Under My Skin

by Jaye Maiman

  I shuffled into the kitchen, a strange queasiness seeping up from my stomach. I stopped short in the doorway. A note fluttered under a basket of golden corn muffins. Without touching them, I knew they’d be warm to the touch.

  Dear Robin —

  I waited as long as I could. When you weren’t back by eight, I assumed you were still out doing the Columbo thing. My restaurant manager called. The sous chef was in an accident this morning. Nothing serious, but there’s no way he can come in today. I arranged for a backup tomorrow — Thanksgiving Day, for heaven’s sake — but I had to drive down and help out this afternoon. Hope you understand. I’m still planning on joining you at Carly and Amy’s house tomorrow, if you still want me there. I’m anxious (nervous) to meet your friends. Do you really think we’re ready to go public? I think of you and things happen to my body that would make Madonna blush. Well, maybe not Madonna.

  I miss you already. I pray that you feel the same way.

  Kentucky

  I fingered the signature, wondering why she had signed her full name rather than the more familiar K.T. Lifting the note, I sniffed it for a trace of her scent. All I smelled was damp paper. And the corn muffins. I happily downed two.

  Whatever’s happening here, I thought, felt damn wonderful. Singing the Frank Sinatra tune I had listened to earlier in the day, I headed back outside. I wanted to share my excitement. I’m ashamed to say I skipped outside. Yes. Skipped. Damn the sciatica. Besides, Amy would be only too happy to whip me up some potion to deaden the pain. Like a five-year-old, I opened my mouth to the sky and drank in the slow drifting snow. Then I started the car and drove up the hill to Amy’s.

  It wasn’t until I knocked on the front door that I realized there was no car in the driveway. I puzzled briefly, then remembered that tomorrow was Thanksgiving; Amy was probably shopping. I smiled broadly. Unquestionably, a feast was in the works. I headed back to the car, then paused. Amy wouldn’t be gone long, I mused, and I was in urgent need of her ministration. I tried the door and was surprised to find it locked. I fingered the usual hiding space—a perpetually broken hurricane lamp tacked to the right of the front door—and found the key and let myself in.

  Carly and Amy had decorated their house with items bought at local auctions, the eclectic mix including an aluminum-edged formica kitchen table from the fifties, bearing a unique centerpiece constructed of antique Coke bottles. In the living room was a painter’s bench, a butt-worn tapestry-covered Queen Anne chair, an array of milk cans painted with country scenes, and a bamboo rocker etched with peace signs by a former hippy since turned stockbroker. I loved the place. Warm and inviting, their home had been the site of countless anniversary, birthday, and holiday celebrations. Right now, I was desperate for the coziness.

  I was kneeling in front of their compact disk collection in the den when I heard a sound coming from the kitchen. I straightened up, the fire in the back of my thigh raging. Damn. Then it happened again.

  A cat. Nothing odd about that. Except for the fact that they don’t own one. I followed the sound through the kitchen and into the windowless annex that served as Amy’s homeopathic “lab.” I switched on the light and discovered a beat-up tabby chasing her tail. Despite—or maybe because of—the half-chewed ear, the waif was adorable. I bent down and scratched under her neck, suddenly missing my own two girls back in Brooklyn. I’d have to call them tonight, I chided myself.

  An empty food bowl placed under the butcher block counter was the cause of her distress, I deduced with remarkable quickness. The fact that the cat practically socked the bowl between my legs was my first clue. Five cans of Alpo sat on the counter, next to a note from Melissa Moses, Amy’s eccentric next-door neighbor.

  I know you’re both pretty allergic to Hassle, but she got pretty badly whipped in a cat fight last week. I hated to leave her alone till Monday. Since you weren’t home when I came by, I put her in here until you can familiarize her with the rest of the house. Hope I’m not pushing our “good neighbor” policy too far.

  Knowing how Amy felt about her lab, I had a feeling Melissa might have just run out of favors. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone besides Carly had been allowed in here. Amy was very particular about keeping the space “neutral.” I never knew what she meant by that, but I had learned not to question her work. I had benefited too often from her skills to remain a skeptic.

  She had reorganized the office, lining up jars of herbal extracts along one wall, next to plastic bags of dried roots and flowers. On the shelf below were the accoutrements of a mad scientist: beakers, scales, a Bunsen burner, gourds, mortar and pestle, eye droppers, and small glass vials filled with what looked like miniature cotton balls. Hassle rammed into my ankle, a not-too-subtle reminder of why I was in here. I grabbed a can of chicken and cheese and retreated to the kitchen, opened the can, then remembered the bowl was still in the lab. Hassle, smart beast that she was, had not moved from the bowl.

  As I knelt down to pick it up, I noticed a row of prepared solutions strategically lined up in a rack suspended from the left side of the counter. A small vial with the handwritten words, Sciatica elixir, potency one, NSF-1121, caught my eye. My head jerked up, smacking straight into the edge of the counter. The Alpo can dropped from my hand and rolled onto its side. I was too distracted to worry about the mess. At least not right away. The bottle was almost identical to the ones Amy’s prescribed for me in the past. Fate sometimes works in our favor.

  I unscrewed the dropper top and started to drizzle the prescribed ten drops onto my tongue when I heard the door slam. I jerked like a guilty child, cringing as the bottle crashed right beside the cat food. Shit. Amy would kill me. At least the bottle had broken cleanly, into just two pieces. I put the dropper down on the counter carefully, shoved Hassle away with my foot, scooped up as much of the mess as I could with cupped hands, then rushed into the kitchen. Amy caught me with my hands in the garbage can. She stared at me and then at the open lab door. To say she looked displeased would be a drastic understatement.

  She practically slammed her pocketbook onto the kitchen counter. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Ame, I can explain—”

  Her nose flared. “What’s that smell?” She stared at my chicken-and-cheese coated hands and groaned. I was in deep doo-doo now. “That’s cat food. Shit, Robin, what the hell are you up to?”

  Amy didn’t use words like shit.

  She looked around the kitchen floor and then focused like a marksman on the yawning entrance to the lab. “Fuck! Not the lab!”

  Just then, a howl snapped through the air, then ceased almost instantly. I darted through the door. Hassle was breathing rapidly, her chest heaving in severe spasms. I held her against me and dissolved into tears when her heart kicked against my fingertips.

  “Call a vet!” I hollered at Amy through my sobs. Don’t die, don’t die, don’t die. I was kissing her head, rubbing her jerking stomach. She began vomiting violently. I didn’t care.

  “Get it out, Hassle,” I urged her. Please, God, I prayed, don’t let me be responsible for another creature’s death.

  By the time I finished my prayer, Hassle was limp in my arms.

  Chapter Eight

  I was shivering, despite two down comforters and the hot teacup riveted between my palms. Amy and Carly were whispering heatedly in the bedroom off the living room, where I had been sitting numbly for the past two hours. With each passing minute, the cold had penetrated deeper. I was afraid that if I moved, my limbs would crack off like icicles.

  Amy’s indignation had apparently evaporated soon after I passed out in the lab. When I came to, she was red-faced and hovering over me with panicked eyes. She pleaded with me to speak to her, but I was strangely mute. I felt emotionally anesthetized, but there was something else too. My tongue was paralyzed.

  The door beside the couch opened with a whine. Carly shot an angry look over her shoulder, then came and sat beside me. “Please, Robbie, talk to me.”


  At first, I didn’t want to utter a sound. Now I felt as if I couldn’t. My tongue was swollen and my throat so tight, breathing took intense concentration.

  “We contacted Dean. He’s on the way. You hear me, honey?” She stroked the back of my hand. Her touch felt like a coal-hot razor scraping my skin. The trembling worsened. Carly was crying softly. I knew because I could hear the sudden intake of breath. But I wouldn’t look at her. I knew if I did she would be a yellow blur. I squeezed my eyes tight as Carly cradled me in her arms and began rocking me. The motion hurt, but I couldn’t tell her that. I couldn’t tell her that I had killed Hassle as surely as I had killed my sister Carol, that the cat’s death rattle was horribly like a human’s, that death seemed so close to me I could almost shake its hand.

  There was a distant car-door slam. Carly disengaged from me slowly, as if she were afraid that I’d fall apart without her arms around me. For an instant, I feared I might. I looked up and saw Dean gesturing angrily at the lab door. Amy had crossed to him and now the two of them were standing toe to toe, shouting words that I somehow couldn’t decipher. Carly stood by quietly, but I could by the color of her cheeks that she was reaching her limit. Finally, she swelled up to her full five-three and slapped first Dean, then Amy with the back of her hand.

  I was surprised to hear myself chuckle. All of a sudden I was strangely giddy. And sobbing uncontrollably.

  Carly was next to me before I knew it. “Rob, what’s happening?”

  “I’m so cold.” My words were thick, the aural equivalent of curdled milk, but somehow Carly understood. Two minutes later she was wrapping a sleeping bag around my shoulders.

  Dean approached with his little black bag and I wanted to kiss his knuckles. “You’re not looking so good, kid,” he said, sounding like Marcus Welby. I went limp in his care. He took my blood pressure, examined my eyes, nose, ears, listened to my heartbeat for what seemed like hours, and palpated more parts of my body than K.T. had. All the time, he kept muttering inane words of comfort that I drank in like brandy.

  He opened my mouth and pulled my tongue out with a piece of gauze. My eyes almost crossed from staring at the way he bit his lower lip with his front teeth. I felt like giggling, but threw up instead.

  Amy and Carly rushed to clean me up. After each heave, they washed my face with a warm rag. I wanted to die. When the spasms stopped, Dean leaned toward me with a heavy sigh that smelled of the spiced cider we had shared yesterday. “The worst is over, Robin. You’re going to be fine.”

  Maybe physically. But I could already feel this new nightmare taking root in a corner of my brain like a weed.

  He prepared a hypodermic, cuffed my arm, and injected something into my vein. To Amy he said, “I want to bring a sample of that potion in for an examination, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m telling you, Dean, she’s taken this exact formula before and it’s never had this effect. She probably took too large a dose—”

  “Not even one full drop,” I said, jumping in. Something was buzzing in my ear. With a start I realized it was the rush of my blood. “Ame, it was barely a single drop.” I wanted her to explain this away.

  Fear crowded into her eyes. “That’s impossible, Rob.”

  Dean broke in “What’s in the stuff, for chrissake?”

  Amy was still staring at me as she answered him. She ran through the list of ingredients the way K.T. would on her cooking show. Dean pounced on her before she finished. “Aconite?” he shouted in disbelief.

  At the word, Amy closed her eyes and trembled. “We’ve talked about this before, Dean. There’s so little of it in there—”

  I looked past her to where Carly stood, soundlessly opening and clenching her fists. I was having difficulty following the conversation. My heart was pounding and I wanted to bury myself deeper into the blankets.

  His tone modulated now, Dean asked, “How many grains?”

  She said the number as if she could hardly believe her own words, then collapsed into the rocker. It creaked dangerously under her weight. Her skin was so pale, you could almost trace the veins running along her cheekbones.

  Dean coughed. I had the sense he was trying to keep his composure. “Well, Amy, I’ve told you how dangerous I think it is to be fooling with such poisons, natural or not. Maybe you miscalculated. In any case, we have to bring in a sample and try to get an accurate breakdown—”

  Amy stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Do what you have to, Dean.”

  Carly said, “I’d feel better if you stay here with Robin. I’ll drive the sample in myself. Just tell me who and where.”

  “Well,” he hesitated, then turned to me. I could tell from the shake of his head that I looked like hell. “You’re right. I better stay close.” He wrote something down on a prescription pad and handed it to Carly. “While you’re out, have this filled. I’m sure she’s out of any serious danger by now, though God knows why you didn’t bring her directly to the hospital...” He stopped himself. “Sorry. You two must be upset enough.”

  I heard Amy sniff and I looked over. She slumped in the rocker, shook her head in disbelief and said, “There goes my career,” with a sadness that chilled me.

  As I looked at the woman who had been one of my closest friends for nearly twelve years, I recalled the label on the bottle I’d broken and felt sick to my soul. The label had read Sciatica elixir, potency one, NSF-1121. Suddenly, the significance of the last few digits became clear: Noreen Sue Finnegan, November 21.

  With a horrible certainty, I knew Amy’s medicine had killed Noreen.

  Amy set me up in the front guest room. Neither of us exchanged a word. Desperate for sleep, I covered my head with the blankets. It wouldn’t come.

  One drop of that herbal concoction had kicked through my body like a Kung Fu master. Ten drops would have killed me almost as quickly as a gunshot to the head. And with a lot less mess.

  I reran the last few days. Perhaps Amy had simply, and tragically, made a fatal mistake in mixing the medicine. I threw the blanket aside and paused. Amy and Dean were talking quietly in the other room. Occasionally I heard a sob. I cracked the door. Holding my breath, I could just make out the words.

  “Amy, I’m not questioning your qualifications. Or even the value of homeopathy or herbal remedies. Just because I’m in traditional medicine doesn’t mean I’m automatically against alternative treatments.”

  “It usually does. Come on, Dean, you think I’m a quack. You and Douglas have made that clear on numerous occasions.”

  “Well,” Dean said, “I have to admit the theory that you can somehow increase the efficacy of an agent by diluting it till the point that it’s almost one hundred percent water —”

  “We’ve gone through this before,” Amy interrupted impatiently.

  “Right. Fine. So let’s get to the point. Why the hell did you use Monkshood? You have to know aconite is one of the deadliest poisons around.”

  “And an ingredient that’s been used by herbalists around the world for centuries. Ask Fred or Camilla, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Explain that to the authorities. If this gets out, you’ll be lucky if all that happens is the dissolution your practice.”

  The springs of the couch squeaked. “Damn it. I did nothing wrong, Dean. I’m telling you there isn’t enough aconite in that potion to kill anyone. Including Hassle.”

  Footsteps stormed toward my direction. I shut the door and waited. A minute later I heard first the coat closet and then the front door slam. I walked to the window and watched Amy pull away from the house. The road was matted with snow. I prayed that she would drive slowly.

  I was standing there when Dean tapped twice and came into the room. He looked surprised to see me standing. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  I turned back to the window and said, “Is that why you knocked?”

  At first he didn’t answer. Then he said, “I need your professional advice.”

  I blew onto the window till it fog
ged and began scribbling images. “Go ahead,” I said without feeling. I knew what was coming.

  “That potion could have killed you.”

  “Uh-huh.” I stared at my handiwork. I had drawn a cat. My forehead dropped to the frosted window.

  He hesitated. “Maggie told me a few months ago that Noreen had back problems. I recommended a doctor, but she said Amy was treating her.” I heard him click the bedside lamp on, then off. “You don’t happen to know if she was being treated for sciatica, do you?” The question was phrased so innocently, it was hard to keep from sobbing out loud. What could I do?

  If I told him about finding the sciatica preparation in Noreen’s medicine cabinet, Amy would automatically be implicated in Noreen’s death. How could I do that to her? And what if it was just an accident? I knew better than anyone the torture of being responsible for another person’s death. She would carry that around for the rest of her life.

  But I also felt a reluctant obligation to Noreen. Without full disclosure, I could in effect be an accessory to a wrongful death.

  A hand closed around my shoulder. “Sorry. This has to be harder on you than on me.”

  With a gulp, I whispered, “Can you order an autopsy?”

  His grasp tightened. “Do you think that’s necessary? You know what—”

  “We have to know what killed Noreen.”

  I waited until he left the room, then I sat down on the bed and held my head. In the distance, I heard him hitting the buttons on the phone with undue force. Twice I almost cried out for him to stop. Then it was too late. I heard him explain to Douglas Marks, the coroner and funeral director, that circumstances had changed. Information had come to light that would seem to indicate that an autopsy was in order.

  Then something went wrong. His tone changed. He said, “I see,” about five times before hanging up. By the time I entered the kitchen, he was staring at the receiver. When he looked up at me, I could tell he was struggling for composure.

  “Noreen’s body was cremated this morning.”