At least, as shown in statistics.
“You know what I wish?” Finn started mid-conversation, no greeting, no pleasantries. “I wish we could be flies on the wall in there, listening to the intake interviews, the screening process, the counseling. I know, I know, privacy codes don’t allow it.”
“And right now there are probably no students in the clinic for counseling. I looked at the intake for the past two weeks, and not a single one. Students are coming in for strep tests and earaches and STDs. But our counseling center has tumbleweeds blowing through.”
He gave a laugh. “I’m glad you see the humor in it.”
She didn’t. Cho hated being wrong. It had been a weakness all her life. When her parents chastised her for making careless mistakes, when her older sister teased her for making a mistake in her math homework. “Wrong. Wrong. What’s the matter, Sydney? Did you forget to wake up your brain today?”
“You’re beginning to recognize that it’s not working for us,” Finn said.
“That’s what the students are saying.” It was so hard to budge when your self-esteem was tied to being correct.
“Okay, then.” Finn swung the door out and held it open for her. “Let’s take a look and see just how bad it really is.”
The waiting room with standard-fare vinyl seats was half filled with students looking bored and deflated. Most of them stared at their phones. Two had a laptop open and one was reading a book. Cho spoke with the receptionist, saying she had an appointment to meet with Dr. Dreyfus.
“He’s seeing patients now. What’s this in reference to?” asked the young woman, probably a student. She was perky but persistent.
“Tell him Dean Cho is here.”
Ms. Perky straightened in her chair at that. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned to the other woman working behind the counter. “Do you want to tell him?”
“We’ll wait until he’s finished with his patient.” Cho didn’t want to throw her weight around, but she wasn’t going to waste time here. Shouldn’t an appointment time be respected? Dr. Dreyfus was the director of the clinic. Were they that short-staffed?
She turned back to Ms. Perky. “How long do most students have to wait to be seen?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes, if they have an appointment.”
“If not?”
“It depends on how busy we are. For walk-ins, it’s usually an hour, maybe—”
“Dean Cho. It’s good to see you. Let’s go back here and talk.”
In the small, generic office with a scuffed floor and one fluorescent bulb buzzing, Cho introduced Scott Finnegan to Harvey Dreyfus, a thirtyish man with brown curls tumbling over his collar and rubber-soled shoes that could have used a shine. Well, she wasn’t in Boston anymore, and maybe the West Coast kids liked Dr. Dreyfus’s casual style. Furthermore, she wasn’t in a position to review his work. When she had been hired, the board had stipulated that she was to focus on mental health, specifically suicide prevention, and she had. But now, watching this operation, she was beginning to wonder about the integrity of the entire health facility. It was supposed to be running smoothly with the other dean of health out on maternity leave, but it didn’t take a degree in hospital administration to see the shortcomings.
Maybe they’re just having a bad day.
“I’m sorry if we caught you at a bad time,” she said. “As we discussed, Finn and I are here to review the procedures for treating students who come in seeking counseling.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I have the questionnaire right here.”
“I have a question.” Dr. Finnegan leaned in. “If students drop in with a problem, maybe depression, or maybe they’re considering suicide, how long do they have to wait out there?”
“If they don’t have an appointment, it depends on our volume. Generally, they’ll have to wait thirty minutes or more.”
“Do they get priority?” Cho asked. “Do you perform some sort of triage?”
Dreyfus folded his arms. “We’re not an emergency room.”
Finn frowned. “That’s unacceptable.”
“We do our best.”
“No one’s blaming you.” Cho had a talent for keeping her cool when the temperature was rising. “The broader question here is how we might better serve our student clientele. And if that means adding staff, we need to consider that.”
“I’d be down for that,” Dreyfus said, scratching the back of his neck.
Cho held back, but really, did he go to med school in a barn? He didn’t instill confidence, and he was lacking in personal grooming. And yet, he had won a spot in medical school, while her applications had been denied based on test scores, those blasted MCATs laden with chemistry and biochemistry. That was back before they had added the section on social and psychological behavior, which she would have aced.
“So let’s look at that questionnaire,” Finn said.
Dreyfus handed them each a form. “We haven’t done any psych evals for the past month. We used to get a spike during midterms, but not this year.”
Cho wasn’t surprised, considering the student complaints against the clinic. She glanced down at the page, a two-column list of questions:
Do you cut?
Do you binge eat?
Have you experienced a loss of appetite?
Are you a compulsive shopper?
Have you ever shoplifted?
Do you have trouble sleeping?
How many hours a night do you sleep?
Do you feel tired all the time?
Cho felt tired just from scanning the list of questions. She had reviewed the form before, but now, seeing it with a new perspective, she couldn’t imagine trying to tackle the questions while in a depressed state. “It’s daunting.”
“But necessary. The provider goes over the answers with the patient to determine level of risk. If the patient is a significant suicide risk, we admit them to the hospital in Mount Hood. Otherwise, they’re counseled and given referral information for private therapists and suicide hotlines.”
“It doesn’t give the student much choice, does it?” Finn said. “If you come in here with a serious problem, maybe clinical depression, you’ll be pushed out of the university, unless you can come up with the dough for therapy.”
“Well, they do get one free therapy session out of it,” said Dreyfus.
“Just enough to verify the crisis. What would it take to set up free, long-term counseling for these students?” Finn asked. “A chance to meet with a mental health professional once a week to discuss coping skills and learn techniques to manage stress? A safe place to bring up emotional issues and learn how to increase self-esteem.”
“We don’t have the staff for that.”
“Then what would it take? Hiring more staff? A larger facility?”
“I don’t think that can be done at a university.”
“But it is. Some colleges offer free counseling to all registered students. They’ve made significant progress in making students feel integrated in the health center.”
“Really? It must cost a fortune to cater to individual students that way.” Dreyfus crossed his legs with a laugh. “Personal therapy for free. That’s pampering.”
“I see it more as a way of protecting the university’s most valuable resources: its students,” Cho said. It was becoming clear that Dr. Dreyfus’s scope needed to broaden on this matter. Actually, there were quite a few adjustments that needed to be made at the student health center.
Starting now.
CHAPTER 27
In the damp, cool November days that followed, as I watched my back and helped my sisters hold it together, I tried to focus on the task force. It was an effective distraction between worrying about the police and the killer on the loose. Seeing Dr. Finn in action, I learned what could be accomplished by breaking the rules. When the university told him to hold on, he found a way to make things happen immediately by working behind the scenes, calling in favors, improvising. Dean Cho seemed to be h
elpful in getting him what he needed, though I was still not a fan of the woman who seemed to be focused solely on her own business success.
We worked together on the task force for nearly two weeks before people started heading out for Thanksgiving weekend. In that time we had come up with a list—a platform, Dr. Finn called it—of recommendations, but we were still researching some options and shaping ideas. The Tuesday night before the holiday, Dr. Finn invited everyone to his office for a break, and people actually showed. When Rory and I got there after class, people were still hanging out, talking about their holiday plans and classes. Non-task-force stuff.
“Hey, guys,” Dr. Finn called. “Come on in. Grab a slice.”
Rory and I wove between Evers and Chase to get to the boxes on Dr. Finn’s desk. There was still some pizza left, along with a Caesar salad that looked crisp and green.
“Mmm, is that artichoke on the pizza?” I pulled a slice onto a paper plate and added salad.
“Was that your last class?” Stephen asked me.
I nodded as I swallowed. “Anatomy lab. I thought it would never end.”
“You’re in Anatomy?” Kath put one hand on her hip. “Don’t tell me you’re cutting up human bodies.”
“We are,” I said. “At least, we were thirty minutes ago.”
“Are you premed?” Chase asked.
“Nursing major.”
“And they make you dissect human cadavers?” He seemed surprised. “Whatever happened to cats?”
“Gross.” Kath made a choking gesture. “I used to want to be a doctor, but the human dissection was too much for me.
And as a fan of The Walking Dead I can tell you, those badass corpses are relentless.”
“Are they scary?” Suzie asked me.
“It’s not so bad now. We try to be respectful, and really we’re looking at structure, muscles, and bones. But one of them, we named her Elsa, she appeared in my nightmares for a while.”
“Oh my God!” Suzie covered her face as the others reacted with laughter.
That’s the thing about the dead: They evoke extreme emotions. You either laugh or you cry. Moving on to something more uplifting, I said, “So you guys are done with classes, too? Everybody going home?”
“My mother is picking us up in the morning,” Stephen said, indicating that Suzie was with him. “Just back to Beaverton for turkey.” It was a good-sized suburb west of Portland.
Kath was going to Vancouver to have dinner with her father, and then Portland to hit some clubs with friends. “But I’m coming back Saturday, because I can’t stand the Sunday traffic.”
Calliope was taking the bus down to Roseburg—a four-hour drive—and Rory was carpooling to Bend for a weekend at home. Evers and Chase were taking the shuttle bus back to Portland.
“What’s up with you?” Calliope asked.
“I’ll just be hanging here.” With all the demands on my time in the past few weeks, I had some papers to write, and I was looking forward to having the suite at Theta House to myself. Defiance was cool with it, and my father was glad to be off the hook.
“What the hell, Orphan Annie,” Evers teased me. “Left at the orphanage all alone?”
“And you.” Kath smacked Rory’s arm. “Step up and bring your girlfriend home for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“I offered. She declined.”
“But they haven’t caught the dude that pushed your friend off the bridge,” Evers said. “Are you staying in a safe place?”
“I’ll be fine.” I doubted that Lydia’s killer was coming after me. “And I’ve got a few sisters to hang with,” I said, smiling up at Rory. There were too many stressors involved in going home with him this early in our relationship. The parental approval thing, the question of sleeping together under his parents’ roof or pretending to be chaste in separate beds while we sneaked around. And I knew he had some friends in Bend he wanted to catch up with. Also, the prospect of snow in the forecast would send him up to the mountain, and I didn’t have the money or interest in learning snowboarding right now.
“How about you, Finny-fin-fin?” Kath asked.
“I’ll be here, laying low. I’ll see my son on Thanksgiving.”
“Is he old enough to care about a turkey dinner?”
Dr. Finn shook his head. “More of his dinner still ends up on his bib than in his mouth. But we’ll go to the park or something.”
“We’d better go,” Stephen told Suzie. “We’re leaving early in the morning. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”
We all called our good-byes as they headed out. At the door Stephen faced us, a deadpan expression on his face. “And may the task force be with you.”
It had become our inside joke.
“May the task force be with you!” we answered.
“Jesus, we are a bunch of nerds!” Kath said.
* * *
With no classes on Wednesday, today had been getaway day, and though it was late, the Greek Row was still buzzing as Rory walked me back to Theta House. As soon as I dumped my stuff off, we were going to play some pool at the student union, and then spend some time in his room. Rory held his skateboard in one hand, my hand in the other. The lane in front of the frat and sorority houses was crammed with double-parked cars as people loaded up their gear to head home for Thanksgiving. Parents lingered by their cars or milled around on the front lawns of the big houses, some of them chatting while they waited to drive their kids home.
That would have been my mom if she were still alive. She would have been helping girls move their stuff and making jokes about being an Uber driver. As we passed Rory’s house, some Omega Phi brother holding a chunky upholstered chair nearly fell out of the front door.
“Whoa, man.” Rory rushed over to the steps to help. “I got the front,” he called, pressing his back into the brushed corduroy and grabbing the frame behind him.
Calling instructions and moving slowly, the two guys maneuvered the chair down the steps and onto the walkway. Somewhere in the operation I realized the other Omega Phi was Charlie Bernstein, whose face was now beet red and damp with sweat.
“That is one heavy mo-fo,” Charlie said.
“How the hell did you get it in?” Rory asked.
“The brothers helped.” Charlie explained that he had thought he’d use the chair, but it was too much of a space sucker. “Taking it home now. Thought I could do it on my own.”
“I’ll give you a hand loading it up.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
As Charlie went to get his car, I tapped on Rory’s arm. “Come on, dude. This is the time to ask him about the money.”
“Out here?”
“Go with him to get the car. He owes you now. Just go.”
“You’re so demanding, woman,” he said, but he left his skateboard with me and jogged down the block to catch up with Charlie.
The temperature was dropping, but it was dry, so I perched on the half-brick wall that rimmed the Omega Phi lawn. I sat there scrolling through Instagram as I watched the scene on the street. Everyone was in a good mood, that adrenaline at the beginning of a holiday.
When a hot metallic-blue BMW rolled up in front of the frat next door, guys started hollering and cheering. I looked up and saw the guys ogling the car and high-fiving the driver, Graham Hayden. If there was any doubt of ownership on the beamer, the license plate HAY YEAH, Senator Hayden’s previous campaign slogan, confirmed it. The Gamma Kappa brothers were mocking Graham for having an expensive car, joking that he’d stolen it from his father. Graham took it in stride, smiling and locking the car so the guys couldn’t climb in. He pretended modesty, but you could tell he liked the attention as he hung near the car, buffing a mirror with the hem of his T-shirt. Although he wasn’t a big guy, Graham was pumped. His usual wardrobe of shorts and a skin-tight jersey made that clear. He had a warm smile, and a thick head of dark hair that he kept perfectly styled, heavy on the top, smooth on the sides. It was no wonder that girls swallowed back sigh
s when he walked by.
Of course, Lydia had chosen a guy who was a Gamma Kappa. It was known as the rich guys’ fraternity, sometimes called “Gown and Cappa” since its members had wealthy parents who could buy them a degree. At least, that was what people thought.
I knew that Graham had been interviewed by the police when they expanded their investigation of Lydia’s death. Had they pressed him about their relationship, the way they had stuck it to me, or did they let him off easy since he was a soccer star and the son of a U.S. senator?
Graham’s name had been on the list that Tori, Violet, Courtney, and I had put together for the police. Tori had been snotty about doing it at first, but Detective Turner had told us that if we didn’t do it based on her request, we would be subpoenaed. That had changed attitudes quickly.
I’d been the “recording secretary,” typing names on my laptop. Much of the time, Courtney had been talking the guys up, saying how they were so hot or so nice to her. “Can’t we leave his name off?” she asked more than once. “I don’t want him to get into trouble.”
“The only way this will get him into trouble is if he killed Lydia,” I said, resisting the urge to add “dumb-ass” or “stupid idiot.” I used to think it was an act with Courtney, but lately I had come to realize that the source didn’t matter. The result was always moronic.
Just then Charlie’s car pulled into the Omega Phi driveway, and the guys popped out and made quick work of loading in the chair. In a minute, Charlie was thanking Rory, and we were on our way once again.
“So?” I wanted to skip backward in front of Rory to get the full story, but I held back. “Did he tell you?”
“He was paying for an abortion.”
“Wait. What?”
Pretty, Nasty, Lovely Page 18
