Addiction

by G. H. Ephron

  She set the bottle down and blinked back the drops. Then she righted herself, put her glasses back on, and began to type. She stopped abruptly, her eyes flickering from her keyboard to the screen. Then another burst of typing. She took a blister pack of pills from her pocket, squeezed one out, and knocked it back without water.

  I rapped on the door. She gave a startled jerk, and her face twisted in anger. She quickly dropped the pills into her desk drawer and said, her voice shrill, “Jesus Christ, can’t you leave me …” When she saw it was me, she turned wary, the tendons in her neck stretched taut, her face hard and still—like an animal, suddenly aware it’s being stalked.

  “Bathroom?” I asked.

  Her face went blank. “The can’s at the end of the hall,” she said in an expressionless voice. I saw immediately why she reminded her mother of Matthew Farrell—the flat demeanor punctuated by explosions of rage.

  “I’m Peter Zak. Do you remember me?” I asked. Olivia gave me a blank look. “I met you when you were a little girl. And then a while back, you came over to my house and my wife helped you make a ceramic pot. That was almost three years ago.” She narrowed her eyes to a squint. “You’ve grown up since then.”

  Her expression turned sour. I could hear the unsaid “Duh.”

  I glanced around the room, trying to find a toehold. A poster caught my eye.

  “You a Nirvana fan?” I asked.

  “Kurt Cobain,” she said. Now go away, her body added as she turned back to her computer.

  Cobain, a sensitive, obsessively driven young man who had stuck a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger, was not a great role model.

  “Mind if I have a look?” I asked.

  She shrugged. I entered the room. The cloying, minty odor of patchouli took me back to my undergraduate days when we used herbs and incense to mask the smell of pot. Only slivers of wall were visible between the posters of rock groups and newspaper photos of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold—alienated kids who’d worn black trench coats to define themselves, and then made names for themselves by shooting down their high school classmates. I lifted the picture of Eric Harris. It was tacked over a magazine photo of a blond model in a pink, Cinderella prom dress.

  There were also pieces of lined paper, tacked in random spots on the wall. I looked more closely at one. It was a list, written in purple ballpoint pen in careful childlike handwriting. It was dated about two months earlier. There were twenty-five numbered items. The first one was “Brush teeth,” then “Appointment with Dr. D.” I scanned down. “Buy a birthday present for Mom,” “Math homework,” “Term paper,” “Make bed.” Another list was pinned up nearby, likewise a hodgepodge. Clearly, here was Olivia trying to get organized, struggling to build a structure around her life. But anyone would have been overwhelmed by so much detail. Where to begin?

  On the adjacent wall, there was a little gallery of photographs printed from a computer. I recognized one. A woman in black with a mournful face and long flowing hair stood intertwined with the sinuous trunk and limbs of a tree.

  “This is beautiful,” I said. “Annie Brigman’s work is quite extraordinary.”

  “You know Annie Brigman?” Olivia asked, her voice betraying a hint of interest. She fingered the stack of silver rings on her thumb, took the top one off, slid it back on.

  “I wish I knew her better. I had a chance to buy one of her photographs a few years ago, but I blew it.”

  “For reals?” She stood and drifted over beside me. “Her photographs are so, like, totally emotional.” Olivia looked as if she needed a good night’s sleep. Despite the shot of Visine, her eyes were still bloodshot, and her hand shook as she raised it to the image. The bones stood out like carbuncles at the base of her painfully thin wrist. I wondered what pills she was taking. “It’s like, if she photographed you, it would be so scary because you’d get a picture of your insides.”

  “That’s a very perceptive observation,” I said.

  She glanced at me and quickly looked away, the door slamming shut again. I wondered, was there a prom princess or a female Kip Kinkle hunkered down behind Olivia’s in-your-face outsides?

  Then I noticed a computer printout under an empty water glass on the table beside her bed. The splashy title: Snuff It. It was the subtitle that caught my attention: Suicide Methods. That and the yellow highlighting.

  Olivia stood with her head tipped against the wall, gazing at the Annie Brigman photograph, her finger tracing the undulating lines that merged nature and woman into a single form. Despite the blunt, chopped-off black hair, Olivia’s resemblance to her mother was striking—the strong profile, the intense eyes. When she stopped slouching and carried herself tall, the resemblance would be even stronger. I wanted to ask, did she feel depressed? Angry? Did she ever think about killing herself. But this wasn’t the right time.

  I left Olivia in her room and went to find the bathroom, which was, as promised, at the end of the hall. My chat with Olivia had left me shaken. The fact that she was intrigued by social outcasts and deviant teenagers didn’t, by itself, concern me. At her age, trying on different personas is healthy. But the combination of that with annotated literature on the how-to’s of suicide set red lights flashing.

  I returned to the top of the stairs and looked down. Drew was at the front door, saying good-bye to guests. The door on the opposite side of the landing from Olivia’s was ajar. I heard, “A resignation. That’s what I want. Enough of this dangerous incompetence.” It was Channing. Her voice was low and intense, the wine’s softness gone.

  I couldn’t make out what she said next, but the response was loud and clear. A man’s voice, the words clipped and carefully enunciated. “It’s not something we want to air in public. It could damage the hospital. And at such a critical time.”

  I took a step closer to the door. I knew I was eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help myself. “Critical to you,” Channing said.

  “And to the hospital—”

  “And to the drug companies. Don’t forget the drug companies. The ones that pay those nice, fat consulting fees. Oh, no, it wouldn’t look good at all.”

  “Right. You’re too high and mighty—and rich—to take their consulting fees,” he shot back. “But you know as well as I do, the Pearce would have long ago been turned into a housing development if it weren’t for their money.”

  The house had turned dead quiet. Olivia poked her head out of her room, her expression wary. Drew and Annie were at the base of the stairs; Jess and Daphne, now wearing their coats, stood near the front door. They were all looking up the stairs, straining to hear.

  The man continued, “Don’t threaten what you’re not prepared to do.”

  “I’m prepared. Believe me, I’m prepared. A man is dead. And everyone thinks …”

  “What difference does it make what everyone thinks?”

  “It would make a difference to him. And it makes a difference to me.”

  “You’re so sure of what’s right and what’s wrong.”

  “Why not? What have I got left to lose?” Channing said, her voice laced with disdain.

  “You have no one to blame for that but yourself.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Channing hissed.

  There was a pause. Silence. I could barely hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Then, the man’s gasp of outrage. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

  That was enough for me. I entered the study to find Channing and Dr. Liam Jensen confronting each other. Jensen was clutching the stem of a brass floor lamp, his face filled with rage. The lamp was lifted six inches off the floor, and I had the distinct impression that he was a hair away from wielding it like a club. His normally waxy complexion had turned florid. Channing was holding an empty brandy snifter, and cognac dripped from Jensen’s beaky nose. More was spattered across the lapel and one perfectly padded shoulder of his pale-gray suit jacket.

  When he saw me in the doorway, Jensen set down the lamp and re
leased his hold. He coughed, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and blotted his face, then his jacket.

  I stood close to Channing. “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’d like to kill the bastard,” she said under her breath. Then she looked up and saw Drew peering in from the doorway. Annie, Jess, and Daphne crowded behind him. Channing backed up until she bumped into a wing chair and sank down into it. She put her head in her hands. “Oh, God, now I’ve gone and done it.” I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “Here, Liam, let me take your jacket,” Drew said.

  Jensen looked as if he didn’t trust himself to say anything. He took off his jacket and handed it to Drew.

  “Cold water,” Channing said wearily. “Before the stain sets. You don’t mind, do you, Peter?” She looked up at me. “Take it to the bathroom at the end of the hall.” Drew handed me the jacket. “Cold water should take care of it, but you have to treat it right away. If that doesn’t work, take it down to Verna in the kitchen. She’ll know what to do.”

  I left, holding the jacket. Cold water. I started toward the end-of-the-hall bathroom and stopped halfway there. I looked down at the jacket on my arm and recognized the silky brown Brioni label. I promptly turned around and trotted Jensen’s jacket directly down to the kitchen and the ministrations of Verna.

  As Annie and I walked back to the car, I felt a cold sweat on my forehead, the aftermath of the adrenaline rush kicked off by the altercation. It left me feeling uneasy, as if the entire evening had somehow ridden off the rails. Dangerous incompetence. A man is dead. Who were they talking about? And whose resignation did Channing want?

  “Any idea what that was all about?” Annie asked.

  “I haven’t any idea,” I said. I hoped Channing hadn’t been added to one more enemies list.

  We got back into the car. I started it and cranked the heater, though I knew it would be at least ten minutes before anything but cold air would be blowing on us. Annie yawned and hugged herself.

  “Tired?” I asked.

  “Not really. It’s only eleven. Want to go somewhere for coffee?”

  Her stockings hissed against each other as she crossed her legs. Her knee emerged from between the flaps of the coat. I didn’t feel like coffee.

  “Not especially,” I said.

  Annie tilted her head and smiled. “Mmm,” she said, “neither do I, actually.”

  I was out of practice. With Kate it had been so uncomplicated, so natural, like a slide down the rapids and at the end coming up gasping for air. It had been a long time since I’d gotten from where I was to where I wanted to be. Even a few months ago, guilt and the feeling that I was being unfaithful looking at another woman would have made it impossible for me to feel what I was feeling now.

  All I could manage was, “Hey, you,” as I reached over and touched her face.

  She turned her head and tasted my index finger. I closed my eyes. “Hey, yourself,” Annie whispered.

  I put my hand on her leg and caressed, the intense feeling in me wanting, needing, to get out. Annie took my hand and pushed it a few inches higher up her thigh. I wrapped my other hand behind her head. She smiled and closed her eyes, her lips parted, her mouth inviting. I meant to kiss her gently, but it came out hard and urgent. She pressed her body hard against mine. I pushed my hand further up her thighs, and her legs parted.

  Annie heard the beeper go off before I did. “Must be yours,” Annie said, gasping. “Mine’s at home.”

  I didn’t want to let go, to fish out my beeper. But I did. It’s amazing how fast obligation can deflate desire.

  I had to wipe the steam off my glasses before I could see the emergency code 900. “Great. Perfect timing.” I groaned. “I go for a week without a beep and now, at this very moment, there’s an emergency. I’ve got to go in.”

  I grabbed a rag from under the seat and swiped the moisture off the windshield. Annie arranged the flaps of her coat and shivered. “Next time, let’s skip the party.”

  “We’ll pick up where we left off, at my house, with dinner and a good bottle of wine.”

  “Um-hmm,” Annie purred. “And no beepers.”

  “No beepers,” I said, kissing her lightly on the mouth. “This is completely infuriating,” I said, my face close to hers.

  “My mother always said, all good things come to those who wait.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I dropped Annie at her apartment, taking time for one last kiss. Regretfully, I watched her scurry up her front steps and disappear inside.

  The drive across Somerville was uneventful. I turned onto the landscaped grounds, past the gold embossed sign. PEARCE PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE EST. 1804. The serpentine access road was deserted, the few remaining elms like a ghostly honor guard.

  I parked, opened the car door, and heaved myself out. The emptiness was palpable. Only a few other cars were in the lot, clustered under a flickering streetlight. I inhaled the metallic, bitter cold and turned my collar against the wind.

  I hurried up the hill. The rolling lawns were threadbare with patches of ice waiting to melt. Austere Victorian buildings that housed the units were right at home in the bleakness, but more recent additions, redbrick-and-glass monstrosities, looked naked and uncomfortable without any foliage to soften their contours.

  I hopped onto the back porch and let myself in. A blast of overheated air hit me in the face. Instantly, my glasses fogged. I wiped them as I strode down the hall, past the dining area where the patients ate, past the once-gracious living room with its grand piano and not-so-grand vinyl sofas and chairs. In the glare of fluorescent lighting, the pink walls were nearly the color of vomit.

  A thin voice warbled from the reception area, “I left my hearrrrt …”

  I could hear Nurse Gloria Alspag’s coaxing counterpoint—“Mr. Fleegle, you can’t stay out here without anything on”—which prepared me for the scene when I rounded the bend and got past the half-dozen patients who were watching the show.

  Though I’m nominally in charge, Gloria is the backbone of the unit. She looked very tired, her shirttails hanging from her tan trousers, her short hair standing up as if she’d been running her fingers through it in frustration. She was waving a blanket like a bullfighter brandishing a cape, while skinny old Samuel Fleegle, stark naked, nimbly avoided it.

  A night nurse herded two patients back to their room, while three more drifted out to take their places.

  “Olé!” one of the watching patients cried. Others shouted encouragement.

  “ … in San Francisco …” Mr. Fleegle held a mop handle and crooned into it. “Above the blue …” There were little bits of white hair on his chest, like wisps of cotton balls, stuck to it. He was concave in the front and behind, the muscles atrophied in his derriere and chest. His face was flushed as his voice gathered strength.

  Gloria gave me an exasperated look. “Mr. Fleegle, you’re waking everyone up,” she said reasonably. “Please, sit down and be quiet.”

  Just then Mr. Fleegle saw me standing there in my good suit. He raised his hand and wagged an index finger. “Waiter,” he said, his voice aloof and polite. “Could you get us two Manhattans?” He licked his lips. “With bourbon.”

  I approached him and put my arm around his frail shoulder. “Mr. Fleegle, I’m so sorry, but we can only serve you at the bar,” I told him, stepping into his delusion, hoping that in doing so, I’d be able to lead him out of it. “Why don’t you sit here?” I maneuvered him gently over to the geri-chair Gloria had been trying to get him into.

  Mr. Fleegle willingly sat down and saluted me. He seemed unfazed as Gloria shoved the tray in place to keep him from getting up.

  He finished the song, holding one last tremulous note. Then, there was blessed silence and a scattering of applause. He waited expectantly, tapping his fingers on the tray in time to invisible music.

  Gloria wheeled him into the dining room, where we could at least close the door. “How long’s he been like this?” I asked.


  “A couple of hours. Ever since his brother came in this evening, he’s been getting happier and happier. We found an empty pint of Four Roses in his room. I’ve tried everything.” Gloria sank down into a chair and rested her head on the table. Mr. Fleegle had started the song over from the beginning.

  It didn’t seem as if Mr. Fleegle, after a lifetime as an alcoholic, should have had such an extreme reaction to a pint of booze. Still, metabolism changes as a person ages. Then I remembered. “Didn’t Kwan put Mr. Fleegle on the Zerenidine trial?” I asked.

  “Started him about a week ago.”

  “That’s probably it. Seems as if the drug binds to the same receptor sites that metabolize alcohol. Makes the alcohol much more potent and, I’m afraid as we’re about to see, for a much longer period of time. Good thing he’s a happy drunk.”

  Gloria lifted her head off the table. “How much longer?”

  I shrugged. “An hour. Maybe a few.”

  “A few?” Gloria said.

  “I need to help get the rest of the patients back to bed. Besides, there’s really nothing to do but wait it out. He should be fine by breakfast, though he’ll have a helluva headache.”

  Mr. Fleegle’s voice reached another quavering crescendo. Gloria moaned. “And so will I.”

  4

  SUNDAY, I awoke around noon, alone in bed. It wasn’t what I’d hoped for. As I lay there, Channing’s argument with Liam Jensen came back to me. The anger, the threats. I ran their words through my head. Most of it didn’t make much sense. Someone was dangerously incompetent. Someone was dead? The only clear part was that whatever it was, Jensen wanted to hush it up, and Channing didn’t.

  I was still lying there when the phone rang. It was Channing.

  “So, what did you think?” she’d asked, her voice taut with anxiety.

  “About Olivia or Liam Jensen?”

  “Never mind Liam. That’s under control.”

  “He didn’t seem under control.”