Nemesis

by Cat Bruno

  My thoughts were interrupted by Dr. Basra asking Jesse if I could take a picture of his treatment. I had not expected him to allow it, but he shrugged and only requested that I keep his face hidden.

  “No full names,” I told him. “Nothing that will identify you.”

  A moment later, Dr. Basra called for a nurse. A woman whom I had not yet met entered soon after, wearing scrubs covered in balloons and bows and brightly illustrated. Matching her appearance was her mood, which was cheerful and without judgment.

  “Lisa, this is Ms. Jackman, a photographer from Columbus who is working on a story for her newspaper. Jesse Wallace has agreed to let her photograph him receiving his methadone. Do nothing differently, and make sure you give him something to send to his boss.”

  With that, Dr. Basra made his way out of the room and headed toward his next patient. I remained, seated in the corner with my camera in my lap. Lisa, with a long, blond braid hanging down her back, chatted with Jesse as she washed her hands. Unlike the pills that Terri used, Jesse would be receiving a liquid dose, I learned. He seemed unsurprised when she approached him with a small, plastic cup filled with a syrupy-looking mixture.

  “You’ll swallow this here before I escort you into our observation room. After about half an hour, you’ll be allowed to leave. Have you received your hepatitis vaccinations, Mr. Wallace?”

  After he mumbled that he had not, Lisa suggested that he think about that before his next visit. The clinic was open seven days, and Jesse would need to return the next day as well, she reminded him. As quietly as I could, I lifted my camera and angled it so that Lisa’s peach-hued scrubs with the cartoon celebrations covered most of Jesse. Only the right side of his body and his extended arm, which reached for the cup, could be seen. I snapped several frames, but stopped once he raised the liquid prescription to his mouth. In that moment, his craving thickened the room’s air with a need that felt too intimate to capture. Even Lisa turned away as he sucked at the syrup.

  Before he followed her from the room, I thanked him and wished him well. My words seemed empty and useless after what I had just witnessed, but that did not make them any less real. Again, I found myself struggling for some distance from the assignment, which is what Dr. Basra noticed when he came back into the room.

  As he closed the door behind him, he said, “He’ll relapse. And so will his girlfriend. It is nearly impossible when there are two users in one household.”

  I did not doubt his words, and I do not believe that Jesse would have either. The man had a sense of honesty about him that suggested he had already accepted a relapse.

  “Lisa seemed quite hopeful,” I uttered half-heartedly.

  “She’ll harden soon enough, which is what bothers me most about this job. I’ve watched a handful of nurses come and go. They begin with that same smile, but leave within months.”

  “All of your nurses have quit?” I gasped.

  “No, no. Not all of them. The ones who realize that the mountain is taller than any of us stay on.”

  I had wanted to ask Dr. Basra why he worked at the publically funded clinic for hours and finally, haltingly, did.

  His response came as slowly.

  “It is better than the alternative, which could end with me back in Pakistan,” he admitted.

  Unwilling to admit more, he ushered me to his next patient. For the next few hours, I listened as Dr. Basra asked the same list of questions. Not once did I see him react with anything more than a raised eyebrow. Stoic and half-bored, he continued his day without affection. I must admit that I even grew uninterested as the day wore on, until I tiptoed into Mickey’s room like a soft shadow behind Dr. Basra.

  Unlike most of the other men I met in southern Ohio, Mickey did not have one hint of camouflage on his lean body. Instead, he dressed in black, from his rocker-length hair to his scuffed and studded boots. From the first moment I glanced at him, I thought he seemed out of place in the rural clinic. His gaze, gray-green and worn, told me he felt the same.

  “Have I seen you before?” Dr. Basra asked with the first hint of confusion I heard from him all day.

  “I’m just traveling through,” Mickey informed him.

  “You must have charmed the receptionist for her to get you in so quickly.”

  With a laugh that warmed the room, Mickey mused, “She felt bad for me is all. We have a gig in Cincinnati tonight, and I can’t find my Suboxone. After a quick internet search, I found this clinic.”

  “Where have you been treated?” the doctor asked with growing, apparent suspicion.

  “Roanoke Treatment Center. I have the number ready because I figured you’d need to call. I’ve been clean for three years and am under a maintenance plan. It’s not easy to be drug-free in the music industry to be honest. Without the pills, I’m not sure where I’d be.”

  Despite Mickey’s explanation, Dr. Basra was not convinced. With a terse comment about who I was, he excused himself to go make inquiries about Mickey’s prescription. I kept my eyes on my sandals and made no attempt to remove the cap from my camera.

  Still, the man said, “No pictures please.”

  “Of course,” I hurriedly agreed.

  “So you’re from Columbus?”

  When he noticed my confusion, apparent in an unhidden frown, he added, “The nurse warned me about you. We’ll be there on Friday. Playing at Newport Music Hall.”

  The smile that accompanied his words arched wide across his face and was shaded with a hint of apology.

  “Oh yeah. I’ve been there a few times,” I hurriedly admitted trying to cool the increasing heat of the room. “That’s a great spot. Are there tickets left?”

  I had no intention of going, but I did not want to seem rude or uninterested.

  He pulled out his phone from his pocket and asked for my name, pretending that he did not know who I was.

  “I’ll put you on the list. Just show up, and you’ll be good.”

  Much more nervously than I wished, I thanked him. I did not add that I had press credentials which would have allowed me entry anyway.

  “We’re called the Moon Kings, although I doubt you have heard of us here in the Midwest. We have a pretty strong following on the East Coast, and a lot of college kids seem to be into us lately.”

  “Columbus is the right spot for that,” I laughed, again hearing an awkward edge to my words.

  “Bring your camera. I won’t be as shy on stage,” he teased with the easy charm of years spent as a performer.

  “I’m more of a crime photographer. Although I wouldn’t be surprised if our entertainment writer will be in attendance.”

  “Crime? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “I could probably surprise you a bit,” came my reply, more freely spoken than I would have liked.

  Looking back, I don’t know why I allowed him to flirt with me or why I flirted back. It was such a foolish step. But his smile, slightly crooked and stained from smoking, reminded me of another time – the days before I met William. My hair had not been lightened, my cheeks had not been defined with makeup. I wore clothing that I had found at thrift shops, unaware of who had designed it or how much it had cost. My style teetered between bohemian and laziness, and often fell somewhere in the middle. No longer did I have that same luxury.

  Before the conversation could go any further, Dr. Basra returned.

  “I’m sorry for the delay, Mr. Kline. I was able to talk to someone in Roanoke who confirmed your prescription. Normally, we have to be quite strict with how we dole out refills, but as you are touring, we have come up with a plan. A hold will be placed on your prescription from them, which means that you will no longer be able to fill it until you return to the clinic in Virginia. Do you understand?”

  With no hint of annoyance, Mickey answered, “Yeah, that’s great. However you made it work is fine with me.”

  “When will you be returning to Roanoke?”

  “Give me a sec,” Mickey uttered as he began looking
at his phone. After a long pause, he said, “In another six weeks or so. We have a few more shows in Ohio, then we head west for just over a month.”

  Having confirmed that Mickey’s story rang true, Dr. Basra’s voice lost its cynicism as he said, “Your dose is pretty low, Mr. Kline. Have you thought of weaning off altogether?”

  Shaking his head as if he knew the doctor’s advice was sound, Mickey stated, “I’d just rather not risk it, you know? The band is really starting to get some big time attention, and I nearly ruined us when I was using. It’s like a crutch, I guess. I could walk fine without it, but I’m just not ready to fall.”

  “I see hundreds of patients here, as you must know. And a story like yours is what I’d hope for them. Keep at it, Mr. Kline, and I wish you continued success.”

  Dr. Basra’s patient, who would perform in front of a thousand fans hours later, blushed. His cheeks reddened, and his eyes shined like rain-soaked slate. I did not know him well enough to decide if his reaction had been feigned, but I had to look away as I felt my own face burn. He was quite handsome, even seated atop a paper sheet. Once the paperwork necessary was complete, Dr. Basra handed it off to Mickey and extended his hand, which I had not noticed him do with anyone else. As I had done with each of his other patients, I offered a half-smile and trailed after him. Only with Mickey did my camera remain off.

  Back in his office, Dr. Basra asked me how much longer I planned on staying and told me that the second-shift doctor would be taking over soon.

  “I hadn’t realized it was so late!”

  “Time flies here,” he laughed roughly.

  I thanked him for his time and had him sign a release even though he had already done so with my editor.

  “You have been quite gracious, Dr. Basra,” I told him.

  “Keep yourself safe, Ms. Jackman, especially if you still plan on attending that therapy session. Some addicts will do anything for a high, and theft is a common thing around the county. You have my number if anything goes amiss.”

  After the interaction with Mickey, I had mostly forgotten my promise to Terri, only to be reminded once Mickey’s smoky scent swirled high and disappeared into the cold flow from the air conditioner. I gathered my things as my stomach grumbled in reminder that I had not eaten since the morning in Columbus. Having not looked at my phone in hours, I had several messages from Toby and William when I eventually pulled it from my bag. I ignored both as I walked toward my car, but scrolled through an email from my editor reminding me to submit my expenses soon. It was only when I went to open my door that I realized a large, gray van was parked across from me in the mostly empty, rear lot. My heart thumped as I thought on Dr. Basra’s warnings. My camera alone was worth a year’s worth of heroin, I knew. I had left my engagement ring at home for just such a reason.

  A loud voice called out as I clicked my key fob.

  “Ms. Jackman!”

  At the use of my name, I hesitated. But I had recognized his voice anyway, and he could have called me anything.

  From the driver’s side of the van, Mickey begged me to wait as he jumped from an open door. A quick glance showed that there were others seated in the large van; one held a cigarette out of a rolled-down window while another appeared to be sleeping. I placed my camera in the car and turned to face Mickey.

  As he handed me an envelope, he said, “I was going to leave this on your car.”

  “How did you know which one was mine?” I laughed.

  With that imperfect smile of his, he said, “You’re a photographer, and the only other car back here is that BMW. An easy guess.”

  I laughed again as he continued, “I wanted to offer some tickets to our show tonight in Cincinnati. It’s a little over two hours from here, but I’d love it if you could stop by. My business card is in there, too.”

  He was very determined to have me attend his show, and I wondered if he thought that I could get his band some media exposure, despite my admission that I only photographed crime scenes and the like. I politely told him of my plans to stay in Ironton for the evening, but accepted the small envelope he held aloft.

  Undeterred, he said, “The show is at 9 at Bogart’s. We have an opening band that plays for an hour. Even so, maybe we could grab dinner or something after.”

  “Dinner after midnight?” I teased. “You must think you are still in DC.”

  But I began to understand that Mickey’s interest in me extended beyond a professional one.

  “Give me your number,” I told him, “And if I finish early enough, I’ll make my way to Cincinnati.”

  I did not know how likely my words were, but Mickey wrote his number on the back of the envelope.

  “Is your name really Dandelion?” he asked before I got into my car.

  His fingers, long and hardened from years of playing the guitar, gripped the top of my door. I stared at them as I said, “Yeah. My parents were pretty out there.”

  “Oh no, man, it’s pretty bad ass. Way better than Michael Kline.”

  Suddenly uncertain of what to make of him, I smiled and told him I’d be in touch. From there until I reached a small diner, I could think of nothing else but the way his voice danced between dusk and midnight. It was deep and rough, whiskey-rich and seductive. And, if I could admit my own truth, a voice I longed to hear again.

  When my phone began to bounce against the checkered-pattern table, I reached for it and glanced at William’s face before quietly answering it.

  “Hey there,” I greeted him as I sipped at a thick cup of coffee. “I just got to a diner and am about to order some food. How’s your day been?”

  I kept my voice low and tried to rush through the conversation. Around me, the Americana-themed diner had filled, and I did not want to talk overlong on my phone with others so near. Before I hung up, I mentioned that I might have to head to Cincinnati to meet with a contact.

  “Aren’t there enough addicts around Columbus?” he laughed with contempt. “I can take you to the county prison, you know. You’ll find plenty to photograph.”

  For what seemed like the tenth time, I reminded him that this feature had been a state-wide assignment and would be shared with newspapers across Ohio, and, my editor hoped, across the country. It was important that its scope match its reach, I concluded with little passion or care if he understood.

  “Of course I know that, Dani. You seem stressed, which, unsurprisingly, hanging out in a methadone clinic all day might cause. Enjoy your grits or potato salad or whatever fine dining they have in Ironton and call me later.”

  His jests were not totally inaccurate, although I ordered a club sandwich and a bowl of vegetable soup. While I sipped at the soup, I programmed Mickey’s phone number into my burner phone. Much to my own surprise, I then spent thirty minutes searching for information about the Moon Kings. He was the lead singer, although he played the guitar fairly often. From the comments I read underneath their videos, the band had an engaged and interactive following, and their style blended funk, blues, and rock. They were quite good live, although their studio album seemed to smooth out their grit too much for my liking. Mickey’s on-stage presence was an intoxicating mix of humble introspection and rebellious passion. At times, he stood still, clutching the microphone stand and pressing his lips so near it that his breath echoed nearly in tune with the drumming beats behind him.

  That Mickey, the one with his eyes tightly closed as he leaned into his voice and sweat darkened his shirt and hair, was unlike the bashful and embarrassed man who had visited the clinic. In the parking lot, he had existed somewhere between both, easy-going and confident as he tried to convince me to follow him across the state. I couldn’t trust him, of course. He was a man, and, worse, a performer. A musician with groupies and girlfriends and flings.

  Yet there was something behind his eyes – veiled by gray shadows – that reminded me of the ill-fated and stony gazes of the statues I chased. That alone guaranteed that I would follow him once the group therapy session end
ed.

  An hour later, I was seated next to Terri and part of the group’s circle, mostly due to the insistence of the balding, military-like counselor. He made me wait outside while he discussed my assignment with the group and allowed my entry only after they had voted to permit me to join. I would not be allowed to photograph any of their faces, give the specific location of the meeting, or use their real names unless it was with their written consent. By then, I had expected their concerns and agreed without argument. However, at the end of the session, three of the seven attendees approached me to inquire about my work. Once more, I explained what the Gazette’s plans were for the story.

  “This is recovery, and I have nothing to hide,” a man called Tink explained. “Leonard said that I needed to sign some papers or something for you to use my image.”

  Tink, a middle-aged construction worker, was nearly twice my size. He had come from work and wore a dirty, glowing green shirt with missing sleeves and jeans that had been stained by years of labor. Next to him stood another man nearly the same age, although his arms appeared as bones only next to Tink’s well-muscled ones. Jimmy and Tink spoke with me for nearly twenty minutes about their recoveries and about their fears that some of their friends and relatives would die within the coming months.

  “I’ve begged my sister to come to a meeting with me, but she refuses,” Jimmy muttered as Tink nodded, suggesting he had tried something similar.

  “What made you both finally quit?” I asked while wondering what time it was.

  “It was either the drugs or my job,” Tink stated with no hint of anger. “I had already been pulled off operating any of the company’s vehicles because of a failed piss test. I have a house and a truck and two kids. I can’t lose this job when there are so few good ones around here. My wife threatened to leave, and I knew she meant it. So I went to a private rehab for two weeks, and from there began using methadone. I’m off it all now, but still come to these meetings each week.”