Meds

by Ray Garton

  “Eli?” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  He let go and pulled back. “What? No. No, nothing’s wrong.”

  She frowned up at him. “You’re sure?”

  Eli took in a breath and relaxed, smiled. “Positive. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  They kissed again, and she left for work.

  2.

  “Do you think he’s reconsidering?” Chloe asked Kevin. They sat in her small office sipping coffee.

  “Don’t be silly,” Kevin said. “He’s not going to reconsider.”

  “Well, something is bothering him. He stiffened up all of a sudden while we were hugging goodbye this morning. Like somebody goosed him, or something. For no reason. That and the fact that he couldn’t sleep last night—”

  ”Will you stop it,” Kevin said, smirking. “The problem is you, not Eli. You’re looking for something to worry about, like you always do.”

  Chloe sighed. “You’ve known me too long, Kevin. I think I need to replace you with a newer friend who’s not so familiar with my quirks.”

  He stood and stretched. “I’ve gotta get busy. There’s reporting to be done.”

  “What did you find out about that attack on Third Street?”

  “The guy was an insurance salesman. Name of Neil Burben. According to his ex-wife, he’s been having emotional problems for awhile. Looks like he just snapped and went on a rampage. He punched somebody in his office before running down the block and attacking that woman and her little kid. He’s not the only one, either. You read the story about the guy who shot his family last night?”

  Chloe’s eyes widened slightly as she turned to the computer screen on her desk. “I just got in thirty seconds before you walked in here.”

  “Slacker. I’ve been here for over an hour.”

  She scrolled down on the screen until she came to the story.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” Kevin said.

  Chloe’s eyes didn’t leave the screen as Kevin left the office. The incident had taken place in Henderson, a small suburb of Santa Vermelha. A frown deepened on her forehead as she read the piece aloud to herself, just under her breath.

  “James Clemens shot his wife and two sons... boys eleven and nine died... wife Molly in a coma... “ Chloe let out a heavy sigh as she wondered what the last moments of those boys’ short lives must have been like. Had their mother tried to save them? What would drive a man to do such a thing to his own family?

  The story reminded her of an incident that had taken place only a week ago in the nearby town of Whiskey Lake. A fifty-year-old man had suddenly flown into a rage and stabbed his elderly mother, his wife, and a male neighbor. The neighbor’s wounds had been minor—he’d been the only survivor—and while struggling to disarm the attacker, he’d pushed him through a plate glass door. The man who’d suddenly and inexplicably become violent had bled to death on the redwood deck outside the door.

  Chloe found stories like that at once depressing and frightening. She wondered how much went unreported, what details were missing from the brief accounts in the news. She hoped those missing details provided explanations. Otherwise, such incidents suggested that it could happen to anyone at any time—a sudden outbreak of violence ending in the injury or death of someone who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  She continued to read aloud quietly to herself. “According to neighbor Lois Hayes—”

  3.

  “—Clemens had been struggling with mental illness for awhile,” Chloe’s voice said on the radio in Eli’s truck. “Hayes said Molly Clemens had told her a year ago that her husband was in therapy and taking antidepressants. Hayes talked to KNWS reporter Kevin Stamp.”

  He was taking antidepressants, Eli thought, and he still snapped.

  Upon hearing the gunshots in middle of the night, neighbors called the police, who found James Clemens in the living room of his house. The television played loudly and all the lights in the room were on. Clemens was slumped in a recliner, dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.

  “He’d been struggling with depression for some time,” Lois Hayes said. The pinched sound of her voice made it clear she’d been recorded over the telephone. “But his doctor prescribed an antidepressant, and after that, Molly said things seemed to turn around for him. He’d gotten a new job at about the same time, and she said he loved it. Now this. I just don’t understand it.”

  As the noon news continued on the radio, Eli drove his truck to Santa Vermelha’s Miracle Hill district and pulled into the parking lot of Jade Gardens. He found Everett seated at a table with a man who reminded him of the actor Wilford Brimley in his younger days, around the time he appeared in movies like Absence of Malice and The Thing. Everett introduced them and Eli shook hands with John Falczek, then sat down at the glass-topped table set with colorful plates and red linen napkins.

  “He was a reporter for the Washington Post for—how many years?” Everett said.

  “Twenty-four years,” Falczek said. He was a heavyset man in his early fifties with a round face, a fringe of silver hair with a few remaining blond streaks around his bald crown, and a white walrus-like mustache. “Didn’t quite make twenty-five,” he added. His speech was clipped and precise. He didn’t smile and only his lower lip was occasionally visible under the large mustache as he spoke. His eyes were intense beneath eyebrows as bushy as his mustache. There was a sternness to his face as he looked Eli over like a judge sizing up a witness from the bench.

  As Eli scooted his chair up to the table, Falczek said, “Everett tells me you’re in advertising.”

  “Well, I was. And I hope to be again. But not at the moment.”

  Falczek nodded without taking his eyes from Eli. “My brother-in-law was in advertising.” One of those bushy eyebrows flicked upward as he paused for a beat. He picked up the glass of ice water in front of him. “Course, I never liked my brother-in-law.” He sipped the water, then added, “And he ended up killing himself.”

  Eli wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Everett chuckled. “Falczek has a dry sense of humor. And sometimes it’s a little dark.”

  “What brought you from D.C. to Santa Vermelha, John?” Eli asked.

  “Falczek,” he said. “There’s usually more than one John in the room at any given time, so people started addressing me by my last name ages ago. Everybody’s been calling me Falczek for so long, it never occurs to me to answer to John. I came here with my wife Sally about eight years ago. Her older sister lived here and suffered a stroke, so Sally wanted to be close by to watch out for her. I was getting burnt out and fed up with things by that time. The paper was starting to make cutbacks and I could tell even then which way the wind was blowing for the newspaper business. So I retired and we came here. I got some part-time work at the Journal and Sally was able to take care of her sister. But a year after we moved, Sally came down with cancer. She was dead in less than a year.”

  “I’m sorry,” Eli said.

  Falczek nodded. “So was I. But life goes on. I’ve met your fiancée, by the way.”

  “Chloe? Really?”

  “Kevin Stamp is a friend of mine. I met her at a party he gave once. A nice young woman, very good at what she does. Congratulations on your engagement.” Although his mouth was invisible beneath the mustache, Falczek’s fleshy cheeks lifted and his eyes narrowed a little with a slight squint, but it was brief.

  “Thanks,” Eli said. He sensed that smiles were not common from Falczek and wanted to acknowledge it, and hopefully encourage it. Without smiles—however brief and obscured they may be—Falczek was a little chilly and intimidating.

  They opened their menus and ordered lunch, then Everett said, “I haven’t learned anything new since I spoke to you this morning, Eli. Of course, I haven’t had time to do anything but see patients. I’d still be at the office if my last patient of the morning hadn’t cancelled at the last minute. I’ve told Falczek everything, though
.” He nudged Falczek with an elbow. “This guy’s a Pulitzer-winning investigative journalist, so maybe he can figure out what’s going on with Paaxone and the folks at Braxton-Carville.”

  Eli’s eyebrows rose with surprise. “A Pulitzer. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be,” Falczek said. “Al Gore won a Nobel Prize and an Oscar. These days, anybody can win anything.”

  “I thought it would be good if you and Falczek met,” Everett said. “You can exchange numbers and he can call you directly with whatever he learns.”

  Falczek said, “After I talked to Everett last night, I went online and did a little research on Paaxone. Not only is it working in ways other depressants don’t, it seems to be a pretty successful treatment for post traumatic stress disorder.”

  “That’s a recent development,” Everett said. “And an accidental one. It was intended specifically as an antidepressant, but in the last six months or so, it’s allegedly been found to be quite successful with post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. That’s the claim, anyway,” Everett added with slightly sneering skepticism. “It’s now being prescribed for that as well as depression.”

  Falczek said, “I put in a call to a guy I know in D.C., Lionel Renquist. Renny. An old friend. Well... scratch that. He’s not a friend, really, and he never was. In fact, he’s an insufferable prick. But I’ve known him a long time. He was one of my most valuable sources when I was at the Post. An unofficial source, of course. The kind of guy who’s always called something like ‘a source who spoke on the condition of anonymity’ in newspapers, except I never questioned him for publication. Only for information. The guy knows everything about everyone in town. He’s a walker.”

  Eli frowned. “A walker? He... walks dogs?”

  “No, wives. He’s an escort,” Falczek said.

  Everett said, “A male prostitute?”

  Falczek chuckled and shook his head slowly. “Oh, no, no. He escorts wives to luncheons and benefits, the ballet, the symphony, takes them to trendy little antique shops and night clubs, that sorta thing. The lonely, neglected wives of politicians, diplomats, lobbyists. A walker.” He shrugged vaguely. “That’s what everyone calls it, anyway. There’s no pay involved. It’s not like it’s a profession. Besides, he doesn’t need any pay. When Renny was still in short pants, his father came up with some kind of adhesive that revolutionized the envelope and other things that involve stickum. Made a fortune off of it. So while Renny’s inherited money is earning interest, he keeps all these lonely wives of powerful men company, helps them forget how unhappy they are. Along with keeping them company, he also acts as a sort of informal therapist. He hears all the gossip and knows everything there is to know about everybody. Sometimes even stuff they don’t know about themselves. He could probably shut Washington down if he got into a bad enough mood.”

  “I don’t understand,” Eli said. “What would he know about Paaxone?”

  “One of his dearest friends is the wife of a lobbyist for pharmaceutical companies, including Braxton-Carville. Among her friends are the wives of highly placed men in the business, including highly placed men at Braxton-Carville. It could take forever getting answers from pharmacists and distributors and public relations people at the company. You want to know what’s going on with that pill? I’ll talk to Renny. He can make one phone call and find out what color underwear Braxton-Carville’s CEO wears.”

  Smiling at Eli across the table, Everett jerked his head toward Falczek and said, “See what I mean? I told you he knows everything.”

  “Oh, I don’t know everything,” Falczek said, shaking his head slowly. “I just happen to know the people who do.”

  “Meanwhile,” Everett said to Eli, “I’m waiting to hear from my friend in Los Angeles. If he has access to Paaxone down there, I’ll have him overnight some to me right away. Enough to hold you over until it’s available in this area again.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” Eli said.

  “I left a note for Teresa to call a couple of people, see if we can’t round some up. Just in case.”

  “I thought you’d stopped prescribing antidepressants,” Falczek said to Everett.

  “I did. A few years ago. Eli’s prescription was written by his psychiatrist.”

  Eli said, “You’ve mentioned that you no longer prescribe them, but you’ve never said why.”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Falczek said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t get him started, he’ll talk all day.”

  Everett averted his eyes and shrugged one shoulder. “Too many side effects. They can make the patient’s problems worse with suicidal urges, mania, even violent behavior.” He cleared his throat and shifted in the seat. He looked uncomfortable with the topic. “Sometimes these side effects are caused by taking the drugs, sometimes by stopping them and creating severe withdrawal symptoms. My position on the topic—well, it’s not exactly my position, it comes from an old friend of mine from medical school, Dr. Tara Varadaraj. The genius of our class. She was a practicing psychiatrist but gave it up and became an expert on psychopharmacology. She’s written a few books about it, and what she has to say is pretty frightening. And it isn’t very popular, so I don’t discuss it much.”

  “That’s a bald-faced lie,” Falczek said. “You get him going on this topic, he’ll never shut up.”

  Everett chuckled. “The last thing I need is for other doctors in town to hear that I’m bad-mouthing antidepressants. I just came to the conclusion a few years back, thanks to Tara, that if my patients are going to take the risk of experiencing any of those side effects, they’ll have to get the drugs from someone else.”

  Everett’s remark brought a rush of alarmed questions to Eli’s mind—Violent behavior can be caused by stopping the drugs? he thought—but before he could ask any of them, Everett continued.

  “Besides,” he said, “there’s abundant evidence that they’re completely ineffective. Even the FDA has admitted they’re ineffective for children, as well as very dangerous, and if that’s the case, then there’s little chance they’re doing anybody any good.”

  Frowning, Eli said, “But I thought they cleared up the chemical imbalances in the brain that cause things like depression and anxiety.”

  Everett chuckled coldly. “The drugs cause chemical imbalances in the brain.”

  “Wait,” Eli said, “antidepressants cause a chemical imbalance?”

  “That’s the purpose of antidepressants—to cause a chemical imbalance in the brain. With any luck, that imbalance will mask the problem of depression, but it won’t correct it. For example, Prozac prevents the normal process of serotonin being removed from the cleft between brain cells, which causes that area to be flooded with serotonin. That’s a chemical imbalance. An abnormal one.”

  “Then... why do they keep telling us this?” Eli said. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard and read that depression is the result of a chemical imbalance that’s corrected by antidepressants.”

  Everett smiled. “The scientific name for that is ‘marketing.’ There is no scientific proof of a specific depression-inducing chemical imbalance that can be repaired by a drug. We don’t understand the brain that well yet. It’s still largely a mystery. The whole chemical imbalance thing is theoretical. Depression and other psychiatric disorders like it are connected to the mind, which is not an organ like the brain, it’s a product of the brain. It’s a nebulous construct, a complex web of factors like upbringing, environment, culture. Each person is an individual with a mind of his or her own. The idea that a single pill can repair some malfunction in the brain or the mind is a load of one-size-fits-all nonsense. It’s wishful thinking. But it’s also big business and there are hundreds of billions of dollars at stake. So the pharmaceutical companies ignore the complexities involved and market their product by feeding the public a simplified, dumbed-down theory about depression that’s simply—”

  The waitress came to the table with their lunch and interrupted Everett. As she set the plates down, Falczek l
ooked up at her and said, “I’m so glad you came. You’ve saved us all from an interminable lecture.”

  Eli checked his watch. He didn’t have much time left, but the food smelled delicious.

  As they began to eat, the topic changed to sports, then politics. The questions Everett had raised in Eli’s mind were forgotten.

  4.

  Chloe called Eli late that afternoon to tell him her sister Yvonne had gotten a date that night and needed her to babysit, and to ask if he would mind. Yvonne was eight years older, but when the two of them were together, it always seemed to Eli that Chloe was the big sister. Yvonne had two small children: Six-year-old Bethany and Thomas, four. Her husband had left her for a twenty-one-year-old girl. Now in her forties, Yvonne was in a bit of a panic that she would be unable to find a man. She was kind of shallow and materialistic—she reminded him a little of Pamela—but Eli liked her well enough.

  After work, Eli stopped on the way home and picked up some Mexican takeout and the Santa Vermelha Journal. He was a little relieved to go home to an empty house. It had not been a good day. The temperature had hit a new high, making the smoky air even thicker and more difficult to breathe. He felt foggy after his restless night, and that combined with his nagging stress over his medication had made him cranky and irritable. Meeting Falczek had been the only positive thing that had happened that day. He was an interesting and quietly colorful man. They’d traded phone numbers and email addresses before Eli had left the restaurant. Falczek had promised to pass on whatever his friend was able to dig up for him.

  Eli changed into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then sat down to dinner at the table in the kitchen. As he ate, he read the paper. Jim Clemens, the man who’d shot his wife and sons, had made the front page. He read the story, but found nothing that Chloe hadn’t covered on the radio that day. The fact that Clemens had been taking an antidepressant was mentioned only in passing.