Lovesick

by Alex Wellen

  “Trust me, I know plenty about money problems.”

  “That’s just it,” he says. “We can help you. I was thinking about it: I say we can scale back, way back. Gregory lost track of all those tabs. I can help you figure out which folks really need the Day Co-Pay bargain.”

  I can only assume this includes Sid and his wife.

  “Meantime, Cookie and the girls can still get you samples,” Sid adds, checking his watch. “You’ll get a little money from the insurance folks, some from the pharmacy sales, and even make a few collections on Lara’s list. This way you’ll be able to give Paige that wedding she’s always wanted.”

  So I’m supposed to help Paige realize her fantasy at any cost?

  “Let’s assume I agree to do this for a little while, we need an exit strategy. We need to figure out a way to get these people on the up-and-up. No more samples. No more insurance claims. I’m not kidding, Sid.”

  “I promise,” he beams. “But we’re also going to need to enlist some help.”

  “Your drug cartel isn’t enough?”

  “No, some special help,” he says, trying to see behind me.

  Sid checks his watch against the arrival of the 1965 Cadillac ambulance.

  Manny Milken pulls up to the curb, waving hello from inside the cab. His car stereo is blaring the Kansas classic “Carry On Wayward Son.” He sings along, completely off-key and mangling every word he meets. (He’d be better off singing Chewbacca.) Manny climbs out, opens the trunk, places two small boxes on a dolly, and wheels it up the driveway, stopping every so often to pull up either side of his pants.

  “Four minutes, thirty-five seconds,” he says, all proud of himself. Manny shows Sid the timer function on his personal organizer. “You’re just lucky I was in the neighborhood,” Manny says.

  “Aren’t you always in the neighborhood?” I ask.

  “Hey, man,” Manny greets me warmly.

  Something’s wrong. “Why is he calling me ‘man’?” I ask Sid suspiciously.

  Sid’s too busy inspecting Manny’s boxes to pay me any attention.

  “Emmanuel, what we got here?” he says, squatting down.

  “Product from Dr. Hardy, Dr. Mills, and Dr. Platt. Mostly Prazex, Celebrex, Diovan, and Lanicor.”

  “Wait one-cotton-picking-minute,” I yell. “You swore Manny just did the deliveries.”

  “Since we spoke, circumstances have … changed,” Sid explains.

  “Oh, crap. I’m already regretting this.”

  “Margaret Milken needs us.” Sid lays it out there plainly. “She’s on all sorts of medication. Parkinson’s has many complications.”

  Manny stares at his sneakers.

  “My mom loved Gregory,” he mumbles.

  I forcibly rub my face with both hands. Sid studies the two of us.

  “Come on—you two knuckleheads are a match made in heaven,” Sid laughs. “No one’s got a better sense of who’s on the Day Co-Pay than Manny. And Andy, you’re going to need someone to continue with the pickups and deliveries. Someone who will work free of charge, idn’t that right, Emmanuel?”

  Manny nods.

  “Here,” Sid says, pulling a two-way Motorola radio out of each of his back pockets. “These have a range of five miles. That means, no matter where you are in Crockett, the two of you are only a walkie-talkie click away.”

  Manny eagerly takes his. I pretend not to want mine.

  I stole two packs of Hubba Bubba chewing gum from Day’s Pharmacy a half a lifetime ago. This is how I’ll make up for it: not by working for Gregory, but by stealing for him.

  CHAPTER 21

  Aches and Pains

  I’M LIABLE to kill someone. I’m liable if I kill someone.

  It was so much easier when Gregory yelled at me. I never appreciated the sense of security that comes with having a skilled pharmacist available to check your work. Filling prescriptions should be a cakewalk. Janus is right here if I have any questions. She’s familiar with the side effects, allergic reactions, and drug interactions associated with more than seven thousand drugs. In fact, the Janus software suite is so smart it even self-updates, twice a day. That’s how we knew, for example, ten hours before Paige’s news station did, that Simpson Pharmaceuticals was pulling its hypertension pill, Betapro.

  But even with Janus at my fingertips, I’m still on edge. I don’t know how Gregory managed to keep up. Every day, it seems the FDA or a drug manufacturer or an investigative reporter or a class action lawsuit or a scientific journal is issuing some sort of new warning or drug withdrawal. These days, the unthinkable has become probable: osteoporosis meds that actually cause bone deterioration; arthritis drugs that prompt heart attacks; and now the latest atrocity—antidepressants that actually increase the risk of suicide.

  This business is fraught with danger. Combined, Gregory and I used to fill about a thousand scripts a week, and this is one of the only jobs where you need to be 100 percent correct 100 percent of the time. The wrong medication, the wrong dosage, the wrong instructions to the wrong customer, one sloppy prescription, one misplaced decimal place, and … DEAD.

  It just so happens that I could also go to federal prison for filling scripts without a license. Lara knows this but couldn’t care less, so long as the cash registers.

  It’s the pharmacy’s first day back in business and Lara promised me—she promised me—we’d stick to selling candy, food, magazines, toiletries, and over-the-counter drugs. Then Selma Patterson came in wanting her blood pressure pills, and Lara said do it, so I did it. More folks came in looking for basic refills and I did them, too. This morning alone, I filled about a dozen prescriptions. But when it came to Lucille Braggs, I put my foot down. She demanded her medication, and I told her, in not so many words, that when it comes to making suppositories, I don’t know my ass from a hole in the wall. Lara could insist all she wanted, it just wasn’t going to happen.

  I wish Gregory were here.

  All things considered, though, reopening the pharmacy turned out to be pretty uneventful. About thirty customers came through this morning. We might have had more patrons if the front door weren’t still busted. Until I finally propped it open, feeble humans found it impossible to operate. Many of them never even bothered—I think they assumed we were still closed, seeing as half the door is boarded up. Of the customers who forced their way in, many of them dealt with Gregory’s death in a similarly obtuse manner: he or she would walk up to one of us, express heartfelt condolences, pause, and then ask where we keep the Tylenol.

  All of today’s customers had medical insurance or paid in cash or credit, so the topic of tabs or shakedowns never came up, though you can feel Lara eyeing every customer like they’re walking dollar signs. For someone who’s spent the better part of her life in Crockett, Lara doesn’t seem to know anyone. If we were to put all sixty people on her deadbeat list in a lineup—something Lara would jump at the chance of doing—I’d be surprised if she could identify ten. I’m not ready to confront anyone since my episode with Mills.

  It’s so empty in here without Gregory. If it’s possible, the lighting feels poorer. The dust feels heavier. Lara’s presence infuses this place with an uncomfortable library vibe. She and I don’t argue like Gregory and I used to. I’m not sure we’ve said more than ten words to each other.

  It’s only after the royal arrival of the Brewsters that Day’s Pharmacy begins feeling anything like it did before Gregory died. Loki announces their visit by bolting down the aisle, picking up too much speed, and sliding and slamming right into the sunglasses rack. Three pairs crash to the ground.

  “Poor thing,” Cookie cries.

  Her compassion takes me by surprise.

  “Don’t you worry,” Sid comforts his wife. “She’s fine. Look.”

  He’s right. The puppy regains her bearings and races off.

  If it were up to Cookie, she would avoid even the simplest pleasantries, but Belinda won’t have it. Belinda provokes Cookie out of sport.
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br />   “Afternoon, Mrs. Brewster. Lovely to see you,” Belinda says, accentuating every word as she ducks down to make eye contact with Cookie.

  Cookie takes a red plastic shopping basket.

  “You should have that looked at,” Cookie says casually of Belinda’s lip ring. “It looks infected to me, unless that blister’s always been there.”

  Belinda narrows her eyes. Then gives Cookie a forced smile.

  Sid is early. He’s carrying a small brown box, not so unlike the anonymous packages piled up right behind me in the corner. He brazenly hands me the contraband right in front of Lara; thankfully, she’s too self-involved to notice. Then he gives me a long, hard wink and takes his favorite seat at the lunch counter while Cookie shops.

  “How is your sister feeling?” Sid asks Lara.

  “She’s doing okay,” Lara answers. “Everybody is always so worried about Paige. I’m coping here, too,” she mumbles.

  “Of course I want to know how you’re doing, too, honey. I thought because you’re the big sister and all …”

  “Sid, lemme ask you a question,” I say suddenly. “Why don’t you get your medication from the VA Hospital?”

  “What? My money’s no good here?” he asks.

  “What money?” Lara mutters.

  “All I’m saying is the Veterans Affairs Hospital is literally one town over and you’d get most of your meds for free.”

  “It’s a hassle,” he says, swatting the idea away like a fly.

  “Uh-huh,” I patronize him.

  “I’m not going to make Cookie drive me there every time. Plus I don’t like their doctors,” he complains, “and they force those generic pills down your throat.”

  “The horror!” I yell, pushing past Lara to get ointment from the far corner. “If you change your mind, I’m here for you, Sid, and I’d be happy to drive you.”

  The walkie-talkie clipped to my belt belts out a loud irritating beep.

  “Andy, Manny, this is Manny. Over,” he yells over the two-way radio.

  As if he could be Andy.

  I unhook it. “Go,” I tell him.

  “So I’m doing my deliveries, and I get to Ada Winchester’s house, and I realize that I haven’t got her osteoporosis pills,” he says.

  Only now do I realize that I forgot to refill Ada’s prescription. I press the button on the radio and apologize, “Sorry, the day got away from me, Man.”

  “Yeah, well, she was pretty upset,” Manny says. “She kept saying: ‘Where’s my Boniva?’ ‘I need my Boniva.’ ‘Boniva this and Boniva that.’”

  I tell Manny that if he comes back now I’ll give him the pills.

  “That’s just it. Okay, so don’t be mad, but I’d just picked up a bunch of Boniva samples at Dr. Platt’s office and they were just sitting there on the seat.”

  I frantically search for the volume button and turn Manny down, missing the last part of what he says. I’m trapped—whether it’s coincidence or on purpose, Lara is cutting off my only exit, and she’s doing everything in her power to eavesdrop. I huddle in the corner. Cupping the speaker, I slowly turn up the volume. Manny is still talking.

  “Stop talking,” I whisper loudly. He does. “Please don’t tell me that you gave Ada Winchester drug samples. Please, Manny, I’m begging you.”

  “Not all of ’em,” he insists. “Just a box of twenty-four.”

  “Are you serious?” I cry. “People are supposed to take those pills once a month! You just gave her a two-year supply.”

  “Aw, crap.”

  But we may have bigger problems. I jam the walkie-talkie in my pocket.

  “Move,” I tell Lara.

  She steps away from the pharmacy computer terminal and I feverishly punch a few keys. Janus, I ask, does Boniva come in different dosages? Janus scours her memory banks. Please, please, please. Manny’s muffled voice emanates from my pants. No, GlaxoSmithKline only makes Boniva in one dosage, Janus tells me. Ada is safe. The samples match her prescription.

  I burrow myself back in the corner of the room.

  “What do you want me to do?” Manny pleads.

  “No more deliveries for you. You’re cut off. Return to the mother ship. Repeat, return to the mother ship,” I tell him, turning the radio off.

  “Andrew!” Lara yells, urgently. “Can you stop doing whatever you’re doing? You have a customer.”

  Waiting for me at the register is Brianna McDonnell. She has a Blue Cross of California white plastic clipboard tucked under her arm. She smiles at me with those big brown eyes and perfectly tweezed eyebrows.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” she says back, with an awkward pause. “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, totally,” I try.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Indubitably.” All of a sudden I’m the Queen of England.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Brianna begins. “I was heartbroken to hear about Gregory.”

  Brianna leans in closer than I’m comfortable with. I love the way she smells. I quickly check to see if Lara’s watching, and she is.

  “I still can’t believe I’ll never see him again. That I’ll never pester him again,” she kids.

  “We all miss him,” Sid chimes in from the lunch counter.

  Lara comes up behind me.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” Lara says.

  “Brianna, this is Gregory’s spinster daughter, Lara Day,” I tell Brianna.

  I don’t say the spinster part.

  The two of them shake hands.

  “Is this your fiancée?” Brianna asks.

  Lara, Sid, and I shout no in unison.

  “Brianna is from Blue Cross of California,” I tell Lara.

  “I knew your name sounded familiar,” Lara says. “I have at least three letters with your signature on them. We owe you some paperwork.”

  “I was crazy about your father,” Brianna says. She puts her hand on her hip and adjusts her crooked stance. “You could tell he really cared about his customers.”

  Lara thanks her.

  Cookie stops in her tracks as soon as she lays her eyes on Brianna. Cookie creeps closer, like Brianna’s an endangered species.

  “Brianna, here, oversees all the insurance claims for the pharmacy,” Sid informs his wife delicately.

  “Why don’t you stand up straight?” Cookie demands. “I’m decrepit with scoliosis and a cane, and I still have better posture than you. You’re a spring chicken. What are you, thirty-four?”

  “Twenty-six,” Brianna says.

  Cookie drops her shopping basket, leans her cane against the shelves, steps up behind Brianna, and places both of her hands on Brianna’s shoulders.

  Brianna cringes.

  “See,” Cookie says, pushing down hard on the left side as if she can even them out with a little force. “You’re all lopsided.”

  “What the—” Brianna screams, lopping off the expletive.

  Then Cookie clamps on to both of Brianna’s arms, squeezing and shifting them up and down like udders.

  “Please don’t touch me,” Brianna commands Cookie, breaking away. Her eyebrows point inward like little daggers. “I have chronic back problems.”

  “Mankind takes thousands of years to evolve, so how is it that in the last ten years, everybody now has ‘chronic back problems’?”

  “It’s a slipped disk.” Brianna’s all offended. “I’ve had my back examined.”

  “You should have your head examined,” Cookie tells her.

  Brianna’s finished mollifying Cookie. She turns her back to Cookie and asks whether there’s any chance Lara could get her that paperwork.

  I subtly check with Sid on whether Brianna’s request is reasonable. His eyes widen and he slyly shakes his head no. So this is why Gregory was so unwilling to cooperate with Brianna in the past. This is why he was so annoyed with me the day I offered to give Brianna the records—the very same day I proposed to Paige. If my yell-fest with Manny didn’t spill the beans on our little sam
ple sale, then I’m guessing Gregory’s records will.

  “If you tell me what you need, I’ll start putting the documentation together for you now,” Lara assures her.

  Brianna starts digging through her portfolio.

  “Wait, wait, wait!” I yell, but it’s too late.

  None of us sees this coming, especially Brianna. Cookie has helped herself to a tube of Aspercreme. I can smell the menthol from here. She’s squeezed out a heaping pile of goop, and in one swift motion, Cookie lifts the back of Brianna’s blouse and slabs the medicated gel all over it. In that split second, I get a brief glimpse of Brianna’s lacy white bra and tan, flat tummy. Brianna is mortified and more concerned with covering up than anything else.

  “Why are you torturing me?” Brianna screams, adjusting herself. “Ah!” she yells as her clothes cling to the ointment. “This is silk,” she says, pulling at the material. “You’ve completely ruined it.”

  “Who told you to pull your blouse down so quick?” Cookie yells.

  “Get out!” Lara screams at Cookie louder than any Day has probably ever yelled in this pharmacy, which is saying something.

  “I’m so sorry,” Lara tells Brianna. “We’ll pay to have it cleaned.”

  Cookie grabs her cane and points at Brianna forcefully. “You’ll see. By tomorrow your back will be all better,” Cookie insists.

  Was Cookie actually trying to help Brianna or help us get rid of her? It’s hard to tell. Probably a bit of both.

  “Basket!” Cookie commands.

  Sid slowly lowers himself off his stool, walks over to Cookie, and hands Cookie her shopping basket of goods.

  “I’m so sorry this happened,” I say, trying to comfort Brianna softly. “That woman is crazy in the coconut.”

  “I’m fine.” But she’s not. Brianna is on the verge of tears. “I’m going to leave now,” she says.

  But she can’t, not with Cookie standing in her way.

  “Loki, sweetie,” Cookie coos.

  But Loki doesn’t come.

  “We’re having a party in six weeks,” Cookie announces to the room. “It’s our sixtieth wedding anniversary,” she says proudly. “Sidney rented The Old Homestead and there will be chocolate cake. You’re all invited. Even you, skinny,” Cookie tells Brianna.