Lovesick

by Alex Wellen

  Paige doesn’t move a muscle. Mills is uncharacteristically speechless.

  I whisper again in her ear. Mills is getting sick of this game.

  “I need to know exactly what his cholesterol levels were right before he died,” she says, repeating my words verbatim.

  The three of us stare at one another.

  “Fine!” he yells, jamming his key in the top lock to his office. “But I already know what it’s going to say: between the damage to his lung tissue and the lack of exercise, Gregory was a high risk patient for a coronary—it’s not brain surgery.”

  “Don’t you mean heart surgery?” I ask Mills.

  “Shut up,” he says, flipping on the lights and marching into the back room.

  Two minutes later, Mills comes charging out.

  “Told you!” he screams. “Gregory’s HDL was 35! His LDL 160!”

  “I wouldn’t be too proud of yourself,” I remind him. “Those cholesterol numbers are awful, especially considering you were his primary physician.”

  “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink,” he insists.

  Mills waits for a response, but clearly we don’t understand.

  “I gave him good medical advice and prescribed him the best drugs,” he says, defensively. “That’s all you can do as a doctor. You can’t blame me because he smoked for fifty years or because he didn’t get regular checkups or because he never took his cholesterol meds.”

  That stops Paige cold in her tracks. “Is that what you think?” she says suddenly. “You think he was skipping pills?”

  I take Paige’s hand. Mills flips through Gregory’s records some more.

  “It’s highly plausible,” he concludes, studying Gregory’s chart again. “He was prescribed a high-dosage statin. Statins are as close to miracle drugs as they come, and yet his cholesterol readings were way too high. These are not the numbers we associate with someone who is religiously taking their medication.”

  I study Paige. She stares blankly at the carpet. Mills slowly closes his file.

  “Sweetheart, maybe your dad didn’t feel like taking the pills,” I suggest.

  “Or maybe he thought someone else might benefit from them more,” Paige responds softly.

  “Listen, the files I have on-site don’t go back two years, and I’m not pulling that crap out of deep storage,” Mills says, reaching for Lara’s list lying on the neighboring chair. “Not this week, not with my assistant out.”

  He flips back and forth between the pages of Lara’s packet, grunting in agreement here and there. “These all seem accurate to me,” he tells us. “I’ll summarize it on letterhead. If the insurance company insists on seeing something more, let them send me a subpoena.”

  WHILE Paige and I were busy schmoozing Mills, Lara was at Mindy’s Stationery Shop copying, collating, and binding the rest of the Blue Cross paperwork. When the three of us get back to the pharmacy, Paige gets directions while Lara and I load the Vomit Mobile.

  “You’re a creative fellow,” Lara says, handing me another box. “Get creative this afternoon.”

  It takes every ounce of energy to get the last box in the tiny storage space behind the bucket seats of Paige’s clown car.

  “Listen, sister, inconsolable crying and relentless begging are not beneath me,” I tell her, wiping away sweat.

  Paige steps outside and hands me the directions.

  “You’re on your own with this one, grasshopper,” she says.

  Lara wishes me luck and heads back inside the pharmacy.

  “No,” I insist. “Come with. We’re on a roll. We’re a team.”

  “I think we need to go with our strengths here, and I have a feeling you’ll do better without me. I’ve seen how this woman looks at you.”

  “You mean like a future felon?” I ask her.

  “More like a future cellmate. Now do whatever you need to save our ass,” Paige instructs me with a wink. “Even if that includes shaking yours.”

  “I’m just a sexual object to you.”

  “ILY,” she tells me for the first time.

  I can’t believe she’s deciphered my code.

  “Yeah, I’m a genius,” she says flatly.

  Paige kisses me, long and softly, on the lips. Then I drive off into the sunset, even though I’m headed north on I-80 and it’s lunchtime.

  Between Blue Cross’s proprietary charts, historical maps, and finely tuned mortality tables, these insurance folks can smoke out a swindler in an instant. These are the same people who can predict who’s going to die of scurvy one day and get hit by lightning the next. If I don’t present them with a simple, airtight explanation, they’ll snap me like a twig.

  The Blue Cross of California building is located across the Carquinez Strait in downtown Vallejo. I park underground and unload my boxes. It’s going to take me two trips to get everything inside. With my arms full, the receptionist buzzes me in. Before heading downstairs for the second box, I tell her that Brianna McDonnell is expecting me, even though she isn’t.

  When I return, Brianna is waiting for me. She may have totally sold us out, but I’m still relieved to see that she has her job and precious medical benefits. I’m bracing for her to be contentious, angry, or plain annoyed, but she is as cheery as ever. Brianna invites me into the adjoining glass conference room.

  “Do you need me to grab a box?” she asks, seeing that my hands are full.

  “But what about your back?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she says, bending at the knees before lifting.

  We slide both boxes onto the long oak conference table. Brianna gently closes the door and politely asks me to have a seat.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you,” she begins slowly. “But I’ve been out of the office.”

  “I apologize if we put you in a tough spot. We got the letter. You probably hear this all the time, but this is all one big misunderstanding,” I swear, standing up and pulling off the tops of both boxes. I hand her an unmarked copy of Lara’s list. “For every insurance claim we filed with Blue Cross on the six drugs in question, I can provide you with a corresponding copy of the doctor’s prescription. I also have a corroborating letter from Brandon Mills.”

  “Ah, Dr. Mills,” she recollects fondly.

  “It’s all right here,” I insist, patting the files.

  “I’m sure it is,” she says. “Please sit.”

  Brianna reaches into her black leather portfolio and takes out a small map of our county. Crockett is one of a half-dozen towns highlighted in bright red. Brianna leans in very closely and explains, “You’re not supposed to see this.”

  Then why are we doing this in a glass-encased conference room?

  “My territory is all of Contra Costa County, which covers about a million people spread out over forty-five cities and towns,” Brianna explains. “Each location is color coded to reflect how heavily medicated the community is. The hot spots are in red. Sometimes a town lights up in red because the residents are exposed to a unique health risk: a nuclear reactor melts down or chemicals get dumped in the drinking water. But then other times, something else is going on….

  “El Cerrito, San Pablo, Canyon, Blackhawk, Pleasant Hill, and Crockett,” she says, referencing them one by one. “Part of my job is to figure out why so many people in those towns are popping pills.”

  “Does this map take into consideration demographics? Because you take a place like Crockett—the average age has got to be like sixty.”

  “It’s forty-two,” she says with confidence.

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Uh-huh. Like you, I was certain it was higher, too. I even pulled the latest census data to check. But sure enough, the median age in Crockett is 42.4 years old. Ten years ago, it was 45. Ten years before that, 48.”

  “Crockett, California?” I confirm.

  “How many Starbucks do you have in town?” she asks.

  “They just opened one on Second Avenue.”

  “Any ot
her chains?”

  “Potentially a Rite Aid,” I say flatly.

  “New construction?”

  “Some new lofts along the riverfront.”

  I think about it.

  “Crockett is undergoing a rebirth,” Brianna continues. “The drugs people take can tell you a lot about a town. Our records show healthy, new couples moving in. And new families.

  “Take it from me, Andy, when you spend all your time around elderly, sick people, you get a warped sense of reality.”

  I start thinking about all the people I went to high school with: the ones who stayed and the ones who came back, and the terrifying reality that so many of these delinquents have already spawned their own miscreants.

  “Our partial audit of Day’s Pharmacy only covered six drugs because those six represent more than 70 percent of all your insurance claims,” she explains slowly. “When I wasn’t getting what I needed from you, I needed something, so I began reaching out to your pharmaceutical suppliers. I spoke with reps at Merck, Simpson, J & J, and Pfizer, and … I saw a pattern.”

  I try to jump ahead of her reasoning. Dear God, she knows.

  “I noticed a major discrepancy. Basically you were claiming two to three times as many pills as you were buying. In most cases, this means the pharmacy is padding its insurance claims, but not you guys. Your doctors were prescribing exactly what you claimed. It could only mean one thing: you were getting hundreds, maybe even thousands of pills from elsewhere.”

  Maintain your composure. Bluff Sid proud.

  “Maybe you were buying them on the Internet or going to Canada, or given your money problems, maybe you were commingling legitimate pills with free samples and getting reimbursed by us for the lot. We see this from time to time, especially with the independent pharmacies. You then use the extra money to subsidize the patrons who can’t afford to purchase medicine.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Your delays, Gregory’s unwillingness to cooperate—it all started to make sense. You guys had always been so good to me, but I had a job to do, so I took the weekend to think about it. I determined that I needed to tell my supervisor. That morning, before heading into work, I had my final consultation on my back surgery. Sitting there on the examination table, waiting for my doctor to enter the room, something didn’t feel right. You know that feeling you get right before you do something that, deep down, you know is a terrible mistake?”

  I nod, soberly.

  “I remember you telling me what a big deal back surgery is, so I decided, in the eleventh hour, to get a second opinion. I still had that referral thanks to Gregory. I told the doctor it was an emergency, and seeing as I knew Dr. Mills, she was willing to squeeze me in. She and I talked about when I was in pain, but she was especially interested in knowing when I wasn’t. One occasion came to mind … about twenty minutes after that psycho lady slopped gook all over my back in your pharmacy.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I shriek.

  “Less than twenty-four hours before I’m scheduled to go into surgery, this doctor gives me a simple blood test. Five minutes later, I’m diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. I’m twenty-six years old and I have RA,” Brianna says with some disbelief. “Can you imagine if I’d gone in for surgery? In a bizarre way it was a relief: it explained why I’m always feeling so tired and achy.”

  “Rheumatoid arthritis is treatable.”

  “But not curable. My prognosis is very promising, though. Dr. Mayor has already put me on an immunosuppressant, and thankfully, our health insurance covers physical therapy. It’s been a crazy week.”

  “So you’re honestly telling me you have Cookie to thank for this?”

  “Cookie! Of course, how could I forget that name,” Brianna shouts. “Not just Cookie, but you, Gregory, Dr. Mills—you all took care of me. I couldn’t recall anyone in El Cerrito, San Pablo, Canyon, Blackhawk, or Pleasant Hill doing anything like that for me,” she says, pointing to each red city on the map.

  “That right?” I say, picking up on her playful tone.

  “I started thinking that maybe I should start focusing more of my energy on those five towns and less on Crockett. Plus, the word on the street is Day’s Pharmacy is about to become a Crockett Rite Aid,” she says. “Between your pharmacy closing, these records,” she says running one finger across the files, “and my recommendation, I have a sneaking suspicion your case will disappear.”

  I can’t believe it. “But the letter you sent said the matter had already been turned over to the authorities.”

  “As of right now, nothing’s been turned over to anyone. That letter went out automatically and it accomplished what it’s supposed to—instill the fear of God,” Brianna says. “We generally give folks an additional two weeks after sending that warning letter before actually shipping everything off to Sacramento. Truth is, opening an official case with the State can be a real pain in the ass.”

  Brianna and I soak in the moment.

  “Do you like weddings?” I ask.

  “Yes, I love weddings.”

  “Would you like to come to mine? I mean, ours. I mean mine and Paige’s.”

  “Certainly,” she answers without hesitation.

  “Oh, and do you need a date?”

  “Um, I could probably scare one up,” Brianna says, modestly.

  “Of course you could,” I say, realizing that’s a stupid question. “No pressure, but I know this one guy who would be a great date. A total teddy bear. And he’s hilarious. He also played lead tackle in high school. And did I mention he owns the biggest delivery service in all of Crockett?”

  CHAPTER 37

  Gregory’s Gift

  IN 1898, Caleb Davis Bradham was in the back room of his pharmacy toiling away on a new concoction. The North Carolina druggist was close to a major medical breakthrough, or so he thought. By combining kola nut extract, vanilla, and some rare oils, Bradham thought he could artificially replicate the digestive enzyme known as pepsin. “Brad’s Drink” didn’t work, but it sure was tasty. In 1902, Bradham renamed the carbonated beverage “Pepsi Cola.”

  At about the same time, German pharmacist Charles Alderton was busy in Waco, Texas, crafting a miracle potion of his own. This one was designed to prevent malaria. Alderton asked the man ager of the local drugstore, Wade Morrison, if he wouldn’t mind sampling the brew. Morrison took a swig, liked what he tasted, and began serving it to his customers. The carbonated beverage didn’t prevent the deadly infection, but it did become a pharmacy staple. Some think the soda got its name from the “pep” it delivered. But I prefer the version of the story where Morrison named the drink for Confederate Army surgeon Dr. Charles T. Pepper—his boss and future father-in-law.

  Had I just invented “The Gregory” soft drink before he died, I probably could have saved myself a lot of grief.

  PAIGE is extremely superstitious about when the groom sees the bride come wedding day. To eliminate the risk of bumping into each other, I offered to sleep in Aisle Nine, but Paige insisted I crash with Manny. As it turned out, Manny’s foldout couch doesn’t hold a candle to that inner tube.

  It was only after I arrived at his condo last night that I realized Manny and Paige were in cahoots. It was a surprise bachelor party. Manny’s mother, Margaret, kicked things off, preparing one of the thickest, juiciest porterhouses I’ve ever tasted. Then she retired early so Sid, Stanley, Cleat, Manny, and I could drink port wine on the porch and smoke cigars. Sid didn’t partake, but he did supply the Cubans, and the criticism: first Cleat cut the draw holes too large, then I was holding mine wrong, then Stanley chomped down too hard on his, and Manny inhaled when he should have exhaled.

  Fifteen hours later, I’m clad, shaven, and properly coiffed. I’ve got on my new black suit, a crisp white shirt, and black necktie. I look a little like a magician, or better yet, a mortician.

  Margaret Milken peeks her head in the room to tell me my ride’s here.

  “You’re Prince Charming,” she say
s, delighted.

  In one hand, Margaret has a bouquet of white tulips, and in the other, my boutonniere. With a trembling hand, she firmly fastens the red rose to my lapel. I kiss her on the cheek and we promise to see each other in a couple of hours.

  Harvey Martin is sitting curbside in his freshly waxed 1965 azure blue Impala, the same Impala that nearly ran Paige and me off the road and into a ravine two months ago. He is wearing full-on police regalia—dark shades, a short-sleeved khaki button-down, and a six-pointed silver badge. There is a walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder. Sitting behind the wheel, his belly hangs over a black utility belt.

  “Step on it, kiddo. While your best man is still breathing,” Harvey warns me.

  I squat down next to the car and sit my chin on the edge of the passenger-side window.

  He leans over. “You ready for this?”

  I nod yes, and he tells me and my flowers to take a seat in the back.

  Who would have thought back in high school that Principal Harvey Martin would eventually come in so handy? Besides ushering me to my wedding and supplying the wine, the volunteer deputy sheriff has graciously agreed to officiate at our ceremony. He only had one precondition: Paige and I were required to write our own vows—something even Paige never expressed much interest in doing.

  It was a reasonable request, especially given his gratis fee; it also didn’t take us long. I just went online, found some language we could live with, and cut and pasted it into an e-mail. The short paragraph covered the basics, among them, trust, understanding, forgiveness, compassion, peace, and, of course, eternal love.

  Ten minutes later, Harvey called my cell phone.

  “This is hogwash,” he screamed.

  “What is?”

  “These vows are balderdash.”

  “You can’t reject our vows,” I informed him, confirming this with Paige. “They’re our vows.”

  “You think I’m an idiot?” he asked. “Find someone else willing to do this quickie wedding in your price range. I asked you to do one thing. One thing. Now, do it, again, and this time, with feeling.”

  So there we sat, frustrated at the dining room table, hammering out vows we didn’t want to recite. Seeing as our entire ceremony can’t exceed a total of five minutes, all we really needed were two or three sentences each. Over the course of an hour, we swapped and critiqued each other’s drafts.