.
I watched his face lighten slightly.
“Why is it going to be two hundred dollars? The lady at the front desk said a visitation fee with my insurance was fifty?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was confused. See, I usually charge new patients more. It’s a way to weed out the ‘doctor shoppers,’ if you know what I mean.”
He eyed me suspiciously.
“But since you’re law enforcement that won’t apply to you. I don’t have your chart. I was just confused. Sorry about that.”
He relaxed. “Huh. The ‘doctor shopping’, is it really that bad?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s the whole reason Johnson City has started opening pain clinics. It’s a way to keep a handle on it. Without places like this, you know, with proper regulation, it’s basically a free ticket to drug abuse.”
“Hmm.” He looked at the script in his hand.
“Yeah, anyway I think you’re all set and ready to go. I’ll have Beth call you as soon as possible with that CT scan. For now, take the prescription as it says. If the pain gets any worse, call me.” I patted him on the back and let out a deep breath, relieved our conversation was drawing to a close.
“Thanks. Will do.”
“No, thank you. Can’t have our boys in black and blue hurting,” I said, forcing a nervous smile. I opened the door for him and hoped he couldn’t sense the subtle tremor in my hand.
“Have a good one,” he said as he walked to the front desk.
Beth approached me. “Here’s the chart. There’s another patient in Room One.”
“Thanks.” I took the chart from her.
The sheriff turned around just before walking into the lobby. We made eye contact, and I waved politely. He waved cautiously.
My heart was pounding harder than it ever had. A terror sweat came over me. It was the closest I had come to getting caught and, for the first time since I had begun selling painkillers, I was truly afraid.
“You look beautiful, Hope,” I said later that afternoon.
Hope emerged from our bathroom ready for the auction. I leaned in to kiss her. She was wearing a long, royal blue, silk dress. Her hair was in soft curls and pulled to one side of her neck.
“Thank you. You look handsome yourself.”
I was wearing a black tuxedo I had rented at a shop downtown. The auction was one of the largest art auctions in Johnson City and took place at the convention center once every year. Hope was a part of the planning committee. She was thrilled when the funding came through to have the auction again.
“Are you excited?”
“More than excited!”
“You have everything you need?”
“All the artwork is there. Just need you.”
She took my hand and we walked to the car.
The convention center was large and dated but the only place in Johnson City to house two hundred people. After we finally found a parking spot, we made our way into the lobby. Hope left me briefly to check on her artwork.
“Dr. Livingston!”
I turned around at the sound of my name. There stood a balding, middle-aged man with a white beard and a white tuxedo before me. He was smiling. It took me a moment to remember his name.
“Dr. Eushaw!” I shook his free hand. He was a reproductive specialist who had graduated many years before me at Ryans.
“You’ve met Harriet, haven’t you?”
“Hello, Harriet.” I kissed the top of her hand.
“Harriet and I are looking forward to seeing Hope’s artwork. We’ve heard there are some great pieces this year.”
“Yes, she’s worked hard. I’m proud of her.”
I looked over his shoulder and spotted the Bear. He was in a pristine tuxedo. We made eye contact, he smiled, then resumed his conversation with his wife.
“How’s your practice going, John?”
I returned my attention to Dr. Eushaw. “It’s going well. We had to adjust to the patient demand by staying later Friday evenings, but I think we’re coping with it. Can’t beat the money!”
“I’ve heard great reviews,” he said. “I considered opening my own practice back in the day but just couldn’t bring myself to do it. Good for you.”
“Thanks. Oh, and I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but Hope is pregnant,” I informed him.
“Oh, how wonderful! Boy or girl?” Harriet asked.
“Boy. Just found out a couple of weeks ago. We’re both thrilled. We thought we were going to have to pay you a visit. Sorry I won’t be sending your second son to college,” I joked.
He and Harriet laughed. “You want a drink? Full service bar is just over there.” He pointed to a cloaked table topped with wines.
“I think I will, thanks. Good to see you again.”
I maneuvered my way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a drink.
People began to shuffle into the showing room, and I followed behind. It was a large, open room with dimmed lights. There were round tables with ornate centerpieces. A stage with a classical jazz band stood at the front of the room along with an easel portraying the first art piece up for auction and a podium for the auctioneer.
“There you are.” I turned around at the sound of Hope’s voice. “We’re sitting at table two in the front.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me with her. I heard people call out her name and wave as we walked by. People loved Hope.
We sat and waited for the rest of the crowd to slowly take their seats. I reached for Hope’s hand again under the table and gave it a slight squeeze.
“Ladies and gentleman, if you will please take your seats at this time.” He paused to allow the chatter to cease. “It is my pleasure to welcome you to the annual Johnson City Adam Montgomery Art Auction.” A shorter man with black hair graying at his temples had stepped up to the podium.
“The contributions of the Montgomery family to the city and to the state of Tennessee have continued for generations. Their kind donations have aided in the growth of over fifty-seven children’ hospitals in the South. We’re pleased to announce that Mayor Ringgold is joining us tonight.” Everyone applauded. I immediately glanced around the front of the auditorium for the Bear and Mayor Ringgold but was relieved when I didn’t see them.
“It is with the Montgomerys’ greatest appreciation that we welcome you to this auction where art changes lives. The auction will begin in five minutes and will be led by auctioneer George Mason who will describe each piece. We kindly ask that you please take your seats at this time. Each piece of artwork will be displayed one-by-one here on this easel. We’d like to thank all the artists of Tennessee for their wonderful pieces.”
I leaned over while he kept speaking and whispered to Hope, “Tell me again how this works?”
She whispered back, “They’re a wealthy family who have donated millions to children hospitals throughout Tennessee. Remember, we met the great-grandson last year. They match whatever the artists make.”
I nodded. “Oh yes, that’s right.”
I took a sip of my drink.
The auctioneer began. It wasn’t your typical auction, though. There was a piano playing lightly in the background, there were two large screens above the stage showing each painting or sculpture up close, and the auctioneer talked slowly about each piece. He said the pieces’ names, the type of material used, the artists’ names, and the starting price.
The server brought us our filet, and I ate to the sound of the piano and the auctioneer. I forgot about the patient encounter earlier in the day with each glass of wine. Hope leaned towards me and whispered, “Don’t worry, my piece should be soon.”
“How many did you put in the auction this year?” I asked.
“Four,” she answered, returning her gaze to the current sculpture being described.
2001 had been our first year at the auction. It wasn’t very successful due to the terrorist attack in September, and most weren’t sure if it would be held in 2002. I hadn’t been able to attend that year due to a mandatory fall conference. But if I recalled correctly, following the description of the paintings, bidders were given thirty minutes to bid at long rectangular tables located at the back of the room. Pictures of the pieces of artwork were evenly spaced along the tables with lined papers attached to each one. A bidder put his or her name down, his or her bidding price, and the winner was announced at the conclusion of the show. I couldn’t recall Hope sending the artwork herself at the conclusion of the auction.
“Honey, do you have to mail the artwork yourself to the buyers?”
“No, there’s a crew that does that here. I just get to eat and watch my paintings sell. It’s quite nice.”
I smiled, relieved again.
“This piece is titled ‘Living’. It’s a detailed oil painting of the Tennessee River. The delicacy and intricacy of the river makes living ‘worthwhile’ in the artist, Hope Livingston’s, point of view. This piece has been in the making for almost twelve years. When asked to provide a comment on the painting, Livingston replied, ‘This piece is very dear to my heart. I originally had no idea that this painting would lead me to my husband and ultimately to the beginnings of a family.’ The bidding begins at seven thousand dollars.” I heard applause and looked at her painting on the screen. I thought back to the moment I had seen it in the art shop years ago. Memories flooded me and, before I knew it, I was swept up in her river drowning and dying. A pain shot through my heart and, suddenly, I felt guilty.
I tried to compose myself. “We both know that piece is priceless,” I whispered as I took her hand in mine.
Her gaze didn’t falter from the painting as she smiled.
Chapter 12
November 19, 2004
Soon it was November. The holiday season was just around the corner, yet the splendor of the holidays was far away. I had grown accustomed to dealing drugs, but I didn’t think I would ever adapt to the worry and weight that had slowly found its way into my mind. I was still pounds away from meeting the Bear’s demands.
Sure, I could get it done and walk away a wealthy man, but for some reason, I couldn’t find the joy in the power anymore, and my diligence was decreasing by the day. With each day our baby grew, the pain in my heart grew tenfold.
The money was good. More than good actually, it was great. And I knew this. I was able to successfully invest all $42,000 in Hope’s “Living” drawing. She cried and sank to the floor when she found out. She had never made that amount of money on a painting before.
Making the money as well as hiding it was of no concern to me at that moment in time. My biggest concern was for our son. Hope was growing larger each day, and soon I would be a father to a son, and one day my son would want to visit my office, just as I had my father’s, and what would he see? He would see the polished wood floors in the lobby and the grand mahogany desk in my office, captivated by these things, and never knowing the reality of them. He would see my office in the same light I had seen my father’s, and then, in his older days, he would discover the reality and find that the light was never light at all.
I hadn’t seen or spoken to the Bear since we had golfed, but he had been in my life somehow every day. He was the worry that consumed me. He was constantly sending me patients, including Rick, who reminded me of the deal I had agreed to. It wasn’t long before I began to dread my patients.
The high I had once gotten from putting extra cash into my pocket had turned into something else. The high had now put me at such a low that some days it felt hard to breathe. I had gotten myself into a situation that I had once felt in control of, a situation I felt I could at any moment remove myself from, but as the holiday season approached, I wasn’t so sure of that anymore.
I can’t remember the time exactly, but I know it was early morning when it all happened. Some of the details are fuzzy.
The chart was on the door. Mr. Martin Murray a buyer I had seen two months earlier, had come back for more pills. I checked my coat pocket to make sure I had some.
“Well, hello, Mr. Murray.”
A skinny man in a tattered shirt sat in front of me. He reeked of cigarettes.
“Hey, Dr. Livingston. Look, before you get started I have something to tell you.”
He was fidgety and talking fast. I took a quick glance at his chart and saw remnants of amphetamines in his urinalysis. He was taking a form of Adderall, a stimulant that had become a growing problem along with opiates. Many of my patients were taking it illegally to come up from the depressed state the opiates created.
“Yes?” I questioned, my eyes still fixed on his chart.
“The Bear wanted me to ask you something.”
I looked up from his analysis and watched him pull out a piece of paper to remind himself what he was going to ask me.
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“He wanted me to ask. Sorry, tell you to start writing prescriptions for Adderall. You know, with the Blues.” The Blues was another word for oxycodone. My patients often referred to the pain medication in street terms.
“Hah! Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Murray? I can clearly see you are on Adderall right now, and I’m assuming this request is so you can get more. Just last week you told me you didn’t even know who the Bear was. I’m a pain specialist, I don’t write prescriptions for Adderall, you know that.”
“Come on, Dr. Livingston. You’re a doctor. You can write whatever you want.”
“Excuse me?”
I was furious. He cowered at my voice. “Look, I’m just doing my job. The Bear says he wants you to start writing for it. Says there’s a growing demand for Adderall. He said he would raise my pay, and I need more money. I mean, I got a baby girl who turns seven in—”
I cut him off abruptly. “I told you. I don’t write prescriptions for Adderall. This is a pain clinic. He knows that. He and I made a deal, and he can’t change it now. Besides, what I do outside of this office is none of your business.”
Martin began to move more, shifting uncomfortably. He looked frightened. “No, please. Just listen to me. The Bear makes all the calls. We work for him. Don’t you get that? We work for him.”
“No, I work with him. There’s a difference.”
He was relentless. “Please. I really need you to write this prescription.”
“Clearly, Mr. Murray, you are high on Adderall at the moment, or cocaine, I can’t tell. Of course you need me to write you more. All my patients need more and more and more.” I rolled my eyes and wrote his typical opiate prescription, ripped it from the pad and tossed it into his lap. “But like I said, and like I’ll say for the final time, I’m not writing you a prescription for Adderall and I don’t take business advice from a drug addict. If he has a problem with it, then have him call me.”
“Please!” he shouted.
“Hush! What do you think you’re doing? Don’t yell in this office. I’m considering not even seeing you again if you continue acting like a child.”