by Tom Bierdz
“What are they?”
“Zoloft.”
The generic was Sertraline. She had said the antidepressants began with an S in the initial interview. I wondered why a wealthy woman who could afford the name brand, would buy a generic unless her physician advised her to. But Megan said Zoloft not Sertraline. “Read the date and tell me how many were in the bottle.”
“14. The date was a week ago.”
I deduced that if she took them daily, she would have ingested seven. But she could have swallowed them all.
“Who prescribed them?” I assumed she was examining the vial because it took her a while to respond.
“You’re not going to believe this. The doctor’s name has been scratched off.”
I didn’t know what to make of that, but this was not the time to wonder why because time was of the essence. “About how long ago did she take them?”
“It couldn’t have been much more than an hour ago when I was on the phone with her. She said she was going to take the pills...and then...and then, I heard the phone drop and she’s not talking to me. I rushed over here.”
The panic in her voice sent me into hyper-alert when my mind blocks out anything extraneous, goes into slow-motion, and acutely focuses on the problem at hand, calling on my vast reservoir of knowledge, particularly upon past experiences with this kind of problem. “I assume Nick is not there.”
“Right.”
“Can you get her to the hospital by yourself?”
“I think so. There’s a wheelchair in the house from when Nick broke his leg.”
I didn’t know if she had taken a lethal dose but I didn’t want to chance it, preferring to err on the side of caution. “I’ll meet you in emergency.”
I dressed, grabbed a jacket, and jumped into my car. This was not my usual modus operandi. Normally, I’d call an ambulance and have the paramedics take the patient to the hospital. I’d check on the patient in the hospital the following morning. It wasn’t that I didn’t care. There was nothing I could do. The patient was not conscious and the staff knew what to do. Usually that meant pumping out the patient’s stomach. In Sasha’s case I wanted to be there for Megan, and I wanted to get a glimpse of Sasha since Megan couldn’t get her in to see me. That would also give me an opportunity to scan her records and learn more about her.
No sooner had I pulled into the hospital parking lot when Megan called me. “I’m so glad I got you, Grant. I managed to wake Sasha, got her to vomit in the toilet. The crisis is over, at least, for today. I have the coffee on and I’m walking her.”
“Can she talk to me?”
“She’s groggy, but I’ll try.” Several minutes passed while I didn’t hear a sound. Finally, Megan got on the phone. “She won’t talk to you.”
“Okay, talk to you tomorrow.” I got in my car and headed home. I didn’t feel good about the situation. Just because tonight’s attempt was a failure, it didn’t mean the next one would fail too. Sasha required professional intervention. I hated to consider what might have happened had not Megan intervened. I felt impotent in my therapeutic role with Sasha.
9
Megan called me the next morning at my office to let me know, that besides for a big headache and feeling wiped out, Sasha was doing fine. She thanked me, again, for my concern and my help. She picked me up after work, brought me to her house and we had passionate sex. The first night again on the balcony, and the nights after that wherever the spirit took us–-in other rooms in the house, outside on the lawn, and in the car. I couldn’t get enough of her. Once I had tasted the nectar of the gods, I was all consumed. I no longer thought about my actions. With Megan they became entirely visceral.
Fortunately, I was able to hire a couple of professional painters to join Gregory and paint the group home wall. The painters erected scaffolding and took care of the upper portion, scraping and painting, matching the original off-white color. They even helped Greg with some of the preparation. I’d stop by when I had gaps in my schedule to see how they were doing, and almost dropped when they used a blowtorch. I saw the fascination in Greg’s eyes, but they assured me he didn’t use it. Gregory doggedly stayed with it, painting slowly and carefully. Whereas the painters finished in a day, Gregory took all week and never complained. I’d bring in something to drink and he’d take a break and sit with me. He didn’t want to talk about his problems and neither did I. We talked as old time friends, bonding.
One day returning to the office after checking on Greg, I was surprised to see Megan and Bobby playing on the Wii. They’d bend, swing their arms violently, dart back and forth, nearly running into one another. They saw me but didn’t stop until Megan yelled “Point.”
“Megan brought in tennis,” Bobby said, winded, his cheeks flushed. “Here,” he offered the joy stick. She’s whipping my butt.”
I scoffed. “No thanks. Nothing happening?” I asked, referring to the business.
Bobby shook his head.
“Bobby says you’re are a pretty good tennis player,” Megan said. Unlike Bobby, she didn’t appear exerted.
“Used to be. I haven’t played for a while.”
“Play with me?”
A double entendre. “On the court, not the game.”
“That’s what I mean. I’ll reserve a court for us at the tennis club.”
“Sure, you’re on.” I was excited by the challenge and saw the game as an opportunity to display my masculinity, my virility. I considered myself a B player, someone who could compete with all but the best. And Megan and I couldn’t spend all our time together having sex. Tennis could broaden our connection. “I’ll look forward to it,” I added. “I’ll leave you to your game.” I ambled into my office.
Later that day, after Megan had left, I approached Bobby. “You still have your tennis racket?” “Yeah.”
“Want to play tonight?”
His face curved into a wide grin. “Getting ready for Megan, huh?”
“You bet. I saw how she ran you ragged. It’s a computer game. Not the same thing, but I should see how rusty I am.”
“Sure, I got nothing going on.”
“How did she know you had time to play?”
“She called. I guess you two are hot and heavy,” he teased.
I flushed. “What did she say?”
“She didn’t have to. It’s written all over you.” Then, because he was Hanna’s brother, he added, “Hey, I don’t blame you. You’d have to be a saint to turn that down.”
A saint I wasn’t. Still, I didn’t feel comfortable having that conversation with Bobby. My super ego tugged at me. He was Hanna’s brother and Megan was my patient. Sort of.
We played in an indoor court. Although tennis wasn’t his game, Bobby was a good competitor. He had a bruising serve when he didn’t fault, a strong forehand, and unbridled energy. We had some good volleys and stopped after two sets that I won 6-2 and 7-5. I was exhausted and my legs were throbbing. I needed something for the pain and remembered running out of ibuprofen at home, so I had Bobby drop me off at the office, then continue on his way. A leisurely walk home would serve as my cool down, loosen those tight muscles. I entered the drug room, took three ibuprofen, pocketed the bottle, and was about to exit when something stopped me. I surveyed the drugs, my eyes focusing on the psychotropics. The supply seemed lighter as if something was missing. I moved some containers around, tried to ballpark what I had and what I gave to patients. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but that strange, sick, feeling remained that something was missing. I remembered having a similar experience in the past when Grace was here. She maintained a record of what came in, and what went out, and was able to account for all of the drugs, putting my mind at ease. But no one kept count in Grace’s absence. I didn’t want to burden Bobby, especially since he had a predilection to getting buzzed. I was going to keep the records myself but neglected to do so. Habitually, I wasn’t used to doing it, and with all the stress in my life, I just never got around to it. There wasn’t anything
I could do about it now. Immediately, I counted all of the psychiatric medication and recorded what I had, and vowed to keep it current. I hoped that I had been wrong about something being missing, but if someone had taken any of the meds, I could only hope that they used it appropriately, and that it was not a danger to anyone.
A taxi brought me to the Seattle Tennis Club, in Madison Park, on the shores of Lake Washington. First built as the Olympic Tennis Club in 1890, it was moved and built on its current location to meet the growing demand in 1919, and went through a major renovation in 1999.
Encompassing some eight acres, it boasted nineteen courts, six of which were indoor and three clay.
Megan sat at a table in front of the clubhouse sipping an iced tea, and waved seeing me approach. Dressed in the compulsory tennis whites, she wore a tennis skirt with a low cut top, her hair tied into a ponytail.
“I see you got the memo,” she said, referring to the all-white tennis dress code while looking me over.
“I played here a couple of years ago,” I said.
“I think you’ll find this experience more memorable,” she quipped, standing and slinging her tennis bag over her shoulder. “Ready?”
“Of course.” I followed her to the green courts that were tournament ready. All of the other courts were in play. Two men stood together on an adjacent court, resting on their rackets, and ogled Megan.
“Volley for serve?” she asked.
“Sure,” I watched her bend over, displaying much of her inviting breasts. Her skirt lifted in the breeze as she laid down her equipment, and retrieved the balls. Sexy tennis outfits had come a long way.
She won the serve, stretched high and hit a smash that must have reached into the high nineties and was out by an inch. Amazed at her velocity, I crouched, readied to return the ball. Her second serve was better than the first. I barely returned it, lobbing it over the net giving her an easy ball to slam to the opposite side of the court, out of my reach. Any thoughts that her first serve was lucky, or that she was a soft opponent, was quickly dismissed. I had a battle on my hands that called for all of my skills. I had to concentrate on my game, not her body. Even the guys on the next court had to have altered their focus to include her tennis savvy.
She was very consistent with a blistering forehand and stayed back at the baseline, wearing me down with her power. I won the first set 6-4, but it took everything I had. She didn’t like losing. Her smile and early bantering evaporated, and was replaced by grim determination and a killer look. She stepped up her game and seemed to be able to return any kind of shot, from any angle, with scorching speed and accuracy. And every once and a while she’d slam the ball at my head, hitting my shoulder once and grazing my ear another time. She’d sometimes apologize, but I swore it was on purpose. She exhibited that hostile streak I witnessed in the restaurant. It disturbed me. Her smile returned after she won the next two sets, 6-4 and 6-3.
“You should have warned me you were an A player,” I said, congratulating her after the game.
“Would you have played me then?” she asked, smiling seductively.
“Maybe.” My ego hadn’t recovered yet. I was still hampered by the traditional thinking that men were the superior athletes. That was probably still true when the best of each gender battled one another, based upon body types, but Megan was the superior tennis player and I had never been beaten by a woman before.
“I can see you need a rubdown. I’ve got some exotic oil that will take the ache out of those toned muscles of yours.”
“So tempting,” I said, and glanced at my watch. “Can I have a rain check? I’m due at a friend’s birthday party.” I wasn’t really. I didn’t feel close to her right then. Part of it was my ego and part of my resistance was due to her vindictiveness.
“Can’t you be late?” She whispered in my ear.
“I’m already late and I still have to shower.”
She pouted. “I’m missing you already. At least, let me drive you home.”
A taxi was dropping someone off at the clubhouse. I seized the opportunity. “Thanks, but that’s out of your way. I’ll grab that cab.” I dashed, leaving her standing there, turned and yelled, “I’ll call you.” I jumped into the cab.
She’d question me about the friend if she drove me, and I needed to construct a believable story. I was afraid if I winged it, she’d check it out and learn I lied to her. Yet, I couldn’t tell her that she scared me, that I sensed an unsettling anger within her. My stomach rumbled. At home I took a long, hot shower, rubbed some cream on the sizable welt on my aching shoulder where the ball had hit me. Afterward, I went to the movies just in case Megan called or dropped by. I don’t even know what I saw. It was supposed to be a comedy, but it wasn’t funny and I couldn’t get into it. I kept thinking about our tennis match. Megan was competitive, but it was more than that. She displayed an angry streak that I had witnessed before. She was hostile. The word, vile, popped into my head, but I quickly discarded it as due to my reaction and it was too harsh.
10
“Feels like rain,” Bobby said, behind the wheel of his Mustang as he motored toward the group home. “There’s a few drops on my windshield.”
Bobby couldn’t feel the rain inside his car but I didn’t think his choice of words that unusual. As long as the message was conveyed, most people weren’t particular about the language they used. Was it a dumbing down of society; a pattern accelerated by texting where words were condensed for the speed of communication, spelled phonetically or reduced to acronyms? I recalled a particular dinner conversation where I jumped on Kevin, telling him he would lose his ability to spell the words if he always abbreviated them. He asked me when was the last time I did math by hand and didn’t use a calculator. Precisely, that was my point I retorted. Both he and Hanna seemed to think I was back in the dark ages, and hadn’t adjusted to the technological revolution. Maybe they were right. “It’s supposed to clear,” I said, noting a patch of blue in the horizon.
“This is your turn,” I yelled as Bobby entered the intersection. Yanking the wheel abruptly,
Bobby spun the car ninety degrees to the right, squealing the tires, and nearly knocking over a bicyclist.
“Christ!” I said, my heart hammering. “You could have gone around the block.”
“Then why the fuck did you yell?” He rolled up on top the curb and parked under a couple of mature, red maples. “I’ll wait here.”
I scooted out of the car, did some deep breathing to regain my composure, and walked up the narrow drive between the house and green space, about the size of a city lot, besides the next Victorian building. A massive, century old, Garry Oak on the far edge of the lot, stood watch over a metal bench, where Greg sat waiting my arrival. The surrounding area was a patchwork of hard dirt and grass struggling to grow in the shade.
“I’m proud of you,” I said, placing my hand on Greg’s shoulder while scanning the group home wall. I stepped closer into the shadow of the Garry Oak, whose thick-grooved, black bark limb stretched across the surface, to get a better look. “You even got the boards underneath.”
Gregory beamed. Compliments and adult approval were rare for him.
“The top half, the bottom half. Both equally good,” Carlos boasted, joining us. Apparently, he had seen me on the grounds. He wore a new navy cardigan that I wanted to interpret as simpatico; everything new and fresh–-the sweater, the painted wall, and the renewed relationship between Carlos and Gregory. “Gregory a future painter, no?”
Greg frowned and shrugged his shoulders.
“If that’s what Greg chooses to do,” I said, “but I think he’s got some other ideas.”
Carlos squeezed between, wrapping an arm around each of us, reeking of cheap aftershave. “I wanted both of you to know that Carlos appreciates that you both delivered. Now, if there was a way I could get you to paint the rest of the building.”
Greg and I both laughed.
Carlos went back into the building.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Justin apologized, bought me a new magazine. We’re good.” His skin seemed to agree, shining with healthy luster.
“Come with me to the car. I got something for you.” We started down the narrow walkway leading to the street, where the car was parked, when I noticed that Greg wasn’t following. He stood still, his body angled toward the trunk of the Garry oak.
“Look,” he said, pointing. “A pileated woodpecker.”
Perched on the trunk, the woodpecker was black with a red crest and white lines down the sides of his throat. I had seen such a bird in the past but knew not what it was. I regarded birds as beautiful creatures, but never had any particular interest in birding, seeking out and identifying specific species. Gregory’s reaction surprised me. “I didn’t know you were into birds, Greg.”
“Yeah,” He talked excitedly as his eyes remained on the bird. “It’s a male. See the red line from his bill to his throat? In the female the line is black.”
With the birds we didn’t have to look at the underside to determine the sex. We continued onward when Greg was ready. Bobby was sitting in his Mustang with the windows open, playing with his smart phone. I introduced him to Greg, then reached into the back and pulled out a black bag which I handed to Greg.
Unzipping the bag, he pulled out a Canon SLR camera with a 100-400 mm IS lens. His eyes danced in the filtered sun. “Oh, a camera! For me?”
“For you. It’s film. I know the latest is digital but this one was Kevin’s. Laying around, not being used.”
“It’s a step up from the one I had.” He glowed, examining the camera. “Will you take me birding?”
“This weekend. I’ll get back to you on a time.”
