Addiction

by G. H. Ephron

  “What is it about ‘I need it that you don’t get?” she demanded, cutting me off. The vehemence of the words made her head shake. The edginess, the raw mood, seemed excessive for withdrawal from a therapeutic dosage. Olivia had probably been taking a lot of Ritalin, and for a long period of time. She put her hand up to her temple and grimaced. Then her glance drifted down to the mug of coffee I was holding. “I’d like to see you give up coffee. You drink about a gazillion cups a day.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Yo way,” she shot back.

  I looked at the coffee. It was my fourth cup that morning.

  She folded her arms over her chest. “I’ll bet you couldn’t give it up.”

  Before I could think better of it, I said, “Sure I could.”

  “Bet you couldn’t.”

  “Bet I could.”

  “Prove it.”

  I realized I was getting into a pissing contest with a kid. The problem was, she’d hit a nerve. I was drinking too much coffee. I needed it to maintain my equilibrium, as Gloria pointed out any time I arrived at work insufficiently precaffeinated. I didn’t like to think of myself as dependent on any substance. The thought that I might not be able to cut back, never mind quit completely, rankled me.

  I gave Olivia my X-ray look. “And in return?”

  “Would you really?” Olivia asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.

  “Depends on what you’re offering.”

  “Wow,” Olivia said. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “You won’t sneak any more drugs?”

  “Promise.” She ran a finger across her chest one way, then back the other. “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” It was the kind of thing a charming six-year-old would say. Or was this an adolescent capable of murdering her mother?

  I raised my cup. I took a deep inhale, then walked over to the sink. “Okay, then. Here goes.”

  Ready, set—I hesitated. It was like that moment when you’re standing on the end of a diving board over an unheated pool. I held my breath and dumped the coffee down the sink. I immediately regretted it as I watched the rich brown liquid swirl down the drain.

  Gloria appeared at the door with Drew. Gloria’s face was tense, her mouth set in a thin line. Something was wrong, something more than our collective anxiety about Olivia’s impending encounter with the police. When I saw Drew, I realized what it was. His button-down shirt looked as if he’d slept in it, and his tie was loose at the neck. He was clean-shaven, in a manner of speaking—but there was a bit of tissue paper stuck to one of the nicks on his face, and patches of grizzly gray shadow where he’d clearly missed. His face was pale, and his lips were overly pink.

  He held his arms open to Olivia. In an instant, Olivia went from looking sick to looking frightened. “Now?” she whispered. She went over to him and buried her head in his chest. He stroked her hair, his jaw quivering.

  “Drew,” I said, “could I have a moment with you?”

  “Daddy?” Olivia said.

  “We’ll be back in a minute,” I said, and propelled Drew from the room. I continued down the hall, out of earshot.

  I stood close to him and said in a low, intense voice, “What in the hell are you thinking of, coming in here drunk?”

  Drew blinked at me, his mouth open. At least he smelled of toothpaste and aftershave, not liquor. He seemed stunned. The surprise rapidly turned to anger. “I’m … not … drunk,” he said, the words slamming into the wall behind me.

  “Shh,” I said. “There’s no need to shout.”

  He swallowed and looked around. “I’m not drunk.” He ran his hand back and forth across his mouth.

  “You don’t think the police are going to get the same impression?”

  He looked down at the floor. “Last night. Maybe I had too much.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

  “Did you find the Ativan?”

  “Couldn’t find it.”

  “Is there anyone you can call? Are you seeing anyone?” I asked.

  “Not anymore,” he answered.

  “I mean, are you seeing a therapist? Are you getting any treatment?”

  “No.” His eyes were rheumy.

  “Seriously, Drew. You need to get help. And right now, you’ve got to pull yourself together. Olivia needs you. So help me God, if you screw this up, I’ll get you banned from the hospital.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “I would.”

  He closed his eyes and seemed to find his center. “Just give me a minute,” he said. He smoothed his hair.

  “You’ve got some tissue …” I pointed to my chin.

  He picked off the tissue paper stuck to his face. He tucked in his shirt. He undid his tie and tied it again, this time with the knot fastened smartly at the neck. Then, he took a deep inhale and squared his shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  When we got back to Olivia, he took her under his arm. “Okay, kiddo. Let’s get this over with.”

  I brought them to the dining room. Gloria escorted MacRae and Officer Connor in. MacRae set his leather briefcase on the floor, took out a tape recorder, and put it on the table. Connor lay a pad and a pen alongside.

  I sat at the nurses’ station, where I could keep an eye on what was going on through the glass panel. While I waited, I slid the floppy disk into the computer at the desk. There was a single file on it: REPORT-DRAFT. It was dated two weeks before Channing died.

  In the dining room, MacRae was leaning back in his chair, his chin doubled into his chest, listening to Olivia. She seemed flat, emotionless.

  I opened the file. There was Channing’s thirty-page analysis of the Kutril-trial results. It was a draft with sections missing. But everything I needed to understand the treatment protocol was clearly spelled out. I scrolled through the tables and charts. Though I’m not an expert on clinical pharmacology, the results seemed impressive. I sat back and waited for the report to finish printing out.

  Now MacRae was taking some pieces of paper out of his briefcase and showing them to Olivia. She grabbed them from him, crumpled them up and threw them into the corner. Then she broke down, weeping and shaking her head. Drew looked as if he wanted to vault over the table and strangle MacRae.

  Then, suddenly it was over. MacRae put away the tape recorder. Officer Connor took Olivia’s fingerprints. MacRae and Connor stood to leave. I went over and opened the dining-room door.

  When MacRae saw me, his face went rigid. “You lied to me,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I never lied,” I said, keeping my voice calm and even.

  “You … you …” he sputtered.

  I held up my hands. “I didn’t. Not once. I didn’t tell you everything, but I answered your questions truthfully.”

  “You deliberately misled …”

  Give it a rest, I wanted to say. I felt very tired. “I did what I needed to do to protect my patient. She needs to be under a doctor’s care.”

  “Right now, that girl doesn’t need a doctor. She needs a very smart lawyer.” He waved me away and marched out with Officer Connor trailing after him.

  I returned to the dining room. Drew and Olivia were still seated at the table. Drew looked ashen. Olivia was sitting very still, her head in her hands.

  “Why are they treating her like a criminal?” Drew asked.

  “Police don’t like surprises,” I said. “They don’t like to be the last to find out that a witness handled the murder weapon.”

  “There’s more,” Olivia said quietly, raising her head and sitting erect.

  I sat down. I knew I didn’t want to hear what it was.

  Drew retrieved the balled-up paper from the corner of the room. “They got this off Channing’s computer. They were able to salvage the hard drive.” He smoothed the three pieces of paper on the table.

  I scanned them quickly, feeling sick. They were e-mail messages from Olivia to Channing. Paragraphs of vitriol. The last one dated the morning Channing
died. It ended with:

  I hate you I hate you I hate you! I wish you would just die and then I won’t have to deal with your shit.

  Olivia sobbed, “See, it’s my fault? I made her do it.”

  Now, I understood. This was why Olivia had freaked out, gone back into Channing’s office and sent the computer through the window. She had to destroy the instrument she’d used to communicate her anger to her mother. Was it out of guilt and remorse? Or a deliberate attempt to hide evidence from the police?

  “Olivia, when did your mother do anything in this world because someone told her to do it?” Drew asked. Olivia looked up at him, red-eyed. “Your mother could be the stubbornest, most bullheaded, contrary person in this world.” Olivia giggled, in spite of herself. Drew put his hand under Olivia’s chin and looked her in the eye. “If she killed herself, and notice I say if, because I don’t believe for one minute that she did, you can be sure of one thing—it wasn’t because any of us told her to do it.”

  As Drew was leaving, he and I talked privately for a few moments. I told him, “If the police decide that it wasn’t suicide, they’re going to be looking for someone to blame.

  “I know that,” Drew agreed, his look somber.

  “Olivia had opportunity. Her prints are on the gun. The e-mails suggest motive. They could easily charge her with murder.” I fished out my business card and wrote Chip Ferguson’s name and phone number on the back. “She needs a good lawyer,” I said. “And it wouldn’t hurt if you talked to him sooner rather than later.”

  He hesitated. “We have a family attorney.”

  “You’ll need someone who’s experienced in criminal law. I’ve worked with Chip. He’s been a public defender; now he’s in private practice. He’s excellent. A thoroughly nice man. And he’s got a daughter, just a few years older than Olivia.”

  Reluctantly, Drew accepted the card.

  13

  WHEN I returned, Olivia was wrapped in a blanket and Gloria was making her a cup of cocoa. I took the report off the printer and went looking for Kwan. He was working in the conference room. He looked up and saw the report I was holding. “You’ve written a novella about a man who cuts off his nose to spite his face?”

  Sometimes I think he’s psychic. “How’d you hear?”

  “About what?”

  Of course he hadn’t. But now I had to tell him. “I’ve given up coffee.”

  It was one of the few times I’ve ever seen Kwan at a loss for words.

  “No big deal,” I said. I wasn’t about to admit that I’d struck a bargain with a seventeen-year-old. “Just felt like I was becoming overly dependent.”

  “I know there have been times before when I’ve thought you were losing your mind. But now I’m sure of it.” Then with glee, “If this gets ugly, I hope I can watch.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have a front-row seat.” I offered him the report. “Could you take a look at this for me?”

  He glanced at the cover page and took the report from me. He opened it and started to read through the introductory summary. Then he paged through the rest of the report, pausing here and there to examine a table or chart.

  “Looks interesting,” he said. “I always knew Dr. Temple was a top-notch researcher. Tell me again, why exactly am I reading this?”

  “I want us to consider putting Olivia Temple on Kutril. She’s off Ritalin, but she’s still craving it. She’s dealing with her mother’s death, various family problems, and on top of that, she might be charged with murder.”

  “It hasn’t been approved for treating addiction, has it?”

  “No. But it’s not like it’s the usual experimental drug. We know Trilafon is safe in small doses, as long as you don’t stay on it for a long time. And kudzu has been used since the first century by the Chinese.”

  “Probably not concentrated in pill form,” Kwan pointed out.

  “Still, seems like there’s not a huge risk.”

  “I have some time this afternoon,” he said.

  “As soon as you can. Last night she was caught breaking into the med room.”

  Kwan glanced at his watch. “Okay, okay. Give me an hour,” he said.

  It was almost lunchtime. I’d agreed to pick up my mother at the senior center, where the bus was dropping them off. I got there just in time.

  “How was your trip?” I asked. I tossed her suitcase into the trunk of my car and opened the door for her. My mother had on a pink sweatshirt with the insignia Casino Magic.

  She squinted at me through the shade of a clear, green plastic visor. “Not bad,” she admitted as she sank into the seat. She pulled in her feet, settled back, and fastened her seat belt. “Made a few bucks.”

  I got in. As I pulled out onto the street, I laughed. “Score some drugs?”

  She shrugged. “Actually …” She snapped open her pocketbook and pulled out one bottle of prescription pills and then another. She struggled to open one of them. “Child-safe, phooey. I don’t know how they expect grown-ups to do this.”

  When we stopped at a light, I opened the bottles for her. She shook a pill from each. One was small and white, the other about twice as big and bright orange.

  “I got these.” She pointed to the white one.

  I turned down our street. “And these are … ?”

  “For my arthritis. It shouldn’t cost me a buck and a half a day. If I wanted to spend that kind of money, I could have cable. These are supposed to be the same as these orange ones that I get from Walgreens.”

  I pulled the car into the driveway and glanced into her hand. “They sure don’t look the same.”

  She dropped the two containers back into her bag and snapped it shut, giving me her patient smile. “We always said you could have been a rocket scientist.”

  “Don’t get snippy.”

  “So how many of these”—she poked the white pill—“should I take, when I’m supposed to take one of these?” She poked the orange pill.

  “You didn’t get any instructions with it?”

  “You don’t ask a gift horse.”

  I took the two pills from her and examined them. The orange one was a large oval. The white one was nearly a figure eight and scored in the middle—it looked as if you were supposed to break it in half. “Well, don’t take any of these until I find out what you’ve got,” I said. With Kwan’s help, I figured I’d be able to find out. The Physicians’ Desk Reference, the doctors’ drug Bible, has photographs of every medication being manufactured today. We’d be able to find a match and then equilibrate.

  I’d pulled my mother’s suitcase out of the trunk and was halfway up the walk when I realized she wasn’t following me. The car door was open and my mother had her legs sticking straight out of the car. “Petey!” she called. I cringed. I’ve asked her a million times not to call me that.

  I came back. “This car,” my mother fumed. “The seats are so low, it’s a wonder your tush doesn’t scrape the road every time you hit a bump.”

  “Need a hand?” I asked, and helped her up.

  “Aging, feh,” she said, massaging her hip as she started up the walk.

  When I got back to the Pearce, Kwan was up in his office. The research report was on his desk alongside a half-eaten Boston Cream doughnut—my favorite—with an oversize cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

  “You don’t even like coffee!” I exclaimed.

  “You’ve always extolled its virtues, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “You’re just doing this to torment me.”

  “Is it working?”

  This was something I’d have to get used to. “I need to ask another favor,” I said.

  “What will it be? Turn you into a handsome prince? We already tried that, and it didn’t take.”

  “Some of us are just princely on the inside.” I fished my mother’s pills out of my pocket. “This orange pill is my mother’s arthritis medication. The white one is supposedly the same thing. Problem is, she doesn’t know how many of the
white ones to take for each orange one her doctor prescribed.”

  Kwan looked leery. “Where’d she get this stuff, anyway, that she doesn’t know how much to take?”

  “Canada.”

  “Ah!” Kwan said, as if that explained everything.

  He got up and took down a huge red volume from behind his desk. He turned to the color photos of medications. He ran his finger across the rows of pictures, pausing on the occasional small white pill. “Close, but no cigar,” he said at last. “Where did you say she got this?” Kwan asked, indicating the little white pill now sitting on his desk.

  “In Canada.”

  “From a pharmacy?”

  “That’s my impression.”

  Kwan shook his head. “Well, if it’s here, it’s not obvious. Maybe it’s something brand-new … .”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Let me hang on to this for a day or two. I’ll show it to someone I know. He may be able to figure out what she’s got here.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “So, you read the report?”

  “Very impressive.”

  “Do you think Kutril could help Olivia?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “Only problem is, Dr. Temple was working with alcoholics and heroin abusers. It’s never been tried with addiction to psychostimulants like Ritalin. And she was working with adults. Not eighty-seven-pound adolescents. On the other hand”—he shrugged—“I can’t think of any other treatment that appears to be as overwhelmingly effective in reducing the psychological craving. And given that there are relatively few side effects, I’d say the potential benefits far outweigh the risks. But she should be closely monitored. We’re talking large doses of a compound we don’t know a whole lot about.”

  Then Kwan called the New Jersey company that had been making Kutril for Channing and arranged for them to ship us enough for a single course of treatment.

  After Kwan got off the phone, he picked up the report and riffled through the pages. “Acu-Med is going to have a fit when this gets published. Aren’t they trying to develop something that does basically the same thing?” He handed me back the report. “Be sure you put this in a safe place.”