Elisa knew full well I couldn’t tell her about a session with a client. But I played it straight. “Come on, you know I can’t talk about what happened with Sharon. As far as how long someone’s been dead, I have no idea whether it makes any difference in being able to contact them. But if you think about it, why would the afterlife use our time system anyway? Last month, last year or last century may be all the same to them.”
Elisa looked thoughtful. “But wouldn’t you think it would be easier to reach someone who had just died, especially when that was the person you were trying to contact? Wait, don’t answer that until I bring out some stuff from the kitchen.” As she dashed off, I admired the intricate pattern of the gauzy, cobalt blue silk shirt she wore over her stretchy black tank top and crop pants. My beige linen camp shirt and drawstring pants weren’t even close on the elegance scale. I told myself that at only 5’4” it’s harder for me to look elegant than it is for her at 5”8”. But in truth I think I just find it easier to go for the simple natural look.
Just as I got up to go inside to see if I could help, Maria’s black puppy scampered out the open kitchen door, yapping and wagging his tail as if he’d been waiting all day to see me. “Gustav, stop! No!” Maria scurried out after him, but he was all over me before she even got close. He was so adorable, I didn’t even mind the paw marks on my pants. Big advantage of the not-so-chic outfit.
“Sorry, Cleo. I think he likes you though,” Maria picked him up. “Anyway, what do you think about Dr. Waycroft?”
“What do you mean? What about him?” I asked.
“Oh…Didn’t Mom tell you? He got so mad, I thought he was going to kill Sharon. Yelling at her, calling her stupid, naïve, an irresponsible mother—telling her she was going to regret not listening to him. And he said it all in front of Nathan.” Gustov jumped out of Maria’s arms and ran across the deck barking fiercely at a squirrel scampering up a tree trunk. Maria dashed after him, almost colliding with Elisa as she came out of the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with salad and raw fish.
I jumped up to reach for falling dishes, but Elisa managed to keep her balance. “What’s Waycroft so upset about?” I asked. “Have you talked to Sharon?”
“I talked to her this morning. The argument just happened yesterday. But Maria was there for most of it, so she can tell you about it.” Elisa smeared olive oil and lemon on some salmon fillets before laying them on the hot grill.
Maria put Gustov back in the house and came over to tell me the story. “Okay, I was bringing Nathan back from soccer camp,” she said, “and I guess Dr. Waycroft had stopped by at Sharon’s. Nathan and I could hear him yelling at Sharon that she was behaving like an idiot, and he wasn’t going to put up with it. And then he went on about how she’s keeping Nathan from meeting his real father, and spending all her time trying to talk to a dead man. I tried to get Nathan back in the car and go for ice cream or something until they cooled down, but Nathan just ran right in.”
“Poor Nathan,” I said, wishing I could undo this for him.
“It got worse,” Maria paced around the deck with her head down, a behavior I recognized from those long-ago years when I’d been her nanny. It was usually a sign she was seriously upset. She paced faster as she continued her account. “When I followed Nathan in, I saw Dr. Waycroft’s face was beet red and his eyes were all squinty. He looked like he could eat us alive. He said, ‘Nathan, your mother has lost her good sense—if she ever had any. I’m going to take you to my house tonight. Get your stuff and let’s go.’”
“What did Nathan do?” I asked.
Maria stopped right in front of me and gave me a quizzical look. “This is the weirdest part,” she said. “Nathan looked at his mom and then he looked at Dr. Waycroft and said, ‘Can I have 200 extra points if I go?’ And then Sharon blew up. She started yelling, ‘Dad, don’t tell me you have him on a point system!’ Then she said, ‘I had to follow your system of getting rewarded with points when I was growing up, but no way is my son going to live that way.’”
At that point in the story Maria stopped to catch her breath and sat in a chair next to me to continue. “So,” she went on, “Dr Waycroft said, ‘Nathan, that was supposed to be our secret.’ And Nathan started crying. Then Sharon grabbed Nathan, and shouted at Dr. Waycroft to leave or she’d call the police. He shouted back that the police might be on his side. And then he said, ‘Joel has legal rights, you know. He could go to court and get visitation rights. And I’ll be glad to help him.’ And then he left. I was going to stay around to try to help Nathan calm down, but that strange friend of theirs, Erik, showed up, so I left.”
I was stunned and not at all pleased that Sharon’s conflict with her dad had escalated to this level, but client confidentiality issues kept me from commenting. Instead, I picked up on Maria’s comment about Erik. “Why do you think Erik is strange?” I asked,
“He’s all about those plants, and weird energy drinks,” Maria said wrinkling her nose like she smelled something rotten. “And he freaks out anytime Nathan wants to go out to Adam’s office. He’s just strange.”
“Enough gossip you guys,” Elisa yelled at us from the grill. “This salmon is perfect right now, so get your plates over here and get some. Let’s eat and relax and forget about that tyrant Donald Waycroft for a while. We ate, talked about Maria’s music and my artwork, and made plans to go to a summer concert at Chautauqua the next week.
Then Maria left to meet some friends and I finally heard what was really on Elisa’s mind. Waycroft had called her that morning, threatening dire consequences if she didn’t keep me away from Sharon. “He said he will personally make sure the tenure committee picks my application apart with a fine-tooth comb. And he’s good friends with the committee chair, so I expect it’s not an empty threat.” Elisa poured us each another glass of wine. “But you heard it here first, baby. Donald doesn’t know who he’s up against. He may think he’s hot stuff, but he’ll pay a price if he messes with me. I guarantee it.”
I knew Elisa was determined to get tenure. She had worked hard to build her professional reputation. Elisa married young, had Maria a few months later, got whatever jobs she could with her undergraduate degree in psych—mostly working in group homes. But she knew it wasn’t what she wanted in the long run. So, when she was 29 and Jack had made a fortune in commercial real estate in Boulder, she went back to school and got her Ph.D. in psychology, specializing in research on memory. She got hired to work on some research grants and wrote a successful grant of her own. Her research kind of took off and she was hired into a tenure-track position in the Psychology Department of the University. Now she’s 40, and as she says her career is truly cruising. She’s up for tenure this fall, and I was certain she would fight tooth and nail to keep Waycroft from derailing her progress.
“Do you have a plan to stop him?” I asked.
“Honey, I’ll find a way to fix his wagon.” Elisa smirked at the prospect. Then her face turned serious and she leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “But it’s actually not me I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s you. Donald said he would expose you as a fraud and make sure your therapy practice is ruined. I know we can fight this, but you’re more vulnerable because your Contact Project is—I think we can agree—so far outside the mainstream.”
I should have paid more attention to her warning. But somehow I couldn’t see Donald Waycroft as a serious threat to my career. So I brushed her off with a flip reply. “Thanks for the heads-up. But Waycroft reminds me of my dad—more bark than bite. You know I’ve been arguing with Dad all my life. No matter what I do, he tells me why I shouldn’t do it or how I could do it a better way. Don’t worry about me. I can handle Waycroft’s attacks.”
Suddenly, the wind picked up and we noticed some flat dark clouds signaling an evening thunderstorm, so we scurried around collecting the dishes and leftover food. We got everything inside just as the storm rumbled in, bringing streaks of lightening and fat raindrops splatting on the de
ck. I took this as a natural transition and turned the conversation to the topic at the top of my mind as we cleaned up the kitchen.
“I have another problem that I need your help with,” I said, as Elisa rinsed the dishes before loading them into the dishwasher. “Gramma’s doctor—he’s the medical director at Shady Terrace—is way too quick to drug the residents. And I also think he may be involved in something illegal. But I don’t know how to find out more or do anything to stop him.”
Elisa has spent a lot of time in nursing homes doing her research on memory, so she knows how they operate. I told her what I had overheard from Dr. Ahmed’s office, why I wasn’t happy about him being in charge of Gramma’s care, and what Sharon had told me about all the drugs he prescribes at his pain clinic.
“You can bet it’s all about drugs,” Elisa said, tossing me a wet sponge to wipe the countertops. “Drug diversion is huge in nursing homes. They have staff stealing prescription narcotics for their own use or to sell on the street. It’s tough to catch them at it, but you could call the state health department or the police, tell them what you heard and request an investigation.”
“Maybe I’ll start with the health department. I know I don’t have enough facts for the police to do anything,” I said, thinking I didn’t want to give Pablo any more grounds for thinking I was flaky. “You know, Sharon told me that Adam did some website development work for Ahmed’s clinic, and he had some suspicions that it wasn’t all on the up and up. Now I’m wondering whether Ahmed was somehow involved in Adam’s death, but Sharon doesn’t know what Adam knew or whether he said anything to Ahmed.”
Neither of us had any good ideas as to how to investigate that. But on the way home, it occurred to me I might find some information about Ahmed by using an internet search engine.
Maybe his past held some secrets. What had he been doing wherever he worked before he came here?
Chapter 18
On Monday morning I Googled Dr. Ahmed to see what I could get. Over 12 million hits. When I put Dr. Ahmed in quotes, I still got over 400,000. Lots of Dr. Ahmeds out there on faculties around the world, as well as in government, institutes, and such. Most of what I got were people whose first name was Ahmed. Clearly I needed to know his first name, which turned out to be Fahim according to the Boulder yellow pages. I got 58,000+ hits for Fahim Ahmed, MD, but only two when I put it in quotes—one of which was a listing for his clinic with a link to his website. I clicked on that link and found myself at the We Feel Your Pain clinic site.
Lots of information about the types of pain they treat and how important it is to get your pain treated so you can enjoy life again, but not much about Ahmed himself. Nothing about where he’d practiced before, except that he completed anesthesiology training in Tampa, FLand did a one-year fellowship in Pain Management. No dates for any of that.
I figured Fahim might actually be his middle name or even a pseudonym, so it could be worth following some of the 58,000 hits I got when I searched for Fahim Ahmed or some of the 400,000 I got for Dr. Ahmed. But my first client was due in 20 minutes so I’d have to put that off until later.
I did make a quick call to the state health department to explore making a complaint. They explained the procedure, but said I needed specifics for them to initiate an investigation. I didn’t know how to get specifics, but I thought maybe Sharon or Erik would have some ideas. I had a full morning of clients, so I went over to Shady Terrace when I had a break in the early afternoon.
I found Gramma painting in the activity room. A very dark picture of people and pills. “Hi Gramma, are you feeling better?” I asked.
“Pills, pills, pills,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on her painting.
“Are the pills making you feel better?”
She looked up sharply. “I need to paint now. Come back later.” At least she wasn’t groggy—maybe she was adjusting to the meds.
I went over to Sharon’s office and found Erik there with her. I was struck by what a fit looking pair they were. Not that trim athletic people are unusual in Boulder where fitness is our creed. But together they exuded energy like runners ready for a race.
They were talking about Joel. Sharon had decided to let Nathan meet him, as long as Waycroft wasn’t part of the meeting. Erik thought it was a bad idea.
“Cleo, don’t you think it would be confusing for Nathan to meet this guy—especially when he’s still grieving over Adam?” Erik sounded truly concerned. “Doesn’t he need time to get used to losing the man he thought of as his father before he replaces him with his birth father?”
Sharon gave me a pleading look. “The thing is, Nathan is crazy to meet Joel. It’s all he can talk about. Shouldn’t that count for something? He says he has a right to meet his father.”
I didn’t want to take sides. I stared at the floor for a minute, then looked at Sharon. “It’s hard to say what effect meeting Joel will have on Nathan right now,” I said. “But if they are going to meet, I’d suggest you be with them, Sharon, so you know what happens and can be supportive to Nathan afterwards.”
“Maybe I’ll invite Joel over to the house,” Sharon said. “Then we can….”
“Neither one of you is thinking straight,” Erik interrupted impatiently. “This guy is manipulating you, and you can’t see it at all.”
I decided to change the subject, and get to the issue I came there to discuss. I brought up Dr. Ahmed, what I had overheard on Saturday, what Elisa had said about drug diversion, what I hadn’t found on the web, and what the state health department had said they needed to process a complaint.
“I don’t know much about Ahmed’s background,” Sharon said, “I think he’s originally from Pakistan, but I don’t know where he got his medical degree or where he practiced before this. But I agree that he gives out too many drugs, especially to staff.” She turned to Erik, “Didn’t he give Jenny some Xanax and other stuff, even though he wasn’t actually her doctor?”
“Look, I told you both he’s a jerk,” Erik sounded annoyed. “But he’s a smart one. Doesn’t show his hand. The best thing is to forget about him until he hangs himself.” With that, Erik got up and walked out.
Sharon looked uncomfortable. “Erik never wants to talk about Jenny,” she said. “It’s strange. I talk about Adam all the time.”
“I know what you mean,” I said carefully, not wanting to contradict her, but at the same time not wanting to judge Erik. “It’s hard to help someone when they shut down. But people grieve differently. Men are less likely than women to share their feelings.”
“There may be more to it. I don’t know,” Sharon said tentatively. A couple of times Jenny told me about problems she and Erik were having in their marriage. She said he lied to her, criticized her, and blamed her for everything that went wrong. Then she said if she raised her voice or told him she was angry at him for something, he would tell her she was going crazy.”
I hadn’t seen that side of Erik, but, as always, I was curious. “So what do you think? You’ve been spending a lot of time with Erik.”
“I’ve never seen that side of him. He’s always been helpful and considerate with us. And Jenny also told me she was depressed a lot and sometimes had panic attacks, so I guess I figured her picture of their relationship was distorted.”
Someone knocked on Sharon’s door. It was a family member there for a meeting, so I left and went back over to the Alzheimer’s unit. After I punched in the code that opens the door, I discovered one of the confused residents, Maxwell Kohn, standing right inside it, trying to get out. He looked disheveled, as if he were wearing yesterday’s clothes, and his thin gray hair was standing on end. “Let me out. I need to get out,” he implored. I managed to squeeze in past him and shut the door before he escaped.
An aide came along to entice Mr. Kohn over to an exercise group meeting in the Fireside Lounge. Noticing me, she said, “Oh, Cleo, Martha has been painting all afternoon. Have you looked at what she’s done?”
I checked the acti
vity room, and found Gramma still painting. The dark one—depicting a forlorn woman sitting in a sea of pills—was finished, lying on a table to dry. The one she was working on showed three lumpy old people, each clutching an upside-down pill bottle with white tablets raining down to the ground around them. The eyes were wide multi-colored spinning wheels.
“Interesting, Gramma,” I said. “I like the eyes.”
“I see everything,” she said.
Who knows what she sees, I thought. I wondered if I could take some message from the paintings. I’d been to a workshop the Alzheimer’s Association put on promoting art as therapy for dementia patients. They said that art gives Alzheimer artists an additional way of processing feelings when words fail them because of the disease. So even though she was very confused most of the time, I thought she might be trying to give us a signal. After all, medications did seem to be an issue at Shady Terrace.
Just then Tanya came in. “Nice paintings, Martha,” she said.
“Do you think she’s trying to tell us something?” I asked.
“I doubt it,” Tanya said. “She’s not that cognitive any more.”
“But all those pills must mean something,” I protested. “Do you think it’s possible that Dr. Ahmed is overmedicating the residents, and they know it?”
“Cleo, you have a bad habit of looking for problems. You’re reading too much into Martha’s pictures—probably because it’s hard for you to accept her limitations.”
Thanks for the analysis, I thought, but managed not to say it out loud. It was a good time to leave before I said something I would regret, so I said good-bye to Gramma, who barely looked up when I left.
Too Near the Edge Page 11
