by D. J. Palmer
I stumbled back to my bed, feeling like the floor was made of water. My stomach rumbled as I slumped onto the mattress. I drifted off for a second, then jolted awake when I heard the door slam into the wall. A stout nurse in blue scrubs with dark hair to match her dark expression barged in, and behind her were two large men who could easily have played the entire offensive line for my high school football team. They came at me fast, surrounding me.
“You shouldn’t be up, Meghan,” the nurse said. “Guess we didn’t give you enough.”
“Enough what?” I asked. My voice was soft in my ears. “Where am I?”
“The hospital, Meghan. You’re a patient here. I’m Nurse Amy,” said the nurse. “I’ll be looking after you for a few hours.”
One of the large men came out from behind Nurse Amy. He had mocha-colored skin and a mustache like a pencil line. He also had a big bandage on his arm, which could explain his angry look. I thought of the bite I’d given someone and wondered if he might have been on the receiving end.
“How are you feeling?” Nurse Amy asked me.
“I don’t want to be here,” I said, tears springing to my eyes. There were flashes of Dr. Nash and Dr. Levine. I had met with them at White. My parents were here somewhere, in the waiting room probably. I had to get to them. I didn’t know how long I’d been here, but something told me it was a long time.
I jumped off the bed and rushed for the door. Well, in my mind I was rushing. It was more like I threw myself off the bed and fell into Nurse Amy, connecting hard enough to knock her to the ground. I heard a muffled grunt when she hit the floor. Spinning, I managed to avoid Bite Mark, but ran straight into another one of the goons Nurse Amy had brought with her. This guy grabbed my shoulders and, in reflex, my knee went up to his groin. I connected with something there, because he doubled over in pain. Adrenaline surged through me, bringing me back to my senses. I knew the feeling well from the soccer field. Everything was in sharp focus, clear as a glass of water. I sized up my opposition in a fraction of a second. He was the last defender I had to beat before I’d square off with the goalie—only this goal was the open door out of here.
As I neared the door, I could see Bite Mark in my peripheral vision, lunging at me. I gave a little juke move, one I’d practiced countless times with a ball at my feet: a shift to the right before rapidly decelerating and shifting to my left. Bite Mark fell for it, dived to his right, and tackled only air. I spun the other way and was on the move again, headed for the open door that was maybe five or six strides away. I glanced behind me the same way I would if a defender were on my heels.
I made a few quick assessments. Wherever I had kneed Mustache Man, I must have hurt him, because he was still on the floor, groaning. Also, Nurse Amy wasn’t very athletic, because she, too, was slow to get up. I had Bite Mark beat, and even though I was feeling funky from whatever drug they’d put in me, I thought my chances were good to get away.
I’d made it to the door and was deciding if I should run left or right when a mountain-size man appeared in the doorway. He grabbed me in a bear hug, hoisted me off my feet. I squirmed to try to slip from his grasp, but he tightened his grip around my waist until I started to have difficulty breathing.
I twisted my body to free myself, and that’s when I saw Nurse Amy coming at me with a needle the size of a bayonet attached to a large syringe. I whirled back around and tried to sink my teeth into the chest of the guy holding me. Before I could latch on, he used one hand to push my head away. He was strong enough to keep hold of me with one arm, but then again, he outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds.
“No!” I screamed. “I want my mom! I want my mom! I just want my mom!”
I kicked and thrashed wildly in the giant man’s arms, but couldn’t break free of his hold. I couldn’t look at the needle coming my way either.
“Mom!” I screamed.
I felt a sharp pain in my arm and saw the needle being pulled out of my flesh like the fang of a snake having deposited its venom. Almost immediately my blood felt hot as my skin started to tingle all over. I felt this incredible warmth swimming through me.
The tension in my muscles let go. My legs went still. My head was buzzing, but I wasn’t scared anymore. A peaceful feeling washed over me like I’d been set free. I was a fish now, swimming up a river. Water rushed through my gills. I was a bird taking flight for the first time, soaring high into the sky, turning before making a dive. I was a cloud floating. A tunnel appeared before me, darkly ominous. I was being dragged toward it. I pushed against the feeling, but it was no use. I wasn’t strong enough to resist. A thought came to me as I slipped inside that dark space, one single, final thought that was as clear as if I’d spoken the words aloud.
I’m getting out of here. I’m getting out of here, and you can’t stop me.
CHAPTER 23
BECKY
She rose from her seat at the booth in the back of the diner to greet Dr. Levine. They shook hands tentatively before settling across from each other.
“Thank you so much for making time for me,” Becky said.
“I don’t have long,” Dr. Levine answered.
“I have to be at the lawyer’s office soon,” Becky offered as a way of assuring him she’d keep it brief. “But I would have dropped everything to make this meeting happen.” She peered over her grease-splattered menu and caught Dr. Levine looking at her, his eyes lingering a beat too long to avoid notice. Becky had her strategy worked out in advance, thinking she could pit Nash against Levine—use the younger doctor’s ego to her advantage. But now she wondered if there was something else that might give her an edge.
Did she remind him of someone, an unrequited love from high school, perhaps? The cheerleader he could only admire from afar? Aside from LinkedIn, which offered scant clues about the man, Levine kept his social media accounts private. But the way he’d looked at her made Becky wonder if there was a girl who had rejected him years ago.
As a precaution, Becky had come dressed for that possibility. She looked more like she was going out on the town than having breakfast at the Moonlight Diner—a hole-in-the-wall kind of place that Dr. Levine had suggested for its proximity to White Memorial, but not so close as to risk being spotted by Nash or worse. She’d let her hair down for the occasion, and her bronzy blond mane that draped past her shoulders was full of body, thanks to the extra conditioning treatment she’d applied. To enhance her tawny complexion, Becky had used her Giorgio Armani foundation, and her perfume scented the air with a touch of seduction. She wore a formfitting black turtleneck sweater, and the shape of her body in jeans as she strode to the back of the diner drew glances from the male and female patrons alike.
It had taken her almost as much effort to get ready as it had to get Levine to agree to this hastily arranged rendezvous. On the phone, Levine had held all the cards, but that one look he sent her, an innocuous little tell, provided Becky a clue as to how to play him. He was so young and simple, many years and burdens away from having complex channels burrowed into his psyche. The same could not be said for her husband, the man she should feel closest to, her rock, her true north, who had let their current struggles cloud him with doubt and angst.
“Why don’t you come right out and say it,” Becky had snapped at Carl earlier that morning as he was tying his blue tie in the hexagonal mirror that hung above a custom double vanity in their bathroom.
“Say what?” Carl had mumbled to his reflection.
“That you think I’m abusing Meghan. That you believe I’m intentionally harming her.”
“I don’t think that,” Carl said in a detached manner that lacked all conviction. “Like I said, I think you’re confused. I think you’ve become confused.”
“What’s the difference?” Becky asked as she painted on a truffle-colored shade of lipstick. Why isn’t he asking why I’m getting made up? Becky had wondered. What does he think I’m doing today before our meeting with the lawyer? Why doesn’t he care?
&n
bsp; The bathroom where Becky and Carl had readied themselves for the day was nicer than their first apartment. Hell, it was nicer than their first home. Cool and chic, designed in a luxurious gray, the master bath featured mixed marble with natural stone elements. Becky could not remember the last time she and Carl had made love in the freestanding tub, but there was a time not too long ago when he’d make her a bubble bath, scent it with rose water, and kneel at her side as he washed her back. When Meghan got sick, Becky began taking baths alone.
She knew her marriage was on rocky ground, but Carl was still her husband, and Becky could not turn off her loyalty like a light switch. She’d done that with her mother for valid reasons, but also with lasting consequences. Despite her best efforts to hold on, her marriage had turned into something utterly unfamiliar. She was no longer a wife, but she wasn’t a widow or an ex-wife either. She was trapped in something akin to marital purgatory.
On occasion, they’d still have sex, but Carl had grown distant and disconnected. Sometimes she’d get him to look her in the eyes, but those looks never lasted for long. Their lovemaking went from being intimate to a check-box item that they had to make sure got done because it seemed the only thing that bound them as husband and wife.
When he became angry with her over Meghan, when innuendo turned into accusation, they had stopped having sex altogether—unless they had enough wine and whiskey to make it possible to forget who they were and what they were going through. In that way, they’d become intimate strangers. Maybe that was all they could manage. Maybe that’s why she had decided to keep two secrets from Carl that day, her breakfast meeting with Dr. Peter Levine being one of them.
At first, Dr. Levine would not even take her call, but Becky guessed right how to bait him. His LinkedIn profile showed membership in Alpha Omega Alpha, the national medical honor society, along with other academic achievements. Levine might not have had a lot of experience as a doctor, but a scan of his curriculum vitae revealed him to be competitive and determined to succeed. He was also professionally green as a newly sprouted sapling, having completed his residency only a year ago, which meant he was still out to prove himself, leaving his ego vulnerable to attack.
Becky’s instinct told her that Levine was under Nash’s thumb, so she put that assumption to the test first by getting him on the phone, and again after he’d rejected her breakfast invitation.
“I understand your reluctance to meet,” she had said on the phone to him. “I’m sure Dr. Nash wouldn’t approve.”
“Dr. Nash doesn’t manage my schedule,” Dr. Levine said in a sharper tone. Becky could not suppress her smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Dr. Nash gave me the impression that she was the one in charge, that you were … inexperienced. Her word, not mine.”
Even though Nash and Levine worked in different departments, Becky knew enough about a hospital’s inner workings to play up the turf war angle. She had been careful to keep her tone friendly while making sure Levine knew she thought less of him because of Nash. It was a delicate mind game, and Levine was too inexperienced in the ways of life and women to realize he was being played.
“I don’t work for her,” he had said. “She’s not my boss. I’m a doctor, same as she is.”
Becky knew then and there the battle was won, but she still had to seal the deal.
“How about this, Peter,” she said, using his first name. “Meet me for a cup of coffee, just the two of us. There’s something you should know about Dr. Nash. Something my lawyer told me that you’d want to hear. I promise I only want to talk. Unless, of course, you’re not allowed.”
That was it all took. They spent another five minutes setting up the meeting place and time with all the intrigue of an espionage novel. Levine’s objections were numerous: That’s too close to the hospital. I don’t want anyone to see us. It has to be discreet.
Now that they were finally together, Becky had high hopes of emerging victorious once again. For her, victory was an easy mark to define: Meghan had to come home. Manipulating and maneuvering the green doc gave her no joy, but Levine and Nash had given Becky no alternative.
Dr. Levine set his menu down on the red laminate table. “I’m just going to have coffee,” he announced.
“Me, too,” said Becky, setting her menu down as well.
She was careful to keep her eye contact brief. She did not want to do anything that would come across as blatantly flirtatious, but she did not want to seem unavailable either. It was a delicate balance, and while she tried to exude confidence, underneath she was as nervous as a new driver. Levine was the way out of her nightmare, but one misstep would close that exit for good.
She appraised him thoughtfully, hoping his eyes would do the talking. Should she play the Nash angle as she had planned? Or try the Mrs. Robinson approach: the older, more experienced woman, piquing his curiosity?
By the time the waitress came to take their coffee orders, Becky had settled on her strategy.
“How is Meghan?” she asked.
It had been almost forty-eight hours since she’d last seen her daughter. Almost two days without hearing Meghan’s voice, seeing her precious face.
“She’s fine. We’re taking good care of her. I promise.”
“Peter,” Becky said, aware of the effect using his first name would have now that they were in person. “Peter, please, look at me—just look.”
He did. He could not help himself.
“I’m not who you think I am.”
Levine’s boyish face took on a newfound hardness. “Is that why we’re here? I thought you had something to tell me about Dr. Nash.”
“I do, and I will share it. But I want you to see me, really see me, to get to know me. I want you to believe that I’m not the person you think I am.”
“I didn’t make my assessment based on you, Mrs. Gerard. I did it based on Meghan. That’s my job.”
“Please, please, call me Becky, and I understand. I honestly do. But now that we’re here, together, do I strike you as someone who’d harm my daughter for attention, or to fill up some dark hole in my soul? Yes, I have real knowledge of medicine, especially of Meghan’s illness, and I’ve made relationships with her doctors. And, yes, I’ve been intensely involved in her care, but I’m asking you—what mother wouldn’t?”
“I understand what you’re saying.”
Becky sensed a coming breakthrough. She pressed ahead. “I’ve studied the illness, Munchausen. I know that mothers with this sickness had an insecure or ambivalent relationship with their own parents—often the mother—and as a result had a hard time forming attachments. Then they’d overcompensate with their own children. That’s not me. That’s not me at all. I love my mother dearly. In fact, she’s dying of cancer, and I can’t fly to California to be with her because of Meghan’s illness and this situation we’re in.”
While it was true Cora was still alive, Becky doubted Levine would track down Sabrina to get the real story there.
“I didn’t grow up in a chaotic, unstable household,” Becky continued, referring to yet another characteristic commonly found in perpetrators of Munchausen by proxy. “I’m not a compulsive or controlling mother. I’m not suffering from some inconsolable grief that I’ve projected onto Meghan. I’m just extremely devoted to my daughter, my only child.”
That was it. Those were all the symptoms of Munchausen by proxy that Becky knew about. If Levine were a dogged detective, if he were to go digging, truly hunt, he could refute every claim she had made, checking every box for the condition markers in the process. Becky was counting on him not being all that thorough.
“I’m not in a position to do a psychological evaluation of you, Ms. Gerard,” Levine offered in response.
“Becky, please. I may be a good deal older than you, Doctor, but don’t make me feel it.”
“Becky, then.”
“Do I strike you as insecure?”
“Like I told you, I’m not here to do a clinical evaluat
ion of you. I’m interested to know what you’ve heard about Amanda Nash.”
Becky knew it would come down to this.
“She has it out for Dr. Fisher. Do you know that? She thinks he sees cases of mito where there is no mito because of what happened to his son. That’s why she got it in her head that I was doing something to Meghan. No other explanation worked for her—certainly not the truth, of course, which is that Meghan has mito.”
“She doesn’t make the psychiatric diagnosis,” Dr. Levine replied. “I do.”
“Then you can undo it,” Becky said in a pleading voice. “Let’s exhaust all diagnostic possibilities before you accuse me.”
“That would go against my clinical judgment.”
Becky reached across the table and placed her hand over Dr. Levine’s. She sensed him slipping away. Time to switch tactics. His skin felt soft, new, and receptive to her touch. He did not pull away. He held her gaze. He was trying so hard to be a man—it was almost endearing. Would she do it? That was the question tumbling about her head. Would she sleep with this man to get her daughter back? All he had to do was change his clinical opinion. All she had to do was surrender her soul.
“You’re wrong,” Becky said. “Look at her again. Examine her again. Nash wanted this, not you, Peter. She’s got it out for Dr. Fisher. She and Knox Singer want Zach gone from White because his mito diagnoses are costing big bucks, and they’re using my daughter as the puppet to make that happen. They’re using you, same as they are using me. Don’t you see?”
Becky saw a flicker in Levine’s eyes. The shift was so slight, it was almost imperceptible, but it was there, a nascent fear bubbling below the surface that maybe, just maybe, she was right.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” Levine said. “I’m not a parent, but I can understand your struggles here. However, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to help. I firmly believe Meghan is where she needs to be. In fact, I think I’m going to take a pass on the coffee.” He started to rise. “It’s not right for us to be together.”
