Hooked

by Jaime Maddox

  Mac cleared her throat, and before she could clear her head and replace her wayward thoughts with intelligent ones, she spoke. “I could work with you. I’m not going to get you ready for competition, but I can put together a great workout, enough to make you stronger and improve your moves.”

  “Would it make me a better fighter?”

  “Jess, take a deep breath. You’ve been through a great trauma, and your instinct is to want to fight back. But that’s not necessarily the smartest thing. The smartest thing is to avoid danger. And the next smartest thing is to run. Only when you have no other choice, then you fight.”

  “Is that a no?” Jess said, her hands on her hips as she awaited Mac’s reply.

  It was just a little martial-arts training, Mac told herself. What could it hurt? She liked Jess, enjoyed their time together. Couldn’t they be friends? The Hawk case wouldn’t last forever, after all. “I couldn’t train you if you’re determined to attack bad guys. I wouldn’t want it on my conscience if I failed or if something happened to you. But I know some people who could probably help you.”

  “Okay,” she said and went back to kicking.

  Once again Mac felt Jess had kicked her feet out from under her. Why did that keep happening? What did it even mean? Why did she care?

  Mac was one of the highest-ranking women in the Pennsylvania State Police. She’d dedicated her life to her job—to training, pushing herself by running and boxing, lifting and swimming, toning muscles most women didn’t even know they had. Physically, she could do anything, handle anything that came up. Mentally, she was just as tough. Psychology had been her major in college, because she knew that was where the action was. She’d learned principles and practices of policing on the job, but her study of the mind and its pathology had been a life-long venture. The criminals she pursued never disappointed her with their abnormal psychology. They made predictable mistakes, and even their unpredictability was predictable. It sometimes took weeks, or even months, but eventually, Mac found the answers to her questions and brought criminals to trial. It was what she loved most, and it had made her life very rewarding.

  Women, on the other hand, had never been her strength. They were so much less predictable than criminals. They were emotional. Instead of cold and calculating, they were warm and feeling, and they all too often demanded her to be warm and feeling as well.

  And she just wasn’t. Yes, she had feelings, but she’d never felt the need to express them. Her parents weren’t the kind of people who doted on her and her siblings—I love yous didn’t fly across the dining-room table with the rolls and butter. Her parents loved her. They’d nurtured her and taught her the important things in life—respect for herself and family and friends, the value of hard work, how to manage money. Beside her brothers she’d learned to throw a ball—and a tackle, too. Summers at the campground were filled with adventures from morning until dark settled over the place, when her father, relaxed after his long days as a cop, told them stories by the fire. They’d listen for as long as they could sit still, which wasn’t usually very long. Then they were off again, chasing each other and fireflies through their idyllic little world, and they only gave up on the day when exhaustion overcame them.

  Sometimes, they’d see their mother before bed. Not usually, though. Nurses didn’t punch a clock in those days, and her mother stayed at the hospital until her work was done. Every morning she’d send Mac’s father off with his bagged lunch, a kiss on the cheek, and a request to be careful. He’d nod stoically and head out the door ahead of the school bus.

  She’d never questioned her parents’ love. They showed it in dozens of ways; they just didn’t talk it to death. That Mac was like them was probably her most pressing issue with women, and in the era of reality TV, it was a biggie. All everybody did anymore was talk.

  This was nothing new, not a recent self-discovery. And it was okay. She liked herself, enough to not force herself into situations and relationships that weren’t comfortable for her. Well, no relationships were comfortable for her. But suddenly, with Dr. Jessica Benson, she found herself thinking about something else, contemplating whether she might change, wondering if there was another woman on the planet with the personality of her mother, tough and tender enough to love a cop.

  As quickly as the thought entered her mind, it passed again, and she forced herself to concentrate on Jess’s technique. She had to, or she was going to find herself on her ass or drinking a mouthful of her own blood.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Jess said a few minutes later, after a few dozen kicks landed on target. “Can you show me again how to block those?”

  “You don’t take no for an answer, do you? And it wouldn’t be showing you again, because I haven’t shown you at all.”

  “That’s a technicality.”

  Mac wanted to remind her that technicalities saved lives, in both their respective professions. Something told her the reminder wouldn’t have fazed Jess at all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Maintenance Program

  If anyone had told Jess at their initial meeting that she’d be hugging Geraldine Gompers, she’d have thought they needed stronger medication. Yet here she was, at her second outpatient visit, and inexplicably happy to see her addiction specialist.

  Because of the hundred and fifty miles separating the Hartley Clinic from Jess’s home in Garden, they’d been talking on the phone twice weekly instead of meeting face-to-face. The personal meeting was necessary for a number of reasons, though. First, the DEA required that Jess submit a urine drug screen. The urine was tested for bup, to prove Jess was taking it rather than selling it on the street, and also for other drugs, to prove Jess had really been cured of her evil habits.

  Somehow she’d managed to survive the first thirty-eight years of her life without ever peeing in a cup, but now the task seemed as routine as breathing. Once she’d overcome the indignity of another human being watching her produce a specimen, the mechanics of it weren’t difficult. She rarely got any on her fingers. And she was rather proud of herself, too. Perhaps it was the next generation of Freudian psychology, but she felt really great about her negative screens.

  Meeting the doctor in person was also required to obtain her prescription, and Jess had become highly motivated to stay on bup. She was functioning like a normal human being, thanks to this medication, and if she had to drive to Florida every month to get the medication, she would.

  “My hands are clean,” she said as she hugged Dr. Gompers, wiping them playfully on her back.

  “And so is your urine, I see.”

  Jess laughed. Since the doctor had confronted her and demanded complete honesty, she’d felt a lightness of spirit she hadn’t experienced in years. Laughing with her doctor had become routine. In spite of the fact that rules governed such matters, Jess felt they were becoming friends. Under other circumstances, she could imagine hosting the frumpy old woman for dinner or at a cocktail party of their peers. Every so often, the reality that they were peers, professional colleagues, startled Jess. Because really, their doctor-patient relationship was the crux of their association. Yes, they talked intellectually about Jess’s progress, about articles she’d read about addiction and methods of weaning. In the end, though, in this office, Jess was the patient, because without the professional help Dr. Gompers could provide, she would be lost.

  “How was your drive?”

  “Uneventful. I came early, stopped at the house in Wayne, and packed some things I’d like to keep.”

  “When does it go on the market?”

  “In the next few days.”

  “How do you feel about that?” Dr. Gompers asked as she stared Jess down over the top of her glasses.

  Jess laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding! What a cheap question.” She paused and studied the doctor, who remained silent. Did she have any other clothing besides ill-fitting black skirts and sweaters? “Actually, I feel good. I’d like the money, for one. This place put a dent in my savi
ngs, and who needs the upkeep of two houses? Psychologically speaking, I’m ready.”

  “Good! That’s a good sign. Letting go of the past—all of it—is part of your healing. How’s the self-defense going?”

  “Super! I feel great about this. Empowered. And Mac agreed to work with me beyond the classes, so I can perfect my skills. I’ve been practicing at home, and I think I’ve really mastered the basics. I’m ready for more advanced techniques.”

  “Mac?”

  “Detective Calabrese.”

  “I see. Any flashbacks? Depression? Drinking?”

  “Once in a while, something reminds me of Hawk and I feel almost startled. Not necessarily frightened, but alarmed.”

  “Less often, though?”

  Jess nodded.

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. Mac says that it’s good that it happens that way, and that I learn how to work through it, because I’m going to have to face Hawk in court, and I don’t want to freeze when I see him. Have a meltdown.”

  “That makes sense. How are you working through that anxiety? All your anxiety?”

  “Oh, the usual. Two Xanax, two Percocet, and a tall glass of red wine.”

  Dr. Gompers gave her a stern look. “Is it my imagination, or are you cultivating a sense of humor?”

  “I did tend to be a little too serious in my past life.”

  “Is that how you look at it? As your past life?”

  Jess nodded as she sipped from her water bottle, and when she spoke again all the humor had disappeared from her voice. “My life was a few breaths from over. I don’t think I can ever look at issues without classifying them as before or after Hawk. I’m trying to put a positive spin on everything, though. Past life, current life.”

  “Future?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does the future hold for you?”

  “Well, I’ve learned not to take anything for granted, that’s for sure. But I want to continue to run the ER at Garden. I look forward to a lot of professional endeavors. I’m in great shape, better than I’ve been in years, and I’m looking forward to more of that. Exercising, playing golf, making new friends to play with. And sobriety, of course. Making smart choices about managing my stress.”

  “How about your personal life?”

  “Well, Ward’s in love, so nothing’s happening there.”

  “But that’s your choice as much as Ward’s.”

  Jess hesitated before answering. It had been a realization, but it was her choice. She and Ward weren’t good for each other. “Yes. My choice.”

  “That doesn’t mean you’ll never date again.”

  Jess shrugged. “It’s not important.”

  “Perhaps not. But it’s sometimes nice.”

  “I won’t exclude the possibility at some point in the future, but…I don’t know. I’d kind of like to get my addiction under control before I get involved with someone.” Jess looked out the window, wondering about a life with someone who wasn’t Ward. It was difficult, but she sensed she could handle it.

  “What do you mean? Don’t you feel like you’re under control?” Jess detected concern in the doctor’s voice.

  “Well.” Jess hesitated. What did she mean? Her addiction was under control, technically speaking. She could falter at any time, though. Slip up and fall back into the darkness. It was all about managing her stress, she thought. That, and time. Time would help strengthen her as an addict, just as it had when she’d lost her mother. Just as it was helping her let go of Ward. “I think I’d like to be in a better place, psychologically.”

  A rare smile graced the doctor’s face. “That really does sound smart.”

  “I got smarter here. Part of it was just detoxifying my brain, but I’ve learned, too. With all the reading I’ve done, and the counseling sessions, and the meetings, I’ve learned about myself and my disease.”

  “One of the mantras of AA is your lack of power over addiction. You’re a control freak. How do you feel about being powerless?”

  Jess suddenly felt exhausted. “Well, most people are powerless in the end. But I still think I’m in control of my own destiny.”

  “Do you think you can control the addiction?”

  Jess studied her, trying to understand the question.

  “Can you use drugs in a controlled manner?” Dr. Gompers asked.

  “Ah. No. That I can’t control. If I take one…”

  Dr. Gompers nodded and leaned forward slightly, gesturing with her hands. The change from her normal still posture was dramatic. “I think the key is understanding your own power, what you can and can’t control, and hopefully that helps you recognize dangerous situations so you can avoid them, or call for help before it’s too late.”

  Jess looked out the window again. She’d first gazed through its glass two months earlier, when she’d arrived at Hartley for her inpatient treatment. It was now the end of September, and the view had changed. The deep greens of the woods around the clinic were fading, replaced by yellow and gold and red on many of the trees. Her view of the world was equally different. Spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically she was not the same person that she’d been back then.

  “I wonder about control. Do we control more than we think, influence people perhaps? I keep wondering if I willed Hawk to keep me alive. I certainly didn’t tell the bastard what he wanted to know.”

  “That might have been all it took, but yes, you were certainly in control of that.”

  “I had a patient recently. An eighty-five-year-old guy who fell and broke his hip at a Fourth of July picnic. He was from Wilkes-Barre, and of course the ambulance brought him to Garden when he fell, because it was the closest hospital. Anyway, this guy was such a riot. Flirting with the nurses, demanding my credentials before he’d allow me to treat him. He made me promise him he wouldn’t die in the middle of nowhere. He begged me to transfer him for hip surgery, so he could die at home. Anyway, he made it through the surgery, and rehab, and he finally got home. He died in his sleep that night. Do you suppose he willed himself to live so he could die under his own terms?”

  “It’s entirely possible.”

  Jess laughed. “You have a really great job. Commit to nothing and get paid a fortune.”

  Dr. Gompers smiled. “Yes, I do. And as much as I enjoy our sessions, I suspect you’re going to grow tired of the drive from Garden. I propose you find a doctor close to home for your monthly medication refills, and you can see me twice a year. Have your doctor send me reports and copies of your drug screens, so I’ll be sure you’re staying on track. Then I can sleep at night with a clean conscience.”

  Jess’s eyes filled with tears. It was a strange sensation. Normally, she didn’t become too emotional. “Thank you for doing this my way.”

  When her visit ended, Jess hugged the doctor again before making her way into the crisp fall day. Her trip home was easy, little traffic to contend with and beautiful foliage to enjoy. It was late afternoon by the time she finished unpacking her car, and she settled on her couch with her computer and a hot cup of tea. Much to her surprise, quite a few physicians in the mountains were certified to prescribe her medication. One was in Garden!

  Who would have thought? While it would have made life considerably easier to see someone a mile away, Jess would never do it. She didn’t plan to share her history with the community. She dialed the number for a doctor in Scranton. It was forty minutes away, but she’d make a day of it and shop, perhaps have lunch at her favorite Thai restaurant.

  “Hi, I’d like to make an appointment to see Dr. Johannes,” she said.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Excuse me?” Jess asked as she tried not to laugh at the woman’s gruff demeanor.

  “Why do you need to see the doctor?”

  “Opioid dependency.”

  “Bup? You want to get in the program?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “She doesn’t have any openings. I can put you on the list, tho
ugh. You might be able to get in around the first of the year. What’s your insurance?”

  Whoa. The first of the year was more than three months away. Jess was sure she could see Dr. Gompers again if she needed, but she hoped it didn’t come to that. She’d try another doctor. She disconnected the call and dialed again.

  “Hi, I’d like to make an appointment with Dr. Lewiston for buprenorphine.”

  “We don’t have any openings, hon.”

  “Do you have a waiting list?”

  “The waiting list is full. Try over in Taylor, hon.”

  Half an hour later, Jess needed a Xanax. And quite possibly a few Percocet, too. She’d called nearly twenty physicians, and none had availability. With the DEA limiting the number of patients each physician could treat, the number of addicts far outnumbered the pool of providers available to prescribe medication. The patients from rehab were right—Jess was going to have a hard time finding a doctor to help her.

  Wondering if Dr. Gompers might be able to assist her, Jess decided to call Hartley. They’d helped her with so much that perhaps they could do so with this, too.

  In sync with the rest of her day, Dr. Gompers was out of the office. Fortunately, when she explained her situation, one of the nurses offered a solution. While they talked, the nurse faxed a list of licensed physicians to Jess’s home number. The list was disappointingly short, but it was a place to start.

  On the third try, Jess’s luck seemed to change. “We don’t accept insurance,” the woman told her.