Doctor Perry
Page 1
Doctor Perry
Kirsten McKenzie
Copyright © 2018 by Kirsten McKenzie
A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are all products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental.
Book cover design by: Robert Rajszczak
ISBN 978-0-473-41991-2 (Paperback edition)
ISBN 978-0-473-41993-6 (Mobi edition)
Published by Squabbling Sparrows Press
PO Box 26,126, Epsom, Auckland 1023
New Zealand
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to Jillian McKenzie.
I wish I could magic away the arthritis in your fingers. Hopefully one day soon, a real (but kinder) Doctor Perry will invent a cure for you, and for the millions of other arthritis sufferers.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Cast of Characters
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kirsten McKenzie
1
Under the Hippocratic Oath, a doctor swears to remember that warmth, sympathy, and understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife or the chemist's drug.
Doctor Perry assures his elderly patients at the Rose Haven Retirement Home he can offer warmth, sympathy, and understanding. Doctor Perry is a liar.
Hiding from a traumatic past, Elijah Cone wants nothing to do with the other residents at the Rose Haven, content to sit at his window waiting to die. Under Doctor Perry death is the easy option...
Do you trust your doctor?
2
Elijah Cone’s fingers looked more like sausages than these sorry looking excuses for frankfurters did. His appetite fled after prodding them with his fork. The thud of cutlery in the dining room representative of how the rest of the folk felt about the evening meal. Insipid chatter between people who thought the Watergate saga was current news was the only accompaniment to the metallic clang of forks and knives on industrial crockery.
“You not eating, Elijah?” asked Benson Flag, an orderly.
Elijah looked up and shook his head. “Not today Benson, hurts too much to hold the knife. A shame when it looks so fine.”
“You want me to cut it up for you?”
Anger flared in Cone’s eyes. The orderly meant no harm, but no one likes being babied. It hadn’t been a lie, what he’d told the other man, cutting the sausages had sent a flame of pain so sharp through his knuckles that he thought he'd sawn off his own fingers.
Abandoning his meal, Elijah shuffled back to his room. He didn’t belong in this place, he belonged on the field with a whistle clamped between his teeth and a team of lads hanging off his every word. The great coach, Elijah Cone, who couldn’t even cut his own sausages.
Shutting his bedroom door, he lowered himself into the armchair he’d brought with him; a luxury item they’d called it. He could’ve brought a television too if he’d wanted but there was no chance of that — he didn’t care to watch any more. Didn’t want to chance seeing any footage of the game he’d once loved. You couldn't trust television programming these days; you never knew when the networks might slip in game highlights or breaking news about the players. Reading was his only pleasure now.
Picking up his book, an old autobiography of a long dead actress — where the likelihood of her mentioning sports was as slim as the level of joy in the Rose Haven Retirement Resort, he settled down to fill in the hours before lights out, like an eight-year-old waiting for his mom to kiss him goodnight. The minutiae of the actress’s lack-lustre life sent Elijah to sleep — a pain-wracked sleep. A sleep fractured by the half heard screams of someone else, someone from his dreams, someone from a lifetime ago. Or perhaps from someone down the hall.
Benson knocked on Elijah’s door, waiting for a response before letting himself in. Prising the book from the sleeping man’s talon-like hands, he covered Elijah’s legs with a crocheted throw from the bed. Poor guy needed better pain relief for his hands. It was damn hard for the residents when their insurance covered none of the effective arthritis meds.
Making a notation on his clipboard, Benson slipped out, locking the door behind him. Doctor Perry could prescribe something for old Cone, something stronger. Doctor Perry really looked after the patients well. That was the one good thing about this place.
Benson wasn’t the only orderly doing the rounds, Ricky Donovan snaked his way past an overstuffed armchair and matching footstool, a rainbow-coloured crocheted rug and a magazine rack heaving with umpteen copies of every woman’s gossip magazine ever produced, before reaching the old oak bureau on the opposite wall.
“Shit”, he muttered, stubbing his toe on another pile of magazines at the end of the bed. This old hag hadn’t followed the bloody rules, only one piece of personal furniture. The fucking rules were there for a reason.
Eyes acclimatising to the dark room, he smiled as he spied what he’d come for. Pocketing the ornate silver frame from the top of the writing desk, he turned carefully on the spot. He wasn’t stupid enough to stub his toe a second time. The old bat probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone. This room wasn’t on his duty list so he knew he wouldn’t get the blame if she did notice. The woman groaned in the bed and Ricky froze, or froze as much as he was able to given the incessant itching under his skin. It felt like tiny bugs were running relays through his arteries. Absently he scratched at his arm, reopening an older scab. Focused on the woman in the bed in front of him, he was oblivious to the blood seeping out from underneath the scab.
Satisfied she was still asleep, Ricky fancied he tiptoed silently out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. Disturbed, the woman in the bed pulled the covers further up to her chin, her old nose wrinkling at the sour odour left behind by Ricky’s departure. Someone had been in here
.
3
Doctor Perry tugged at his sleeves. No matter how carefully he hung his jacket, the fabric always looked as if he’d slept in it. He could invest in a better quality suit but that would waste money. His clients didn’t care how he dressed… most of the time they didn’t even dress themselves.
He checked his schedule. Neat appointments lined the page, allocating each patient twelve minutes, leaving him three minutes to write his notes and prepare for the next one. Would it be possible to shave another minute off each appointment? That way he could fit in more patients. He must remember to ask his receptionist to look into it. The extra funds would be welcome.
His smile widened as he considered Molly. A talented receptionist and an efficient patient wrangler. Better than the last one — less curious. He’d found that an essential trait in an employee. Curious staff were a liability.
Noting the regular booking at the Rose Haven Retirement Resort in his schedule, he smiled. Elderly patients without family made for profitable patients. He didn’t want long-term relationships with his patients, relationships invariably involved grown-up children further down the track. Having a whole old folks home on his books had been a boon to his bottom line, especially the Rose Haven Retirement Resort. He chuckled over the word Resort — the Rose Haven was as far removed from a resort as possible. Reeking of cabbage and urine, it housed pensioners too poor and unloved to go anywhere else. The dregs of a throwaway society. No one wanted them, no one except Doctor Perry.
“Molly, please send through the first patient,” Doctor Perry instructed through the intercom.
“Molly, please send through the first patient,” Doctor Perry instructed through the intercom.
His schedule listed the first client as Kimberley Swan, a new patient. He loved new patients. Before they walked through the door, there was always that delicious moment of not knowing whether they might be ideal for the little sideline he had running. There was always a chance today would be the day.
4
Elijah stared out the window. He wasn’t antisocial but there was a television in the communal lounge and even from here he could hear the sports channel. People might ask his opinion of the game, the players, or for deep insights into what was happening on the field. He couldn’t bear it so he’d just sit here till lunchtime. It was a Wednesday, meaning meatloaf was on the menu. He’d be able to manage that, along with the limp lettuce masquerading as salad which usually accompanied the meatloaf, followed by a tub of jelly for dessert. What was the reasoning behind serving jelly to the residents of a retirement home? Understandable at a kindergarten, which was a far more appropriate place for jelly. Mind you, he had his own teeth while half the other residents gummed their food to death. It was depressing to think he had a couple of decades of jelly on Wednesdays ahead of him.
Gazing outside, he appreciated one of his few blessings — that his room looked out over the main road, where cars, bicycles, and dog walkers kept him amused. He’d created lives for the regulars who passed by. There was the Rat Lady - an elderly woman walking a rodent-sized dog on a lead. Elijah had no time for anything smaller than a Labrador, so had no idea what breed of dog came that small. The Rat Lady always wore a beige jacket regardless of the weather and he imagined her stark naked underneath. He’d never seen her face as she always averted her eyes from the Rose Haven every time she passed, as if by merely looking at the dilapidated building she’d be sucked in. Today she teetered by in an ancient pair of cork platforms, giving her a bizarre hunched shape and in her ill-fitting beige jacket she looked almost spy-like.
He checked his wristwatch. Unlike his own ticker, it still kept time, never missing a beat. Any moment now the School Mum would hurry by wielding an enormous pram like a Normandy landing craft. Dawdling behind her would be her twins — two boys of such an incredible likeness he considered it wicked of the mother to dress them the same. For weeks he’d examined them as they walked by, looking for differences — did one dawdle more than the other? Was there an affectation to a smile or a gesture? He continued his quest today, watching the children in their matching shorts struggle under identical backpacks.
A commotion in the corridor turned his attention away from the street — someone was playing up. He hoped it wouldn’t impact on morning tea although if it did he wouldn’t be missing much — lukewarm tea and cheap arse cookies days away from their best before date. He mourned the days of sugar-laden muffins slathered with butter, washed down by a mug of strong coffee. Coffee wasn’t on offer at the Rose Haven Retirement Resort although its scent filled the halls, so he knew it was available — just not for the residents. It also lingered on the breath of the staff who revelled in making the resident’s lives as uncomfortable as possible, pushing them into an early grave. Retirement homes were all about the churn, turning the residents over as quickly as possible without resorting to holding a pillow over their heads. Every time one of them died, the next person who moved in had to pay more for the privilege of living there.
Elijah jumped at a thud against his door. The commotion outside might be worthwhile getting out of his chair for. He leveraged himself out of his chair trying not to use his hands more than necessary. His curiosity grew — yelling had joined the ruckus in the corridor.
Gritting his teeth, he grasped the door handle. You’d think an old folks home would have handles easy for the residents to use, but no. Opening his door was an almost insurmountable obstacle every day — just turning the doorknob made it feel like there were thousands of shards of glass embedded in his hands. He swallowed the pain to avoid drawing the attention of the nurses who were already in a lather over the performance in the hall. Any deviation from the prescribed daily programme wasn’t tolerated at the Rose Haven, and retribution was always swift.
With the door open enough for him to look out, Elijah saw two orderlies sitting on Johnny Paulson, with a nurse yelling into her radio. Management had recently issued the staff with handheld radios and the flustered nurse was using hers to summon help from the bowels of hell, or she would if she could use the thing.
This was the most entertained he’d been since coming here. He’d offer to help, he had plenty of experience with handheld radios from his years on the sidelines, but knowing how vindictive the staff were here, he held his tongue.
Frightened faces appeared at the edges of the corridor and from behind doors the same as his. It was worth missing out on morning tea to watch this play out. He momentarily forgot his own pain.
5
She’d presented with a minor skin complaint — one a hydrocortisone creme would sort out. And with another seven minutes left of her appointment he had time to check her blood pressure, temperature, weight — normal procedures for any new patient. He had a few additional questions he liked to ask new patients, questions peculiar to his medical practice. Ones which gave a more rounded overview of a patient and their background. Questions about family support, friendships, relationships. Most patients never thought to question why he needed to know.
Doctor Perry recorded the results in a peculiar shorthand, illegible to anyone else. Hand written notes stored in patient folders filed alphabetically in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in his office, some files fatter than others, and some as slender as a fingernail — holding only one or two sheets of paper. He didn’t trust computers, too easy to access remotely, and since maintaining patient confidentiality was of the utmost importance, he maintained this anachronism — an old-school paper-based filing system.
“So, Miss Swann-”
“Clarita is fine,” she replied.
“Your results are nothing concerning but I want to monitor your blood pressure. Are you under much stress? For your age, it’s too high for my liking,” he said, steepling his fingers.
Clarita Swann squirmed in her seat and Doctor Perry smiled — he liked it when patients replied nonverbally. She was holding something back, he could tell.
“You don’t have to tell me but come back in
a fortnight and we can run more tests and try to manage this before it gets out of hand. In fact, I’ll write you a prescription for the lotion for your hands and I’ll add some pills which may help with your anxiety. Moving to a new town can be stressful.”
Clarita protested but Doctor Perry was having none of it.
“These pills are all natural, I try not to prescribe my patients drugs when they don’t need them. It’s a natural remedy which I’ve found works well for people suffering from the beginnings of stress, they help ease things. Two weeks and I’ll see you again, and I’m sure there won’t be anything to worry about then and if there is, we can talk through some treatment options, hmm?”