In Case of Emergency

by E. G. Scott

  I stumble to answer. “Nothing special. Just a grateful patient.”

  “Interesting arrangement, isn’t it, Silvestri? You dabble a bit in flowers and plants and such, right? What do you call this purple flower here?”

  I’m stunned a little at the question. It’s as pointed as the petals on the flower he is asking about. Silvestri examines the arrangement somewhat reluctantly. Curiously, I see disappointment pass over his face.

  “That looks like nightshade to me.”

  Wolcott looks either impressed or teasing about his partner’s knowledge. “Hmm. Interesting choice. You don’t see that one every day, do you?”

  THIRTEEN

  SILVESTRI

  “Deadly nightshade?” I say. “That’s a rarity, for sure.”

  Behind her desk, our healer’s shelves are teeming with various plastic and glass jars and dropper bottles with handwritten labels indicating the names of corresponding supplements, extracts, and tinctures. As Wolcott takes in Charlotte’s office, I look directly at the flower arrangement, all the while keeping my peripheral focus on our person of now great interest. She doesn’t seem to blanch at the mention of the lethal flower, but instead studies the arrangement with renewed curiosity. I detect nervousness behind her facade.

  “Hmm,” she says, forcing a smile. “My friend has great taste in flowers. I guess her taste tends toward the exotic, too.”

  My partner jumps at the opportunity to pause his visual scan and lock eyes with her. “I’m sorry, it was a friend or a patient who sent these? I’m confused.”

  “Both,” says Charlotte. “Some of the people I treat find their way into my life in more personal ways.”

  Wolcott pulls the notebook from his pocket. “And may I ask the name of this patient turned friend?”

  I watch Charlotte’s shoulders tense as she draws in a long breath. If we were at the poker table, this is the moment I’d go all in. “Rachel Sherman,” she answers.

  Wolcott jots the name on his pad and returns his attention to the shelves behind her desk.

  “I’m sorry,” I interject. “During our first conversation, I believe you mentioned sharing this space with someone named Rachel. Would that be the same woman?”

  There’s the slightest hesitation before she answers. “It is, actually. Yes.”

  “So, really, it’s colleague-patient-friend, then,” I say. “Quite the trifecta.” I feel my stomach tighten. I’m letting her dishonesty get to me. I need to let up a touch.

  She reaches for a glass of water and takes a sip, all the while maintaining eye contact with me. “We sometimes trade sessions. So when you asked about the flowers, I was thinking of her in more of a patient capacity, I guess.”

  Wolcott slips in and downshifts. “Ms. Knopfler,” he says. “I see that you deal in a lot of herbal remedies. You mix your own, or no?”

  “I don’t. Those need to be mixed by a licensed herbalist. Certain roots, for instance, need to be cooked, so as to nullify the toxic effects. Do you have a particular interest in plants and herbs, Detective?”

  Wolcott looks at her thoughtfully. “One that’s increasing by the minute, thanks largely to my partner here. He’s taught me all sorts of fun facts.”

  Charlotte looks at me as she answers him. “Nature provides us with so many of the remedies we need. It’s really quite amazing.”

  “And occasionally lethal,” he says.

  The remark yanks her gaze back to his. “Detective, I realize there’s a fair amount of skepticism around what I practice. But I assure you, there’s a science to all of this, just as there would be with any course of treatment you’d receive from your general practitioner.”

  “I see,” he counters. “But you’re telling me that some of these remedies are derived from deadly plants, correct?”

  I study her posture as she considers my partner’s question. She holds her ground, not displaying the usual evasiveness of a guilty conscience. She appears defensive, however, her shoulders turned inward and her chin dropped. I’m having a hard time getting a clean read on her.

  “Dosage is key, Detective Wolcott.” Her answer is clipped, but my partner’s employing a goading tone. “And I’m of the mind that natural remedies are far less dangerous than the synthetics that wreak havoc on our systems.”

  “I see,” he answers. “Ms. Knopfler, would you—”

  Just then, Wolcott is seized by a violent coughing fit. Charlotte’s expression softens into one of concern as she retrieves a pitcher of water with floating slices of cucumber from the side table and pours a glass. My partner hunches over a wastepaper basket, steadying himself against the desk with one hand as he turns a lung inside out in the direction of the trash.

  “Here you are,” she says, setting the glass within inches of Wolcott’s hand. She places a palm on his back and moves it in slow, deliberate circles. “Try to breathe.”

  After a moment, he straightens up, reaches for the water, and takes a sip. The coughing abates, and he considers the glass in his hand. His eyes tearing, he turns to her and chuckles. “Maybe this holistic care really is the ticket.”

  She breaks into a grin, then fakes a stern expression. “I haven’t lost anyone yet, and you’re certainly not going to be the first to go.”

  “Well,” I say. “Now that my partner’s made a spectacle of himself, I suppose we’ll leave you to your practice.”

  “Detectives?” she asks, with a look of concern. “Have there been any developments with Jane Doe? That poor woman has been on my mind quite a bit.”

  Wolcott catches her eye. “We believe we have a positive ID. We’re waiting to speak with the next of kin before we can release that information.”

  “Any idea how we might be connected?” she asks. “Sorry, I’ve just been racking my brain, to no avail.”

  He straightens up and tugs on the top button of his suit vest. “Well, we’re narrowing down our theories. Hope to know something more definitive soon.”

  I study Charlotte carefully. She offers a steady glance. “I’ll continue to send positive energy your way.”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Knopfler,” I say. “We’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  A gust of wind swoops through the parking lot as we approach the car. I turn to Wolcott. “You okay, Smokey?” I ask.

  “Just doing some recon,” he answers with a grin.

  “In the trash bin?” I laugh.

  He pauses before he climbs into the driver’s side. “Well, that’s where the tag from the florist was hanging out.”

  “You’re a wily one, partner.” I shake my head as I sit, then pull the door closed. “Let’s hit it.”

  He backs out of the parking space and cuts through the lot. “Do me a solid and look up the address for a June’s Floral Shop.”

  “No problem,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. “Oh, and that ‘next of kin’ bit was pretty slick. You liking her for this?”

  “Have you noticed what I’ve noticed?” he asks, pulling into a stream of traffic.

  “What’s that?”

  “Of the people we’ve spoken with, she’s the only one who hasn’t asked how Brooke Harmon died.”

  FOURTEEN

  RACHEL

  Peter is a problem. But Charlotte has more than a few.

  She has a genius IQ, at one time could perform brain surgery that only a very small number of people in the world could, and was on track to be one of the youngest, most celebrated female psychosurgeons in the world. Why she isn’t any of those things any longer isn’t even the problem. The issue is how shortsighted she continues to be about trust and the true intentions of people. I should try to respect how trusting she is after everything she’s been through, but it’s difficult when I see her getting hurt.

  Charlotte and I are yin and yang in matters of reading people. Where she falls short
in spotting the obvious deceptions and ulterior motives that most people carry, I am too acutely aware of these qualities. As the person closest to her and who cares about her the most, I want Charlotte to see people for who they really are. Peter in particular. Her mother. Her group of so-called friends. They are all imposters in some way. Yes, we all are. But they all want something from her, and give her little in return.

  The problem with the desire for her to see people’s true motives cuts both ways, of course. Because if she could truly see people for who they really are, I’d probably be weeded out pretty quickly. I live in fear of that. But my lies are by omission, not commission, and are for her own good. They are protective. I only have her best interests in mind. I would take a bullet for her, or pull the trigger to protect her.

  Charlotte is amazing in how she’s been able to transform her previously reserved and emotionally withheld bedside manner as a surgeon to the emoting, openhearted practitioner she is today. I didn’t know her then, but based on a handful of unguarded moments when she’s dug into that time in her life, I’ve been able to piece together quite a bit. I know she’s been lonely, scared, and defeated. I only want to keep her from feeling any of those things ever again, if I can.

  I am extremely protective of my friends. I have a hard time when people lie to me or keep secrets, and she is increasingly doing both. Yes, it makes me incredibly hypocritical to point fingers, I know.

  Each day that this situation with Peter continues, the harder it becomes for me not to come clean. I want her to be happy, but this has gotten out of control.

  * * *

  He’s waiting right where I told him to be. He looks anxious.

  “Hey, Rach,” he says when I step out of the car. “How’s it going?”

  I don’t do him any favors by downplaying my anger. “What the hell do you think you are doing?!”

  “I’m trying to help you,” he counters.

  “By meddling in my life? That is not what I asked for. Charlotte was not a part of this.”

  He takes a gentler approach. “I like her.”

  This enrages me. “You have to leave her out of this.”

  “Rachel, I thought we trusted each other.” His nice-guy routine has no effect on me any longer.

  “You have crossed all kinds of boundaries, and it is not okay.” I keep my voice firm.

  “Rachel, I understand you are scared. But if you let me help you, you might have a fighting chance.”

  “You don’t want to help me! You want to kill me.” I gnash my teeth with each word.

  “Think about what you are passing up here. You are making a decision that may be your only option to live to see forty,” he says seriously.

  “This is not your business or your problem.” I’m struggling to keep grounded, and dig my heels into my shoes.

  “You kind of made it my business,” he counters.

  “I don’t have to listen to anything you tell me to do. Worry about your side of the street, bud.”

  He mulls this over. “You certainly don’t have to listen to anything I say. But think about the position you’ve put me in. Doesn’t that matter to you at all?”

  “I want you to stay out of my life, and to stay away from Charlotte.”

  “That is going to be a problem for me. I can’t just walk away.” He crosses his arms.

  “It isn’t up to you to decide who lives and dies.” I’m terrified of anything else he might say.

  His voice is stern. “Actually, it kind of is. And unfortunately, you are running out of time.” He moves toward me and I take a big step backward. “Rachel, you need to make the rational decision here.”

  “Or what? What are my options?” I assume a stance of confidence. “You’ll poison me? Watch me die slowly? No, thank you.”

  “That’s not fair. You have to work with me here. I’m trying, Rachel.”

  “Just leave me alone.” I duck and weave, avoiding his grip, and slide into my car. He says something as I close the door and start the engine, but I don’t catch it. He moves close to my window and says it louder.

  “I’m going to have a tough conversation with Charlotte if you don’t do the right thing. Protect her even if you don’t want to protect yourself.”

  I gun the engine and peel away from him. I really don’t want to do something drastic, but if he tries to interfere again I might not have a choice.

  FIFTEEN

  Trauma Survivors Private Chat Room: 10/4/19

  2:00 p.m.

  Woundedhealer: Can we talk about mothers?

  Miserylovescompany: Depends on which mothers we are talking about.

  MaxineKD: As long as we don’t talk about mine.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Sure. I love my mother.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: Really? After everything she put you through?

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Like I love getting the flu or gum surgery.

  MaxineKD: HAAAA.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: But she made me who I am today. Right?

  Woundedhealer: You are much more evolved than I am.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Twenty-five years of therapy helped. Or as I like to refer to it, the “long con.”

  Woundedhealer: A con to get what out of you exactly? (LOL.)

  Biggirlsdontcry54: To get me to say, “I love my mother.”

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: A very long and expensive con. I always wondered why shrinks would want to actually help their clients get better. Isn’t that ultimately just creating a patient retention problem?

  Miserylovescompany: Keep ’em crazy and you can get a pool with a Jacuzzi and a view.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: You’ve been in therapy for twenty-five years?

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Yep. And it was an inside job. Mom paid for it.

  MaxineKD: I think Woundedhealer should have the floor now on this subject, ladies.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: I’ll keep my fingers off the keyboard for as long as it takes me to open this pinot grigio. Then, no promises.

  Miserylovescompany: I’ll see your box of wine and raise you frozen calories. Tonight I’m having a ménage à trois with Ben & Jerry.

  Woundedhealer: You guys make me laugh.

  MaxineKD: Tell us about your mom, Woundedhealer.

  Woundedhealer: Well, I’ve been trying to be less hard on her. I mean, she does her best, I guess.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: It’s hard to imagine you being hard on anybody.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: Seriously, you are like the most patient person I’ve never met.

  Woundedhealer: She brings out a side of me that is like all of my worst qualities amplified.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: I can relate to that. There are things that my mother says, especially after “the tragedy,” that make me want to punch her. Like the fact that she refers to my brother’s death as “the tragedy.”

  MaxineKD: I flat-out hate that word.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: That word is a tragedy.

  Woundedhealer: It’s the anger that my mom brings out in me that worries me.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: Sometimes mothers just suck. And bring out the worst parts of us. Which is ironic considering we are probably the best things that were brought out of them.

  Woundedhealer: I feel like I’ve painted a worse picture of my mom than she deserves, though.

  MaxineKD: Or you could have Stockholm syndrome? You feel defensive of your abuser? That is a thing.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Someone’s been dusting off their copy of Trauma of the Gifted Child!

  MaxineKD: Middle finger emoji.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: MaxineKD, did you just type the words “middle finger emoji,” thinking it would actually be a middle finger?

  MaxineKD:

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Oh good. I was hoping you’d google how to do a midd
le finger emoji next.

  Miserylovescompany: Ladies! Ladies! Woundedhealer, keep going. We are listening.

  Woundedhealer: She was the person I was able to turn to when my life fell apart. When I had nowhere else to go, she took me back, let me sleep in my old bed and not get out if it for two weeks. No questions asked.

  Miserylovescompany: So, she loves you. Wants to be there for you.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: That’s something. My mother always loved my brother more than me. She couldn’t wait to get me out of the house, even though he was really the problem.

  Miserylovescompany: Focus Makeupyourmindcontrol! Woundedhealer has the conch shell.

  Woundedhealer: Right, but by being vulnerable with her when everything went so sideways, I feel like she now uses it against me anytime I have a bad day or show any feelings.

  MaxineKD: Aw. I’m familiar. She treats you like you are always on the verge?

  Woundedhealer: Yes. Sort of. But at the same time, acts like nothing is ever really wrong. And like my feelings are wildly inappropriate. It’s more about using what she knows about me against me.

  MaxineKD: Woundedhealer, I think your mom and mine would get along.

  Woundedhealer: You’d think so. But my mom isn’t great at keeping friends.

  Biggirlsdontcry54: The only thing my mom was great at keeping was an impressive cache of snide remarks about how I stole her youth and potential.

  Makeupyourmindcontrol: Wow, we are a cheerful bunch, aren’t we?

  MaxineKD: Seriously. We should start our own line of Mother’s Day cards.

  Woundedhealer: Do you think if someone isn’t close with their mother or doesn’t feel loved by her, they are doomed to never really be well adjusted or happy?

  Biggirlsdontcry54: Hmm. I don’t know. Norman Bates was close with his, and look how that turned out.