Addiction

by G. H. Ephron

  “You say she’s seeing a therapist?” I asked.

  “Daphne.”

  “Daphne?” I was surprised, yet not surprised. Daphne Smythe-Gooding was Channing’s longtime mentor.

  “I know, I know. But she analyzed me more than fifteen years ago, and she’d never spent much time with Olivia. Besides, she’s a brilliant clinician … .” Channing’s voice trailed off.

  “But?”

  “Let’s just say the chemistry doesn’t seem to be working. Lately, seems like I have to drag Livvy, kicking and screaming, to her sessions with Daphne,” Channing said, avoiding my eyes. “Besides, Daphne’s a psychiatrist, like me. We come at this from a different angle than you would as a psychologist. Maybe ours is the wrong angle, in this case. If you spent even five minutes with her, I think you’d see things both of us miss.” She looked at me, her eyes pleading. “Nothing formal. Just a casual meeting, and then you tell me I’m being an overanxious parent.”

  I chuckled lightly, but I knew better. Whatever it was that Channing was sensing in Olivia, it was probably real. Perhaps not Asperger’s syndrome, but something with a name, and hopefully a treatment.

  “I’d be happy to see her. Informally,” I said.

  “How about this weekend?” Channing rushed on, as if she was afraid I’d change my mind if I thought about it for ten seconds more. “Saturday night. It’s my birthday, and we’re having some people over to celebrate. Olivia will be there.”

  “A party? Doesn’t seem like the ideal place to talk to her,” I said. The last party I’d been to at their house was a suit-and-tie affair, the kind a teenager would rather clean her room than attend.

  “I want you to get a fresh impression. If she knows you’re evaluating her, she’ll clam up. Say you’ll come.”

  Saturday I had plans for a quiet dinner with Annie Squires. Annie was a private investigator. For years I’d worked with her and attorney Chip Ferguson evaluating defendants, until I helped them defend Ralston Bridges, a sociopathic killer who violently objected to my diagnosis. Turned out, no one ever called him crazy and got away with it. After a jury pronounced him not guilty, he took his revenge by stalking and killing my wife.

  After that, I retired from forensic work. Permanently, I thought. But then I let Chip and Annie talk me into defending a man accused of murder. The prosecution’s entire case rested on the memory of his ex-wife, who’d survived a gunshot wound to the head. In the end, I wasn’t sorry I’d taken the case. It helped me put a few of my own demons to rest.

  “Are you free?” Channing asked.

  She glanced at my left hand. I fingered my wedding ring. “Actually, I have a date,” I said.

  “You’re seeing someone?”

  The question gave me pause. I wasn’t ready to think of myself as seeing anyone. Over the last six months, Annie and I had had a couple of dates and a bunch of near dates. A few times, she’d had to cancel because of her work. I’d had to cancel because of my work.

  Our last date had been by accident—we’d run into each other at Wordsworth’s in Harvard Square and gone out for drinks, which turned into dinner, which might have turned into something more except Annie had plans to see her sister that night. Since then, Annie’s time had been occupied working and moving her office and Chip’s to a renovated building near the Cambridge Courthouse. They were going into private practice.

  I’d been busy. She’d been busy. I knew if I didn’t get off the dime, she’d soon be getting busy with somebody else. But I wasn’t sure I was ready yet for a serious relationship.

  “That’s wonderful! Bring your friend,” Channing said.

  Visions faded of juicy grilled steaks and that bottle of Turley zin I’d been saving. Not to mention the rest of a long, empty evening waiting to be filled.

  “Please, come,” Channing said.

  “Sure, can do,” I said finally. At least I’d still be seeing Annie.

  Relief flooded Channing’s face. She took a business card from her jacket pocket, wrote quickly on the back, and handed it to me. “Here’s where we are.” I recognized that precise, backward-slanted handwriting, more printing than script. “It’s right near our old house. Saturday night. Seven o’clock.”

  I walked Channing out. We plowed through the clouds of smoke that hung under the Corinthian columns at the front of the building. Nurses and doctors who knew better were huddled there, getting their nicotine fix. We crossed the pristine grass quadrangle, flanked by five, perfectly proportioned Greek Revival buildings, holding their own in the shadow of towering modern medical buildings that crowded in from behind.

  As we headed down the path toward the parking lot, Channing had her head down. She was holding her coat together under her chin, her shoulders hunched against the cold. March in New England can be so discouraging. More cold nasty weather when we’re all good and sick of it.

  Channing gave a furtive look behind her before she spoke again. “You saw the note in JAMA?”

  “What note?” There was a pile of unread journals on my desk, including the last four issues of the Journal of the American Medical Association.

  “I’m amazed no one’s shown it to you. A team from Hopkins dismissed my research as”—with two fingers, she drew quotation marks in the air—“‘too flawed to be meaningful.’”

  In polite scholarly circles, the phrase was the ultimate insult. Her detractors—and there were many, since Channing minced few words when it came to exposing the questionable practices of others—were probably rubbing their hands together with glee.

  A pair of doctors passed us going in the opposite direction. One of them nodded and then resumed his conversation with his colleague. “They’re all talking about it,” Channing said, lowering her voice. “They’re treating me like a car wreck they don’t want to get involved in. It makes me so goddamn mad. And it’s complete bullshit. When I got a call from the team that reviewed my research, they told me their results appeared to be confirming mine. A month later, it’s like ‘Never mind, her research is corrupt.’ I want to know what happened to change their minds.”

  I smiled. Here was the old Channing, the maverick who followed her own compass—which probably explained why she’d run the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit for years but had never officially been named director.

  “What’s the study about?” I asked.

  “I was reporting the preliminary results of a pilot project—about twenty subjects. A treatment for addiction. We got patients fresh out of detox programs—they take care of the easy part, the physical addiction. Then we focus on the psychological craving.” Channing’s voice was animated and enthusiastic. “Keep them for two weeks. Treat them with a compound called Kutril.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re going to laugh. It’s actually a highly concentrated extract of kudzu, combined with Trilafon.”

  “Kudzu? Isn’t that the vine that’s devouring the state of Florida?” I envisioned a viscous green potion.

  “That’s it. Actually it’s the root that’s medicinal. The Chinese used it at least as far back as the first century A.D. to inhibit the desire for alcohol.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Completely. There had been trials with rats that showed promise. Imagine if it works for humans? Kudzu isn’t even a prescription drug! And Trilafon has been on the market for nearly thirty years. It’s cheap. We’ve got a company in New Jersey making up batches of the compound in pill form.”

  Trilafon was one of the first antipsychotics developed. It tranquilized without sedating. “What about side effects?” I asked. I recalled that was one of the reasons doctors had stopped prescribing it.

  “From long-term use, yes. This treatment is short and intensive—patients take a dose every four hours the first day. Every eight hours for a week. Twice a day for a week. Then we discharge them with a dose a day for two weeks. Then nothing. Kills the craving right from the beginning, and it doesn’t seem to return, even after the treatment i
s discontinued.”

  “What’s the success rate?”

  “We just finished analyzing the results of the full-blown study. It confirms the findings of our pilot. Eighty percent after six months. Sixty-five percent after twelve months.”

  I whistled. That was impressive.

  “The only serious adverse events we had were two patients who had seizures, which were then well controlled with Neurontin.”

  “Can it be administered outpatient?”

  “Perhaps. Eventually.” Channing glowed with satisfaction. “Sounds like a magic bullet, doesn’t it? Talk to the drug companies, you’d think it was a subversive plot to put them out of business. Acu-Med went ballistic when they heard. And oh, big surprise, one of the guys who submitted that note to JAMA used to work for them.” She gave a disgusted sniff. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he’s still on retainer.”

  “They’re probably trying to develop a prescription drug to do exactly the same thing.”

  Channing’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Peter, you’re starting to think like me. Actually, they are. Liam Jensen is running the clinical trials.” Jensen was a doctor who worked with Channing in the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit. Channing slowed down until a middle-aged couple walked past. “I’ve got most of my final report drafted. The final stats are being reviewed now.”

  “Sounds like you think they’re out to get you.”

  “You think I’m being paranoid?”

  “It’s not paranoia when you’re surrounded by assassins,” I said. “After all, you’re the one who’s still fighting greed, injustice, and the American way. I think you’ve got it written into your job description.”

  Channing didn’t smile. “How much longer, I wonder? You’ve heard the other allegations against me?”

  “I haven’t.” I tried to keep my head out of the noxious cloud of gossip that floats around the Pearce.

  “You’re probably the only one, then. They’re questioning my clinical judgment.”

  Clinical judgment—a euphemism vague enough to cover just about anything. That and not a team player were the terms used to brand those who didn’t go along or get along.

  “They’re saying that I behaved inappropriately. Got too close. Violated the boundaries.”

  I paused, midstep. “You?”

  Channing laughed. “Oh, come on, Peter. I’m not that much of a prig.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Well, maybe I am.” She took my arm and pulled me forward. “Anyway, some people find it credible. The worst part is that these allegations are being made in a way that I can’t confront them. Character assassination by innuendo.”

  We stopped near the edge of the parking lot, at the foot of an enormous concrete lion. The creature had his mouth open, his mane curling about his head as he hugged a shield emblazoned with the word Veritas. Channing glanced up at the beast and shivered.

  “Truth,” she said, spitting out the word. “I know that’s what this place is supposed to stand for. But sometimes I wonder if we’re embracing it or devouring it whole.”

  By the time I got back to the lobby outside the lecture hall, someone had disconnected the coffeepot and carried it off. I scooped up the last cookie crumbs and ate them.

  “I didn’t realize you and Channing Temple were such good friends,” Kwan said, coming up behind me. He was munching on what must have been the last Lorna Doone on the tray.

  “Actually, we met ages ago. Back when we were both undergrads.”

  “I wonder if she’ll weather the storm,” Kwan said.

  “The article in JAMA?”

  “That, and they’re saying she …”

  I held up my hands. “Don’t. I know as much as I want to know.”

  Kwan put his hands over his eyes, then over his ears, then over his mouth.

  “Right,” I said. “Besides, it’s all bullshit. And she’s an old friend.”

  “Ah,” Kwan said, as if that explained something. “She’s married, isn’t she? Is he one of the Temples?”

  “Huh?”

  “Boston Brahmins. Old money.”

  “Sounds right.”

  I knew Drew Temple didn’t have your typical day job. When people asked him what he did, he’d mumble something about managing property and financial assets. I’d always found him pleasant but distant. Part of it was the age difference—people sometimes assumed he was Channing’s father, especially early in their marriage. And part of it was just who he was.

  “Back Bay, I’ll bet,” Kwan said.

  I fished Channing’s card from my pocket. Kwan pounced on it. He whistled. “Marlborough Street. Nice neighborhood. Saturday night?”

  “She’s having a dinner party.”

  His eyes drifted over to my Harris tweed jacket. He eyed my fish tie as if it were an actual dead fish. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

  I flicked away an errant cookie crumb. “Not swank enough?”

  “Not Marlborough Street enough. This calls for a good suit. And, Peter, I know for a fact that you don’t own one. In fact, I think you don’t even know what one is.” He checked his watch. “Let’s see. Tuesday. If we get over there this evening, you’ll have it in time.”

  “There where? In time for what?”

  “In time to save you from yourself. And permanent disrepute.”

  I could have said no. I tell myself I don’t care about appearances. And most of the time, I don’t. But at just that moment, as I was pushing him away, my hand touched the sleeve of his jacket. The fabric was soft, fine, nothing short of amazing. On top of that, I happened to look up and see the two of us reflected in the enormous gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall opposite. That suit made Kwan—a fairly short person who avoids exercise the way some people eschew dirty socks—look tall and broad-shouldered. My trusty Harris tweed made me—a tall person with decent shoulders who feels rotten if I go more than a couple of days without rowing or running—look rumpled and squat.

  If he’d waited a day, I probably would have backed out. But later that afternoon, before I’d had a chance to act on second thoughts, I found myself being helped out of Kwan’s Lexus by the valet parking attendant at Neiman’s.

  Just as at Filene’s Basement, there’s a long escalator ride down into the men’s department. But the similarity ends there. No beehive of activity to descend into. No one trying to push past us on the escalator. Instead, there was orderly calm, subdued chamber music, and the air was subtly infused with musk.

  “Ah, Dr. Liu! A pleasure to see you again,” said an impeccably dressed fellow who materialized the moment we reached the floor. His face had a mannequin look about it, perfectly arranged, wrinkle-free, the eyebrows just a touch darker than you’d expect them to be. “What can we do for you today?” The royal We.

  “Actually, nothing for me. I’ve brought in my colleague, Dr. Zak, for his first real suit.” The salesman tilted his head a micron and appraised me. The smile stiffened, and he stroked his chin. I wondered if his skin felt laminated.

  “Certainly,” he said, and pulled something from his pocket and squeezed it twice to make a loud but somehow unobtrusive clicking sound.

  I started to head for the exit—I didn’t need this. But Kwan blocked my way. A smaller, younger man appeared. He quickly measured me and wrote a bunch of numbers on a little pad.

  “Color?” the salesman asked, now addressing the question to Kwan.

  “We’re starting a wardrobe. I’d say a basic gray, chalk stripe.”

  The salesman glided off and reappeared with two suits. He held one up. “Here we have a Brioni. Classic but contemporary.” The suit was three-button, dark gray with a muted stripe. “They weave their own fabrics in Milan. Hand-tailored, of course.”

  I felt the fabric. The words subtle yet lush, right out of a clothier’s ad, sprang to mind. There was a handwritten tag just visible from the sleeve. “Five thousand dollars?” I croaked. My first car had cost less.

  Poker-faced, the salesman put the suit aside a
nd held up the other one. “And here we have a Canali. Understated elegance. Fine detailing, of course. More, uh, affordable.” The final word came out raspy, as if saying it hurt.

  “How much more affordable?” I asked.

  “Just try on the damn suit, Peter,” Kwan growled. “It’s not going to kill you.”

  “I wonder if I might suggest,” the salesman offered as he carried the suit toward the dressing room, “a shirt and tie to try with it?”

  When I came out, Kwan did a double take. “Peter? That you in there?”

  I stood in front of the mirror, and a stranger gazed back. Could have been the medical director of the hospital. Or James Bond. Depending on my frame of mind.

  I took it all—the suit, the shirt, the tie. I held my nose and handed over my credit card.

  “Great purchase,” the salesman oozed. “You’ll wear that suit for five years.”

  He made it sound like an eternity.

  2

  THERE WAS a storm the night of Channing’s party. When I got to my car, the windshield had become a glaze of ice. My fingers turned numb as I hacked away at it with a dull plastic scraper when what I needed was a blowtorch.

  I had plenty of time to speculate about what I’d find when I met Olivia. From ebullient toddler, to mousy preteen, to what? I hoped a normal youngster, rebelling in the time-honored way in which adolescents differentiate themselves from their parents. I longed to be able to reassure Channing: This too shall pass.

  By the time I had cleared the car windows, I was late. I was supposed to pick up Annie on a street corner near the Cambridge Courthouse—she’d worked all afternoon, setting up her new office. I hoped Annie wasn’t freezing to death. I drove as fast as I dared, taking yellow lights as invitations to speed.