Head Case

by Jennifer Oko

  “It’s yours.”

  “I know.” I smiled. It was a cool dress. It was made of a rich brown T-shirty material that wrapped tightly around the bodice. My Visa card was declined when I tried to buy it. I used my MasterCard instead. I made a mental note to pay off that bill as soon as Pharmax sent the next check.

  “Are you wearing false eyelashes?” I asked, more curious than unkind, hoping that some light banter might help break the thick icy wall that had gone up between us.

  Polly laughed. “No. I guess I was a little distracted when I was putting on my mascara. Do I look crazy? Like Tammy Faye or something?” In fact, she looked like a bad mug shot. It was clear that the makeup was overcompensating for severely bloodshot eyes and a newly sallow complexion. She looked like shit. I can’t believe I didn’t see then how troubled she was. But I was too tied up in my own head to really be looking.

  “What’s with the Vegas face, anyway?” I asked. “You never wear this much makeup.”

  “It’s bad, huh? It’s been a long week.” She wrinkled her nose.

  The waiter came to take our order. Neither of us had looked at the menu.

  “Split a pasta?” Polly asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Bolognese?”

  “Sure.”

  That was all we ever ordered. Spaghetti Bolognese. We had created an illogical rationale that because there was meat in the sauce, the pasta was high-protein and therefore not bloating.

  The waiter scurried away and Polly looked at me, eyebrows raised to ask a question.

  “So, what’s going on with you, Olivia? You look a bit peaked yourself.”

  “I’m just tired,” I said. “I’ve been working a lot.” Which was true—I’d been putting in extremely long hours for Novartny, and was still trying to get some of my own research done, all of which made me feel like my brain might explode.

  We made inconsequential small talk—how humid the weather was, how much her job still sucked, how Raskolnikov had started overeating, how I’d heard there would be a great Trina Turk sample sale starting that Saturday. I said I could take a few hours off that day, and suggested she come with me. It was the kind of thing we used to do together all the time.

  She said that’s what she needed to talk to me about, that she and Mitya were going to visit his sick aunt in Brighton Beach on Saturday and—

  “Of course you are,” I said, pushing some pasta around on my plate.

  “I really wish you would stop doing that,” Polly said.

  “Playing with my food?”

  “Don’t be an ass. I wish you would stop being so judgmental. I mean, you’ve hardly spent any time with Mitya. You think you know all about him, but the truth is, you have no idea what’s going on or who he really is.”

  “So, who is he?” I asked.

  Polly crossed her arms and shook her head. “You know what I mean. You need to give him a chance.”

  “Why do you need my approval so badly anyway?”

  “Don’t give me that.”

  “Give you what?”

  “Jesus, Olivia. Just because he never finished college or worked in a conventional job, it doesn’t mean he’s a terrible human being. He’s actually a really good guy. And his aunt, she’s in really bad shape, and—”

  “I never said he was a terrible human being. I just think you can do better. I mean, for all of your talk about finding some meaning in your life, I just don’t see how you think getting deeper in the club scene is going to get you there. I don’t get why you’re investing so much in this relationship. It’s distracting you.”

  “Oh come on, Olivia. It’s not like that.”

  “So, what is it? Is the sex really good? Have you guys found the right combination of pills to really make it sizzle?”

  “Wow.” Polly shook her head.

  The waiter skittered up to the table, placed down the belatedly delivered breadbasket and side salads, and quickly slipped away.

  “That’s it, right?” I said, reaching for a dinner roll.

  “Fuck you, Olivia. And not that it’s your business, but sex is not the focus of my relationship with Mitya.”

  “Really? Are you serious? Is that SSRI you’re taking killing your libido or something?”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “Actually, no. It’s not. Not that that’s your business, either.”

  In that past, though, it had always been my business. In the past she always told me. Back in college, we made a pact to always tell each other everything. We made everything each other’s business. Now she was cutting me out.

  “So what do you guys do if you’re not humping like bunnies?” I asked. “What do you even talk about?”

  “Jesus. Do you really think sex is the only way Mitya and I could possibly find a connection? You are so, ugh, I don’t even know the word for it. Myopic? Limited? Asinine? Or is it just that you’re so jealous that I’m in a relationship and you’re not that you can’t even see what a bitch you’ve become?”

  “I think you’re a bit out of line there, Polly. I was just kidding around.”

  “I’m out of line? That’s rich.”

  It went on like this for a while. Polly accused me of being narrow-minded and jealous. I accused her of being superficial and naive. We ordered more Chianti. And then we sat silently and for a few minutes suffered from the tension of who would be the one to speak first. One of us had to apologize, or one of us had to change the subject. Or both. Polly chose the latter.

  “So,” she said.

  “So.”

  “That shirt really does look good on you.” She smiled.

  I laughed. “And those eyelashes really are fabulous.” I shoved a piece of bread in my mouth. Polly rose her near empty glass. “Cheers,” she said.

  “Cheers.” I lifted up mine.

  We ate some more pasta.

  “So,” Polly said as she broke off some more bread and reached for the olive oil to pour over it. You could see whole garlic cloves floating around inside the bottle, marinating—a guarantee of deliciously bad breath. “Is there anything you can tell me about how your work’s going? I know it’s all hush-hush top secret, but can you at least tell me if you’re enjoying yourself?”

  I leaned back and looked at her. “Okay,” I said, putting down my wine glass.

  “Okay, what?”

  “Look, you really cannot tell anyone about this. Not Mitya, not anyone.” She was Polly after all. She was my best friend.

  I leaned forward. Polly did too.

  “I’ve been working for Missy Pander,” I said in a whisper.

  Polly sat back. I noticed an odd, consternated look washing over her face.

  “What?” I asked, curious.

  “Nothing. It’s weird. I was just thinking … Never mind.” She folded her arms and leaned in again, resuming the conspiratorial pose. “Missy? You’ve been working for Missy? That’s what you couldn’t tell me?”

  “Well, really it’s for Pharmax—you know, the company she works for. She hooked me up with some research to help get money to fund my studies. And pay my credit card bills.” I winked. “It works out well, though. The work they’re having me do kind of overlaps with my research, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s all about mood stuff. You know, brain chemistry. The chemistry of emotions. Right up my alley.”

  “Are they interested in the chemistry of jealousy? I imagine there might be a big market for that. But what do I know?”

  “Well, I’m not supposed to talk about the details,” I said, ignoring the slight.

  “Oh, come on, Olivia. Talking to me is practically pillow talk. Isn’t there spousal dispensation?”

  I grinned. I really did want to tell her about what I’d
been working on. It was all so bizarre and I knew Polly of all people would get a real kick out of it. So I relented. “Okay. But you really can’t tell a soul,” I said. “Definitely not Mitya. No pillow talk for you two.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’m doing some work on a new disorder Missy helped identify.”

  “Identify? Isn’t she like a sales rep or something?”

  “Well, identify for the market. It’s called Fatico Dystopia.”

  “Sounds serious,” said Polly, picking up her glass again. “What is it?”

  “It’s a mental condition in which a person is unable to find satisfaction in his or her career.”

  Polly almost spit out her wine. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, seriously. It’s a subset of depression, like a more defined and targeted version.”

  Polly laughed. “Well, I imagine there would be quite a market for a medication that could treat something like that.”

  “Exactly.” I grinned.

  “But what does that have to do with you? Don’t they have their own scientists?”

  “They wanted to work with a scientist in an independent laboratory, outsource some of the development research to a non-biased party.”

  “I suppose it looks a little suspicious to create the medication for the disorder your own company invented.”

  I shrugged. “One could also argue that makes better science. But …”—I smiled—“they’re giving me an enormous amount of funding.”

  “I’m sure,” she said. “So, what are you doing, exactly? Scanning more rat brains injected with dyes?”

  “Actually, you might get a kick out of this. I’ve been dying to tell you about it. The whole thing is kind of weird.”

  Polly raised her eyebrows, encouraging me to continue.

  “I’m working with a version of that drug Missy gave us so many samples of. You know, Ziperal. They want to tweak it for a re-branding, and—”

  “Ziperal?” Polly dropped her fork. “Really?”

  “What? Why are you biting your lip like that?”

  Polly took at deep breath. “I don’t know how to ask you this…”

  “Ask me what?”

  “I have a favor to ask you. I was going to ask you about this anyway, but now, well … Look, Ols, I’m not sure you’re going to like this, but it’s actually why I called.”

  “I’m not going to like what?”

  “I really need your help, and I know the timing isn’t great but, this is all so—”

  “Okay,” I said, drawing it out. O-kaaay. But I have to say, if you have to ask someone a favor, it’s probably best not to do it immediately on the heels of a fight, even if it has been defused. “What is it?”

  Polly pursed her lips. She did that when she was nervous or embarrassed. I wasn’t sure which one it was at that moment.

  “I’m all out,” she said.

  “All out?”

  “The meds. Finito. Especially the Ziperal. It’s all gone.” She wiped her hands together to emphasize the point.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What I said, Olivia. I’m out. I don’t have any more. And I really need some.”

  I crossed my arms. “I thought we were done with all of that? I certainly am.”

  “It’s just for me.”

  “For you? Can’t you ask your dad?”

  “I can’t keep asking him. He’ll start to get worried. Anyway, I don’t think he could give me enough.” Polly looked into her empty glass.

  “Enough? Polly, you really shouldn’t take too much of that stuff. Actually, with what I’ve been seeing with Raskolnikov, you probably shouldn’t take it at all.”

  “Really?” Polly startled. “Why not? What’s he doing?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Something’s not right, at least not at super high doses. I wouldn’t take it, though. I’m sure your dad can give you something else. Or better yet, go see a shrink. You could probably use one.”

  “That’s an obnoxious thing to say.”

  “Oh please, Polly. Don’t be so sensitive. I’m just trying to help. I mean come on. You look like shit and now you’re asking me to help you get medicated. What do you want me to say? Anyway, who couldn’t use a little therapy?”

  We sat silently for a few minutes, nursing our wine as we stared each other down.

  “Look, I lied,” Polly said, placing her hands together on the table as if in prayer. “It isn’t for me, Olivia. It’s for someone who really does need help. Life-or-death kind of help.”

  “That’s a lot of help you’re talking about.”

  “It’s serious,” she said. “I’m serious.”

  “Then tell your suicidal friend to call a doctor. Or drag him there yourself. Is it Mitya? Are you trying to get drugs for him?”

  “No. It’s not Mitya. And it’s not that simple.”

  “Nothing ever is,” I said.

  “It’s just that I promised someone … well, Mitya promised …”

  I had to laugh. “So this is for Mitya? You’re kidding, right?”

  Polly exhaled with great exaggeration. “It’s not that simple,” she said again.

  “You already told me that.”

  What she didn’t tell me about that evening, however, was the connection to Boris Shotkyn. She didn’t tell me about the Black Market Grannies. She didn’t tell me about the turf battle brewing down in Brighton Beach or Mitya’s well-intentioned but slightly deranged relations who had gotten her into this mess. I wish she had. Instead, she told me something else.

  “Look. Can you just trust me that I need some Ziperal and leave it at that? I know you have access to it. At the hospital, in your lab. I mean, come on, now you’re even working with our old source herself.”

  I shook my head. “Do you really think I’m going to help you get free medication so you can impress your boyfriend, Polly? I would be offended if I weren’t so concerned that you’d completely lost it.”

  I would have expected Polly to fight back right then, maybe even storm out of the restaurant. But she just sat there, taking it, listening to my obnoxious, Chianti-fueled rant about her carelessness, her stupidity, her desperate need to be liked.

  “Are you finished?” she asked when I stopped to catch my breath.

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Look,” she said. “I know. This is going to sound crazy, but I really need your help. I’m serious. There really are lives are at stake.”

  “Lives are at stake?” I laughed. “Come on, if you really think that one of your friends is actually suicidal—or Mitya’s friends, good God—you know as well as I do that you should not be the one administering the medication.”

  “No one is suicidal.”

  “So what the hell are you talking about?” I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Honestly, I don’t want to drag you into this any further than I have to. Can you please just trust me?”

  “Trust you? This isn’t about trust. First of all, I’m not sure this is such a great drug to be passing around. And secondly… No, you’re right. I don’t trust you. Not lately.”

  “Oh, come on, Olivia. You’re just being obstinate for the sake of it. You just can’t forgive me for getting involved with someone you don’t approve of, can you? That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “That again? You want to go back to that?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “So don’t.”

  Polly looked at me, straight into my eyes. Something in her demeanor seemed to shift. “You know what? If you were a real friend, you would help me out here. I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t really need this.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

/>   She shook her head. Not kidding. Which is when she said the stuff about only being friends because of time, out of habit. Which is when I called her a bitch and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving Polly with two half finished glasses of Chianti and the bill.

  28

  November 5 (B.D.)

  Today, a Very Short While Ago.

  5:52 P.M.

  Backing up again, or I suppose moving forward, to how I got here three months and change after our fight at the Italian restaurant, to how I found myself in the back of a taxicab, zigging and zagging through the old cobblestone streets of Red Hook, Brooklyn at a breakneck pace, trying to pull away from the Lexus that was now hot on our tail. The Lexus Mitya was sitting in, with the gun pointed at his head.

  As we drove under the elevated platform on Brighton Avenue, Lumpkyn slammed on the breaks and the car stopped short. So short, in fact, that the Lexus drove right past us before swerving around with an almost deafening screech and pulling up next to us, trunk to hood.

  That was when I peeked out the window and realized we were parked right in front of Charity.

  And that’s when thing got weird. I mean, weirder.

  The passenger door of the Lexus opened and Mitya rolled out. Literally rolled out onto the street between the cars. The door slammed behind him, but they stayed put, the big boxy guys watching us from behind the Lexus’s tinted windows, watching what Mitya was about to do.

  Lumpkyn opened the window a crack and Mitya pulled himself up, pressing his face close to the window, eyes shifting momentarily in my direction, ascertaining that I was there.

  He was clearly shaken, and paler than I remembered.

  “Be careful,” he whispered, nodding at me. “Keep your head down, and don’t get out of the cab.”

  As if I had some place to go.

  “What’s going on, Mitya?” I demanded. “Why am I here? Where’s Polly?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was a misunderstanding.”

  “What?”

  “Shotkyn wanted to talk to you,” Mitya said in a whisper I could barely make out through that crack. “That guy in the car I was just thrown out of? He said he wanted to talk to you about the formula for the drugs. To verify that Lumpkyn’s formula was similar enough to the real stuff to tide us over, and that this new Pharmax supply we’re getting him isn’t just like irregulars or something that they’re trying to unload. But now I’m not so sure that’s all he wants. I think he thinks you might know too much.”