by Terri Thayer
“We don’t drink milk, April,” Charlotte said.
She knew that. “It’s just an expression.”
“Oh. It’s just that Dr. Wysocki’s office called. He has a new prescription for Grizz. You know, for his snoring. We’ll go to his office and get it ourselves.”
“You will not!” April yelled. She moderated her tone. The idea of those two driving gave her the heebie-jeebies. And any cure for Grizz’s snoring helped them all. “His office is right on my way home. No problem.”
“Thanks, dear.”
April hung up. Having these two living with her was like a full-time job. She reminded herself that she too would be old one day, and hoped that someone would take care of her. She considered this paying into a fund she’d collect from eventually.
Dr. Wysocki had to be close to retirement age. He’d seemed old when April had visited their house as a kid. Violet was his only child from his second marriage. The scandal that had erupted when he’d married his young nurse seemed of another era, but everyone in town knew there were two Mrs. Wysockis and fought to avoid the awkwardness that could ensue if the two were in the same beauty salon or restaurant at the same time. Even now, nearly thirty-five years later, it was well known that Violet’s mother did most of her shopping out of town.
Their Victorian on Main Street, painted authentically with forest green and maroon and cream trim, served as both clinic and home. The doctor’s office was accessible by a side door off the wide driveway.
She let herself into the small waiting room. The air smelled astringent with overtones of unknown medicines. Despite that, she felt enveloped in a security blanket. Dr. Wysocki’s way was gentle and warm. On many visits, one touch of his hand on her forehead or one kind question was all it had taken for her to feel better.
The room’s gray carpet, salmon walls, mismatched chairs and end tables were so familiar she caught herself thinking about what flavor Tootsie Pop she’d pick on the way out.
There was no one behind the sliding window of the reception desk. The office behind the window looked deserted. The desktop was clear. Nothing in the inbox. No patient files waiting to be put back. April called out, “Dr. Wysocki?”
“In here,” was the answer. April walked through the door into a short hallway. He was in a small exam room, washing his hands at the tiny sink.
He was a tall, slender man, stooped now as he rinsed. His hair was sparser than she’d remembered, white tufts sprouting in patches out of a scalp freckled with age spots. He had on a faded white lab coat and brown, wide-wale corduroys and Hush Puppies. Except for the lack of patients, it could have been a regular day at the office.
Dr. Wysocki smiled when he saw April. He reached for paper towels from a dispenser hung under the wall cabinet above the sink and dried his hands. Once finished, he put out a hand. She stepped forward to shake, but he pulled her into a hug.
“You look well, Ms. Buchert. Very well, indeed.”
April broke off, feeling herself smile. She felt her blood pressure lower, her heart rate slow, her sore muscles relax. At the same time, she chided herself to eat better and vowed to start jogging.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“The Campbells asked me to stop by,” she said. “Some kind of . . . ?” She blanked on what Charlotte had sent her for.
He led her back to the front, picking up a bottle at the receptionist’s desk. It was marked “Sample, Do Not Sell.”
He said, “Don’t tell the drug rep I don’t have many patients anymore. The Campbells and a few others don’t want to have to find a new physician. I still get a few freebies and am happy to pass them on. This stuff is expensive.”
Dr. Wysocki handed her the bottle. This close, April could see the fatigue. The skin under his eyes was dark, bruised and painful looking. She wondered if he’d retired because of his age or his health.
“How about a cup of joe? I have this complicated espresso machine, and no one in my family likes the stuff I make. I’d love to make you a cappuccino. As good as any one you’d get in San Francisco,” he said.
April felt his loneliness. Deana could wait. “I’ll be the judge of that,” she said, following him down the hall.
His office was opposite the exam room, just behind the reception area. The first thing she saw when she walked into his office was not the fancy espresso machine but a huge picture of Violet that sat on his desk, facing out. It had to be her college graduation picture. She was beautiful, confident, smiling broadly in a manner that spoke to years of orthodontia.
So unlike what she’d looked like yesterday. What a waste.
Dr. Wysocki saw her reel from the picture. “I take it you’ve seen Violet since she came back.”
April nodded. She had no clue what to say. “I’m sorry” seemed inadequate. “I’m sorry your A-student, athletic, homecoming-queen daughter is now an unrecognizable mass of humanity” sounded worse.
“You must be wondering how that happened.”
April shrugged. She hadn’t been able to imagine what could do such damage to a person. Cancer, years of anorexia, some odd aging disease.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the tale. She’d already been with someone so sad this morning. “Take a seat,” the doctor said, indicating one of the two armchairs in front of his desk. “I’ll make you a cappuccino, but only if you promise to listen to me.”
This man had always been kind to her. When she’d thought she’d literally die of shame in high school, he’d assured her that was impossible. He taught her that having a gay dad was nothing to be ashamed of. That she would be okay. His kind words had gotten her through until she graduated early and escaped to college.
He fussed with his machine. His voice, always resonant and clear, was still strong. She had no trouble hearing him despite the fact that he had his back to her. She got the sense that it was easier for him to tell her this way.
“Right after college, Violet worked as a social worker in Philadelphia. She loved it but when she turned thirty, she decided to go to law school. She said something was missing. She wanted to be able to contribute more to society. Can you believe that?”
He shook his head in wonder at the blind faith of his daughter. The machine made hissing noises, and he spoke over the sound as he tapped cups and moved levers.
“Law school was harder than she’d expected. Full of young bucks, kids ten years younger than her. Kids that didn’t have to work for a living while studying. She struggled to keep up. It was all-consuming.”
His hands stilled, and his back curved in defeat. His voice grew softer. “She started using . . . I don’t think she knows what happened. Her memory of that time is gone.” His shoulders sagged, and he cleared his throat. He turned to face April. “I can only guess, but I think in an effort to keep up with the young guns, she tried meth. Probably just once, to study all night.”
“Meth?” When April was in college, kids used speed or caffeine pills.
He sat a cup of foamy espresso in front of her. His face was grave. She remembered this stare. She was about to get a lecture. She settled back in her chair. “Works great. Keeps you going for days a time. It’s cheap and available. Violet took to it like a puppy to her mother’s teat. Within three months, she’d dropped out of school, sold everything she owned. She stopped calling us and when we went to her apartment, she was gone. Dropped out of school, dropped out of life.”
April’s heart hurt for this man. He didn’t deserve such heartache. He’d spent his life tending to the needs of others. Healing.
His eyes closed. “We found her after a year of searching, living in a ramshackle house in a bad neighborhood. She was living with a young mother. We found two toddlers eating dirt they were so hungry.”
His complexion was gray. He glanced toward the ceiling. If April remembered correctly, the family kitchen was just above. Was Violet home? He clearly didn’t want her to overhear his painful description.
“That was four years ago. She
’s been in and out of rehab five times. We finally ran out of money and brought her home. She’s been sober eight months, but that’s not enough. It takes a year for the drug to work its way out of your system. Relapse is a real possibility.”
April had had no idea meth was so devastingly addicting. She’d read about it but had never encountered anyone directly involved. Now in Aldenville, typical small-town America, she’d been faced with the consequences twice in as many days.
Dr. Wysocki pulled an old-fashioned photo album out of a desk drawer and laid it open in front of April. It was full of newspaper clippings about the ravages of meth. Headlines spoke to its addictiveness. One article from an old Newsweek stopped her cold. Pages featured before and after pictures of meth addicts. Horrible images, women with sunken cheeks, hollow eyes with no light in them. The resemblance to Violet was uncanny.
April felt sick. The people looked like victims of a raging plague. They didn’t look alive.
Dr. Wysocki said, “Methamphetamine’s been around for a long time. It was legal once and touted as a miracle cure. It’s probably what Dr. Feelgood was serving to the Kennedys and celebrities forty years ago.”
April sipped her drink. She fought not to make a face. It was bitter. “Really?”
“Do you know how meth is made?” Dr. Wysocki asked. “It’s unbelievably easy to manufacture.”
He sat down next to her and turned to a page in his scrapbook. He’d printed out a webpage with a recipe. There was an array of the household items needed. Tanks of gas, like the ones used in a barbecue grill. Coffee filters, paper towels, rubbing alcohol, packages of cold medicine. All looking so ordinary.
“The recipes are online, for anyone to find. All the ingredients are legal, legitimate. It’s the combination that makes the drug. And the addition of pseudoephedrine, which is available in over-the-counter meds.”
April struggled to take it all in. How could something so insidious be so available? People were so fragile.
“A few years ago the government started regulating the sale of pseudoephedrine. Limited to two packs per person. Trying to stem the tide. All that did was force the buyers to travel to many different drugstores to buy what they need.”
“This is what J.B. Hunsinger did,” she said.
“You heard about that? Aldenville’s very own meth lab?”
April nodded.
“Of course, it was all over town when it happened, and I felt terrible for the Rosens. They’ve always been civic-minded people. But I was fighting my own fight. Fighting for my daughter’s life.”
He sat quietly, watching as April turned the pages in the scrapbook. Page after page of grief, horror and tragedy. Children were forgotten as their addict parents did whatever they could to stay high. She skimmed a story about toddlers searching for food, eating garbage. The more she read, the more furious April became.
It was hateful. How J.B. had been able to justify his involvement was truly not comprehensible. He had rationalized that he wasn’t directly involved. He’d only bought legal substances, but he had to have known that what he was doing was making it easy for the gang to make meth. There was no way to justify that.
Dr. Wysocki’s hand trembled. He leaned back in his chair, his left hand cradling the right. He closed his eyes. “The economy has made things worse. We used to have good paying jobs around here. We used to manufacture textiles, plastics. Union shops, with fair wages. All gone, overseas. What are people supposed to do?”
He scrubbed his eyes. “People are desperate. In my lifetime, I’ve never seen so many folks lose their homes.”
April said, “My friend Mary Lou has been buying up foreclosures.”
“That’s good. Those empty houses can attract people making illegal drugs.”
“Without heat? Water?”
“They’re animals. They stay in a house for a few months, then move on. There’s plenty of inventory to pick from.”
He leaned forward. “Tell your friend to be aware. The real damage comes later when the houses are left behind, now contaminated with the drug. The walls get infested, the water supply can be ruined, the well a pot of stewed sewage.”
April promised to tell Mary Lou. As soon as she was talking to her again.
Silence grew. April felt like the doctor’s information was overwhelming. The doctor was up against a nearly impossible foe.
He closed the book, putting it back into the drawer. April saw the distinctive shape of a gun in his desk. She drew back. How desperate would Dr. Wysocki have to be to use that?
“You and Violet were friends once,” he said. “Right?”
April nodded.
“She doesn’t have many friends here.”
April said, “We ran into each other at the IGA and the council meeting.”
“She only goes out with that woman, Paula. They met in Officer Yost’s support group.“
“Good she has someone,” April said.
“Yes, but it’s worrisome. I’m always afraid that she’ll find those kinds of people again. She needs more contact with non-addicts. I’d hoped that when she came home, she’d reconnect with her old friends here.”
So that was why he’d invited her in. A campaign to befriend Violet. She wouldn’t be able to turn him down if he asked her outright. She tried to stave off his request. “We only spoke briefly,” April said.
He shut the drawer hard. “I know she’s not the same girl. If I could show you before and afters of her brain, you’d see holes in it. She’s missing huge swaths of memory, of reason. The longer she can stay off meth, the better chance she has of real recovery.”
Dr. Wysocki covered her hand with his. “Can you hang out with her? Do you still say ‘hang out’?” He laughed, but there was no mirth. He had nothing left to give. The healer was asking for her help to heal his daughter.
She couldn’t say no, but she couldn’t imagine spending time with Violet. They had been out of touch for more than twenty years. She searched for some bone to offer him. “I could invite her over for dinner,” April said. The Campbells wouldn’t mind. “Charlotte would love for a chance to fatten her up.”
He smiled. “That would be good. She needs that. But I’m hoping for more. She needs to find something that excites her as much as taking meth. What do you do you for fun?”
“My friends and I stamp.”
“I don’t know what that is. Some kind of arts and crafts?” he asked.
“Yes. And it can be therapeutic, in its way.” April knew it sounded lame, but she did believe stamping had saved her life more than once.
“Would you mind taking Violet with you?”
There it was. The request she couldn’t refuse. April agreed. He stood and gathered her to him, patting her back. She said her good-byes to the doctor, promising to make arrangements with Violet soon.
Deana opened the door for April. “Hey, come on in. I’m sorry I don’t have much time to help you with the files. You know where you’re at, right?”
Mark hurried past. He gave her a quick smile. His tie was pulled down, and his hair had been mussed up. If April didn’t know better, she’d have thought these two had engaged in a little afternoon delight. Baby making.
“What’s going on?” April asked.
Mark was the one to speak first. “Busy day. Deana has the autopsy, and we’ve got two viewings tonight and a funeral tomorrow. Someone’s got to pick up the slack. Know anything about embalming?”
April took a step back. Deana frowned at her husband. “Not funny.”
“I’m going. I’ll be back in an hour,” he said. “Tops.”
April got out of Mark’s way and let him pass. He stopped and kissed Deana on the cheek. “Not to worry, we’ll get it all done.”
She kissed him back. April loved the way Mark balanced Deana’s seriousness with his lightheartedness. He would get the job done but without the personal toll it seemed to take on Deana.
“Let’s go downstairs. I’ll get you started, and then I hav
e to get back to work.”
“Fine with me,” April said. As they walked down the stairs, April couldn’t get Dr. Wysocki’s sad visage out of her mind. “Where’s stamping this week?”
Deana was the unofficial secretary of their stamping group, often doing the scheduling and sending out reminders. A group of true artists, they were often hard to corral. “Tomorrow night. Rocky’s.”
April remembered that Rocky had mentioned making display samples for the Ice Festival to showcase the new stamps she was designing. Stamps she had barely begun. Well, Violet would have to join in.
She turned on the lights and went to the right, to the old file room. April sighed. The pile of paperwork that she’d been dealing with seemed to have grown since the other day.
“Do you think it would be okay if I brought a guest?”
Deana looked at her oddly. “I guess. It’s not like we send out engraved invitations.”
April said, “The thing is, Dr. Wysocki got a hold of me and I agreed to bring Violet to our next meeting.”
“Violet? Is she out of rehab?” Deana asked.
“She is. Do you know what happened to her?”
“Yeah. Sad.” Deana glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Did you finish the autopsy yet?” April asked.
Deana’s gaze fixed over April’s ear. “Haven’t started. That’s where Mark is going.” She shifted and her eyes met April’s. “You didn’t tell me you were there. At the hospital last night.”
“I haven’t really had a chance. Mary Lou told you?” April asked. Her stomach tightened. She didn’t like the idea that Mary Lou had gotten to Dee first with her version of events.
“I had a long chat with her. She’s devastated, of course.”
“I’m sure,” April said.
“She’s awfully mad at you.”
April sighed. “She doesn’t have the right to be. I’m the convenient target for her heartache. I was the one who called the ambulance. I nearly saved his life. Almost. Somehow the fact that I talked to him while he was alive and she didn’t is eating her up.”
