Suicide Med

by Freida McFadden

  “Oh,” she says. “Is, um, Mason here?”

  Why is she looking for Mason? She hardly talks to him, even in lab. She seems to almost hate him, based on the comments she’s made.

  “No,” I say. “He’s probably at the library.”

  “Oh,” she says again. And then her face crumples.

  “Heather…” I follow her to our futon, where she collapses into deep, wracking sobs. She buries her face in her small hands and I rub her shoulders to comfort her. Comforting Heather is definitely not a chore. I feel sleazy though about using the fact that she’s sad as an excuse to touch her. Then I feel like a tool for feeling sleazy.

  “Seth broke up with me,” she blurts out between tears.

  Seth broke up with her? The asshole boyfriend is out of the picture? Holy shit, that’s the best news I’ve heard all year. Except…

  Why the hell did she come here looking for Mason?

  Of course, the answer is painfully obvious. She was hurt that her boyfriend dumped her and she was looking for a little rebound hook up. And the first person she thought of was Mason. Mason. Not me. I’m probably not even on her short list.

  Shit, if Mason were here right now, they’d probably be in our bedroom hooking up right now. Well, maybe not. Mason wouldn’t do that to me. But just the fact that it was even a remote possibility makes me sick to my stomach.

  Mason’s the biggest asshole in the class and Heather wanted to hook up with him. There’s probably a lesson in that. If I want Heather, I should be a jerk to her. Being a nice guy is getting me nowhere.

  But the truth is, I don’t have it in me to be mean to Heather.

  Still, Mason’s right about one thing. It’s time to grow a pair. So I lean forward and before I have a chance to chicken out or overthink things, I kiss her.

  “Abe?” she gasps for a second before she melts against me.

  And Christ, her lips are so soft. Her lips and her skin are the softest things I’ve ever touched in my entire life. How can I be expected to think straight when she’s so goddamn soft? And… here’s the crazy part… she doesn’t slap me. She doesn’t pull away either. Against all odds, she’s kissing me back. She’s surprised, but it turns out she wants me too. Not as much as I want her, but that’s pretty much impossible.

  Just like that, she’s mine. It’s everything I ever wanted.

  And I’m not going to let anything screw that up.

  Chapter 30

  Dr. Martin Adamsky is one of the most talented plastic surgeons in the area, so it takes me a few weeks to get in for an appointment. I want to get this taken care of as soon as possible, but at the same time, I don’t want it mucked up.

  Dr. Adamsky’s waiting room looks like a spa. The chairs are plush and leather, and there are fancy cookies on the coffee table in the middle of the room. I look around at the other patients and try to guess what each one is here for. It’s harder than you’d think. I look at one girl, who is tall and thin with sleek dark hair, big boobs, and tanned skin, and I can’t even begin to imagine what she could hope to improve with plastic surgery. Maybe she’s post-op.

  After close to an hour, I’m ushered into the examining room, which ends up being just another smaller waiting room. I change into the flimsy gown that the nurse gave me. The room is cool, but I almost never feel cold. I’ve got a lot of extra padding on me. Heather sometimes says that hugging me is like putting on a really cozy, warm coat.

  I’ve probably been waiting close to two hours total when Dr. Martin Adamsky enters the room. He’s a slim, tall man with an arrogant air about him. Adamsky’s white coat seems to glow in the fluorescent light of the examining room and he yanks my chart off the front of the door.

  “Abraham Kaufman?” he asks.

  I nod.

  Without looking at the chart, Dr. Adamsky grins at me.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “Liposuction?”

  I hate this guy already. If he weren’t so good and I wasn’t so desperate, I’d be out of here in a second.

  “No,” is what I finally say.

  Adamsky decides to actually look at my chart rather than just insulting me. I watch his face, his jaw falling open.

  “You’re serious about this?” he says.

  I nod again.

  “I have to admit, this is a new one for me,” Adamsky says. “I’ve never even heard of anything like this before.”

  I’m not exactly surprised, but it’s not the sort of statement that instills me with confidence.

  “Well, let’s have a look,” Adamsky says.

  I take a deep breath. I turn so that my backside is facing the doctor and open up the back of my gown. I wait for Adamsky’s response, which is, unfortunately, exactly what I had expected:

  “Whoa. Look at that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Okay, enough.

  “Can you… control it?”

  I shake my head. “No, I can’t.”

  “So it just moves on its own.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Jesus.”

  I crane my neck to look back at the doctor, who is scratching his chin.

  “So can you remove it?” I ask.

  Adamsky shakes his head, “I don’t know. Have you ever considered going to an ophthalmologist?”

  I’ve been tolerating Adamsky so far, but that statement just floors me. I yank my gown closed in the back.

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke? What’s an ophthalmologist supposed to do?”

  “Look,” Adamsky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I remove wrinkles around the eyes. I don’t remove eyes.”

  “It’s not an eye,” I say, “it’s a… a deformity. A mutation. It’s a…”

  “It’s an eye,” Adamsky says. “Let’s not kid ourselves here. If you want it removed, we have to at least know what we’re dealing with.”

  “Okay, fine,” I agree grudgingly. “It’s an eye. Now take it off me.”

  “Not so fast…” the doctor holds up his hand. “I know you say you can’t control it, but something is making that eye move and I’d like to know what it is. If I’m going to do a surgery on you, I don’t want there to be any surprises.”

  I’d do the surgery that afternoon if there were an open slot, but I can see that Adamsky is set in his decision.

  “What do you have in mind?” I ask.

  “For starters, I’d like to do a CT scan of the area,” Adamsky says. “Find out if there’s anything else down there.”

  What is he expecting? A nose and a mouth?

  “Okay,” I agree.

  “And one other thing,” Adamsky says, “there are some patients who I strongly recommend see a psychologist before undergoing any kind of surgery. In your case, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable performing the surgery without you attending a few sessions.”

  Christ, I don’t want to see a shrink. I don’t think I need a psychologist just because I want the eye removed. I’d need a shrink if I didn’t want it removed.

  “There’s a counselor at my school,” I say, thinking of Patrice. “I can probably talk to her.”

  “Good,” Adamsky says. “Try to make an appointment as soon as possible.”

  “Okay,” I mumble.

  Adamsky shakes his head.

  “Jesus,” he says, one last time for good measure.

  Chapter 31

  Nobody at school likes Patrice. I don’t know why exactly. There’s something kind of patronizing about her—it’s hard to put my finger on it. But Adamsky wants her to sign off before I have my surgery, so I guess I’m going to get my head shrunk.

  Patrice is in her early forties with brown hair in a pixie cut and long legs. I guess she isn’t bad looking, but I don’t find her remotely attractive. Her office consists of several shelves of alternating books and dolls. (Why dolls? We’re not children. I swear to God, if we do any role playing with Raggedy Ann, I am out of here.) She has a small desk in the corn
er of the room, but she sits in a chair that faces a sky blue sofa. When I sit down on the sofa, I feel myself sinking down into the cushions to the point where I worry escape might be difficult. Maybe that’s the point.

  “I want you to put yourself at ease,” Patrice says. “I want this to be a safe environment for you.”

  I nod. I wish I were anywhere but here.

  “Tell me, Abe,” Patrice says. “Why are you here?”

  Because Adamsky made me come. But I can’t say that. I have to tell her the truth—I can’t do anything to blow my chances of getting the eye removed.

  “I’ve been thinking about having… surgery.”

  “Surgery?”

  “Plastic surgery.”

  Patrice’s eyes widen. She looks me over, probably wondering what kind of surgery I’m going to have. If she guesses liposuction, I might lose it.

  “I don’t really believe in psychology,” I admit. “The surgeon, Dr. Adamsky… he made me come here.”

  “Well, thank you for being honest,” Patrice says.

  I try not to roll my eyes.

  Patrice crosses her long legs, “Tell me, Abe. How long have you been considering having plastic surgery?”

  “My whole life,” I say.

  “Then why now?”

  I hesitate. I nearly lie or make something up, but then I figure what’s the point. I’m here, so I may as well tell her the whole story.

  “Because I met the girl I want to spend the rest of my life with,” I reply. “She’s in the class. Heather McKinley. And this is the only way it’s going to work.”

  “She can’t accept you the way you are?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  Patrice frowns and writes something down on the little pad of paper on her lap.

  “Abe, would you feel comfortable sharing with me what your surgery is for?”

  I know from experience that if I simply tell her, she’ll think that I’m trying to fool her.

  “Why don’t I just show you?”

  Patrice nods. “If you’d like.”

  I struggle to my feet, losing my balance a few times on this stupid couch. I see Patrice’s eyes widen as I loosen the belt on my pants. I’m a big guy, and for a moment, she looks frightened. Then I turn around and pull my slacks down a few inches. I hear the sharp intake of air being pulled into the therapist’s chest.

  “Oh my God,” Patrice breathes. I hear her clear her throat. “Uh… well…”

  I pull my pants back up, buckle my belt, and flop back down on the couch.

  “So go ahead,” I say, raising my eyebrows at her. “Cure me.”

  _____

  The soonest I’m able to get the scan of my back is at the end of the week. I schedule it for the end of the day, so I won’t miss anatomy lab. I feel an urgency to get this over with, knowing that now Heather and I are dating, she’s going to want to see me with my clothes off at some point. I don’t know how long I can put her off for.

  As I sit by the CT scanner, waiting for the technician to enter the room, I try to think positive thoughts. Soon this thing will be off of me for good.

  The tech is a guy in his twenties with spiked blond hair. He’s reading my requisition form when he walks into the room. He stops in mid-step.

  “No way!” he exclaims. He looks up at me. “You really got an eye back there?”

  I grit my teeth. “Yeah.”

  But from experience, I know that’s not going to be enough. The tech isn’t satisfied until he actually gets to see the eye. He proclaims that his girlfriend is going to flip when she hears about this. I half expected him to pull out his phone and request a photo.

  I’m doing this for you, Heather.

  I lie down on the table and the tech instructs me to remain very still. I close my eyes, wondering if the eye on my backside is open or closed. Most of the time, I can’t tell. It functions completely separately from me.

  Maybe it looks like an eye and has some vision properties. But is an eye really an eye if there is no brain to perceive its vision?

  _____

  My next appointment with Dr. Adamsky is first thing on Monday morning. I expect to be kept waiting in the examining room another two hours like last time and I’m rather disturbed when the plastic surgeon shows up right on time with a big smile on his face. Moreover, there is another physician with him: a gray-haired man with a thick, white beard that looked like it might be fun to stroke thoughtfully.

  “Hello, Abe,” Adamsky says. “This is Dr. Petrov. He’s a neurosurgeon and I’ve asked him to consult on this case, if that’s all right with you.”

  Alarm bells go off in my head.

  “Neurosurgeon? Why do I need a neurosurgeon?”

  The two doctors exchange glances. Petrov speaks up with a slight eastern European accent, “Abe, Dr. Adamsky tells me you are in medical school, yes?”

  “Yes…”

  “Allow me to show you something then.”

  Petrov goes over to the computer in the corner of the room and points the screen in my direction. He pulls up an image for me to see.

  “Abe, do you know how to read a CT scan?”

  I shake my head.

  Petrov toys with the mouse until he reaches the slide that he wants me to see. He then points to a round gray structure in the middle of the film.

  “This is your bladder,” he says. He points out several other gray structures flanking the bladder, “And these are muscles. Do you see this white triangular structure here? This is one of your lumbar vertebrae.”

  I nod. Where’s he going with this?

  Petrov uses the mouse to outline another gray structure behind the vertebrae. It’s gray like the muscle, but somehow looks different, less homogeneous.

  “Do you see this mass, Abe?”

  I nod and swallow hard, “What is it?”

  “We’re not absolutely positive, but we think it may be brain tissue.”

  I nearly choke.

  “What? Are you saying I’ve got a brain in my behind?”

  “Well, believe it or not, it’s not completely unheard of,” Petrov says.

  “You mean there are other people who have this?”

  He nods. “Have you ever heard of something called vanishing twin syndrome?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s actually quite common,” he says. “I’m sure you didn’t know this, but about one in eight pregnancies is a twin pregnancy. However, the incidence of twin births is much lower than that. More like one in eighty. That means about 90% of twin pregnancies result in a single birth. So what happens to the rest of those twin babies?”

  I shrug.

  “Some of them are miscarriages, most likely,” says Petrov. “But some percentage of them are most likely absorbed by the other twin, the more dominant twin. Abe, were you a large infant?”

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  I actually weighed over ten pounds when I was born. My mother had to have a cesarean section to get me out of her. When you see a picture of me next to the normal-sized babies in the newborn nursery, it’s almost comical how big I am.

  “I’m willing to bet that your gestation was a twin one,” Petrov says. “And you absorbed your twin brother in utero.”

  Great. I’m such a fatass that I ate my twin brother.

  “So it’s not that weird?” I say.

  Petrov shakes his head. “It is unusual to find such a perfectly preserved organ in the surviving twin. It’s really quite amazing.”

  “Great,” I say. “So when can we take it out?”

  “It’s not so simple, Abe,” Adamsky says. “This isn’t just like removing a skin growth. This is brain tissue. A significant amount of it too. What if we take it out and you can’t move your legs anymore? Or you become incontinent?”

  “I don’t care,” I say.

  “Or what if you become impotent?” Petrov adds.

  I stare at him. Okay, he’s got my attention.

  “You see now,” Petrov murmurs, “w
hy this is not so simple.”

  I’m losing hope. It seems like all these doctors can talk about is how dangerous the surgery would be.

  “So what am I supposed to do?” I ask.

  “Have you ever heard of Positron Emission Tomography?” Petrov asks. “A PET scan?”

  I shake my head.

  “It’s a nuclear test where we can form images based on the detection of radiation from the emission of positrons,” Petrov explains. Huh? “PET scans can detect areas of the body where there is increased oxygen. In the brain, this correlates with the areas that are most active. We use the scan to see, for example, what part of the brain is most active when you’re trying to access a memory or work on a math problem.”

  “Okay…” I say.

  “What we would like to do is try to stimulate that brain tissue,” Petrov says. “Identify what parts of the tissue light up, if any, when you’re doing different activities. If the brain tissue seems inactive, then I would feel more comfortable about removing it.”

  It’s beginning to feel like this is all a tease. Every time I come in here, there’s going to be some new test that they have to do before they can help me. And then after they do every test they can think of, they’ll end up telling me no.

  But God, if there’s even a chance that they could take out that damn eye and let me lead a normal life, it’s worth all this bullshit.

  I nod. “Yeah okay, schedule the test.”

  Chapter 32

  “Tell me about Heather.”

  Patrice is looking at me as she taps her pen against the notebook on her lap. It is really, really annoying me. I want to tell her to stop, but instead I just try to ignore the persistent tap tap tap.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, you’re having a major surgery for her,” Patrice points out. She crosses her legs. “She must be very important to you.” Tap tap tap.

  I sink deeper into the sofa, which I’m already practically drowning in. It’s hard for me to articulate what I like so much about Heather. Yes, she’s pretty and my initial attraction was physical. But there’s a whole other level to it now. I just like Heather. A lot.