Addiction (3 page)

Read Addiction Online

Authors: G. H. Ephron

BOOK: Addiction
7.23Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Channing's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Peter, you're starting to think like me. Actually, they are. Liam Jensen is running the clinical trials.” Jensen was a doctor who worked with Channing in the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit. Channing slowed down until a middle-aged couple walked past. “I've got most of my final report drafted. The final stats are being reviewed now.”
“Sounds like you think they're out to get you.”
“You think I'm being paranoid?”
“It's not paranoia when you're surrounded by assassins,” I said. “After all, you're the one who's still fighting greed, injustice, and the American way. I think you've got it written into your job description.”
Channing didn't smile. “How much longer, I wonder? You've heard the other allegations against me?”
“I haven't.” I tried to keep my head out of the noxious cloud of gossip that floats around the Pearce.
“You're probably the only one, then. They're questioning my clinical judgment.”
Clinical judgment
—a euphemism vague enough to cover just about anything. That and
not a team player
were the terms used to brand those who didn't go along or get along.
“They're saying that I behaved inappropriately. Got too close. Violated the boundaries.”
I paused, midstep. “You?”
Channing laughed. “Oh, come on, Peter. I'm not that much of a prig.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Well, maybe I am.” She took my arm and pulled me forward. “Anyway, some people find it credible. The worst part is that these allegations are being made in a way that I can't confront them. Character assassination by innuendo.”
We stopped near the edge of the parking lot, at the foot of an enormous concrete lion. The creature had his mouth open, his mane curling about his head as he hugged a shield emblazoned with the word
Veritas.
Channing glanced up at the beast and shivered.
“Truth,” she said, spitting out the word. “I know that's what this place is supposed to stand for. But sometimes I wonder if we're embracing it or devouring it whole.”
By the time I got back to the lobby outside the lecture hall, someone had disconnected the coffeepot and carried it off. I scooped up the last cookie crumbs and ate them.
“I didn't realize you and Channing Temple were such good friends,” Kwan said, coming up behind me. He was munching on what must have been the last Lorna Doone on the tray.
“Actually, we met ages ago. Back when we were both undergrads.”
“I wonder if she'll weather the storm,” Kwan said.
“The article in
JAMA
?”
“That, and they're saying she …”
I held up my hands. “Don't. I know as much as I want to know.”
Kwan put his hands over his eyes, then over his ears, then over his mouth.
“Right,” I said. “Besides, it's all bullshit. And she's an old friend.”
“Ah,” Kwan said, as if that explained something. “She's married, isn't she? Is he one of
the
Temples?”
“Huh?”
“Boston Brahmins. Old money.”
“Sounds right.”
I knew Drew Temple didn't have your typical day job. When people asked him what he did, he'd mumble something about managing property and financial assets. I'd always found him pleasant but distant. Part of it was the age difference—people sometimes assumed he was Channing's father, especially early in their marriage. And part of it was just who he was.
“Back Bay, I'll bet,” Kwan said.
I fished Channing's card from my pocket. Kwan pounced on it. He whistled. “Marlborough Street. Nice neighborhood. Saturday night?”
“She's having a dinner party.”
His eyes drifted over to my Harris tweed jacket. He eyed my fish tie as if it were an actual dead fish. “You're not going to wear that, are you?”
I flicked away an errant cookie crumb. “Not swank enough?”
“Not Marlborough Street enough. This calls for a good suit. And, Peter, I know for a fact that you don't own one. In fact, I think you don't even know what one is.” He checked his watch. “Let's see. Tuesday. If we get over there this evening, you'll have it in time.”
“There where? In time for what?”
“In time to save you from yourself. And permanent disrepute.”
I could have said no. I tell myself I don't care about appearances. And most of the time, I don't. But at just that moment, as I was pushing him away, my hand touched the sleeve of his jacket. The
fabric was soft, fine, nothing short of amazing. On top of that, I happened to look up and see the two of us reflected in the enormous gilt-framed mirror that hung on the wall opposite. That suit made Kwan—a fairly short person who avoids exercise the way some people eschew dirty socks—look tall and broad-shouldered. My trusty Harris tweed made me—a tall person with decent shoulders who feels rotten if I go more than a couple of days without rowing or running—look rumpled and squat.
If he'd waited a day, I probably would have backed out. But later that afternoon, before I'd had a chance to act on second thoughts, I found myself being helped out of Kwan's Lexus by the valet parking attendant at Neiman's.
Just as at Filene's Basement, there's a long escalator ride down into the men's department. But the similarity ends there. No beehive of activity to descend into. No one trying to push past us on the escalator. Instead, there was orderly calm, subdued chamber music, and the air was subtly infused with musk.
“Ah, Dr. Liu! A pleasure to see you again,” said an impeccably dressed fellow who materialized the moment we reached the floor. His face had a mannequin look about it, perfectly arranged, wrinkle-free, the eyebrows just a touch darker than you'd expect them to be. “What can we do for you today?” The royal We.
“Actually, nothing for me. I've brought in my colleague, Dr. Zak, for his first real suit.” The salesman tilted his head a micron and appraised me. The smile stiffened, and he stroked his chin. I wondered if his skin felt laminated.
“Certainly,” he said, and pulled something from his pocket and squeezed it twice to make a loud but somehow unobtrusive clicking sound.
I started to head for the exit—I didn't need this. But Kwan blocked my way. A smaller, younger man appeared. He quickly measured me and wrote a bunch of numbers on a little pad.
“Color?” the salesman asked, now addressing the question to Kwan.
“We're starting a wardrobe. I'd say a basic gray, chalk stripe.”
The salesman glided off and reappeared with two suits. He held one up. “Here we have a Brioni. Classic but contemporary.” The suit was three-button, dark gray with a muted stripe. “They weave their own fabrics in Milan. Hand-tailored, of course.”
I felt the fabric. The words
subtle yet lush,
right out of a clothier's ad, sprang to mind. There was a handwritten tag just visible from the sleeve. “Five thousand dollars?” I croaked. My first car had cost less.
Poker-faced, the salesman put the suit aside and held up the other one. “And here we have a Canali. Understated elegance. Fine detailing, of course. More, uh, affordable.” The final word came out raspy, as if saying it hurt.
“How much more affordable?” I asked.
“Just try on the damn suit, Peter,” Kwan growled. “It's not going to kill you.”
“I wonder if I might suggest,” the salesman offered as he carried the suit toward the dressing room, “a shirt and tie to try with it?”
When I came out, Kwan did a double take. “Peter? That you in there?”
I stood in front of the mirror, and a stranger gazed back. Could have been the medical director of the hospital. Or James Bond. Depending on my frame of mind.
I took it all—the suit, the shirt, the tie. I held my nose and handed over my credit card.
“Great purchase,” the salesman oozed. “You'll wear that suit for five years.”
He made it sound like an eternity.
THERE WAS a storm the night of Channing's party. When I got to my car, the windshield had become a glaze of ice. My fingers turned numb as I hacked away at it with a dull plastic scraper when what I needed was a blowtorch.
I had plenty of time to speculate about what I'd find when I met Olivia. From ebullient toddler, to mousy preteen, to what? I hoped a normal youngster, rebelling in the time-honored way in which adolescents differentiate themselves from their parents. I longed to be able to reassure Channing: This too shall pass.
By the time I had cleared the car windows, I was late. I was supposed to pick up Annie on a street corner near the Cambridge Courthouse—she'd worked all afternoon, setting up her new office. I hoped Annie wasn't freezing to death. I drove as fast as I dared, taking yellow lights as invitations to speed.
Annie looked like a dandelion puff, her curly, reddish hair backlit by the streetlight, her face clouded with dragon's breath. Instead of her usual jeans and leather jacket, she had on a full-length coat that looked like one of those sleeping bags that are supposed to keep you warm, camping out overnight on Mount Washington. She
slid into the car, leaned over, and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. Her lips were icy.
“To Marlborough Street, Jeeves,” she said, shivering. “And can you crank up the heat in this old car of yours?”
I'd almost finished restoring the 1967 BMW. I was taking my time, hammering out the rear quarter panel—I'd done it once already, but a run-in with a red Firebird in a parking garage had left it in need of further straightening. After that, there wouldn't be much left to do. I'd miss working on the car at quiet, ungodly hours, long before any sane person willingly contemplates crawling out of bed.
“I do love that leather smell,” Annie added, inhaling. “Mmm. So comforting.”
I inhaled too. But it was Annie's scent, watermelon and rose water, that I was enjoying.
I caught Annie eyeing me. “I was glad to hear from you,” she said.
“It's been—” I paused, trying to remember how long it had been.
“Six weeks,” Annie said.
“Not.”
Annie laughed. “No one can accuse you of rushing into anything. Though I have to say, I was disappointed at the change of plans.”
I reached over and put my hand over hers. An electrical charge zapped up my arm. “A quiet dinner for two would have been nice,” I said.
“Next time,” Annie replied, and put her hand on my knee and squeezed.
It was with considerable effort that I continued toward Back Bay—down Memorial Drive, across the Harvard Bridge—instead of making a U-turn and heading back to my place.
This stretch of Mass. Ave. was undistinguished—a row of rundown restaurants, convenience stores, and bars. As soon as we turned onto Marlborough Street, the landscape changed. Trees reached up from either side of the street, not quite forming an
arching trellis overhead. Electrified gas lamps cast a soft light on tidy rows of town houses, the cornices lined up in soothing, nineteenth-century uniformity.
The parking was residents-only, but even a resident would have had a hard time finding a parking spot that night. We ended up at a meter on Clarendon and walked back.
We stood on the sidewalk and gazed up at the house.
Annie exhaled. “Wow.”
“Wow,” I echoed. “They used to live a few blocks away. But that house was about half the size of this one.”
The formidable, gray granite town house had a double staircase going up to an arched doorway with windows on either side. A crystal chandelier sparkled through one of the windows.
Annie scrunched up her shoulders and pulled the collar of her coat around her neck. “This place is going to make my teeth itch.”
I smiled and wondered what Channing would make of Annie. The two couldn't have been more different, and neither one was much like Kate. On the surface at least. Physician, private investigator, artist. Still, each one was about as independent and self-sufficient as a person can get.
We mounted the steps. The brass fittings—banister, wall-mounted mailbox, and door knocker—looked as if they'd just been polished. I rang the bell. The front door was drawn open by a young man in a tuxedo who looked as if his teeth itched, too. Probably a student working for the caterer.
Overflowing floral arrangements were grace notes in the generously proportioned, high-ceilinged entrance hall. There were French doors on either side; one led to a parlor, the other to a book-lined study. The entryway continued past a curved staircase to the back of the house.
It sounded as if about two dozen guests were there already. I recognized some colleagues from the hospital. The ones I didn't recognize were probably Drew's friends—stockbrokers and real estate developers, most likely.
I glanced up the stairs to the second-floor landing. No Olivia.
Annie shed her coat like a gray cocoon. She wore a short, sleeveless dress. The black velvet hugged her like a second skin. I tried not to stare. She looked spectacular. I was doing what women say they hate, staring at her legs, the swell of her hips, her breasts, giving her the once over from the bottom up. When I got up to her face, I realized she hadn't noticed. Or if she had, she didn't mind. She was looking at me, open-mouthed, as if I'd just swallowed a goldfish.
She touched the lapel of my new suit and whistled. “You clean up good.”
I laughed out loud. “Speak for yourself!”
“Peter, I'm so glad you could make it,” Channing said as she flowed into the room, holding a half-filled champagne flute. Her face was flushed, and she tripped over the hem of her voluminous maroon skirt and then quickly recovered her footing. Some champagne splashed onto the Persian carpet.
This time I executed the Kiss without bumping noses. I handed her a bottle of 1986 Calon-Segur, velvety red, just ready to drink. “For a special occasion,” I said. “Channing, this is …”
Annie smiled sweetly, “Annie Squires—criminal investigations, missing persons”—she raised an eyebrow at me—“lost loves.”
Channing laughed. “How appropriate,” she said, and extended a long, elegant hand. Annie gave her a solid handshake back. “I'd definitely like to hear more.” She leaned in toward me and lowered her voice, “Peter, you must promise to rescue me if I disgrace myself. I got beeped last night, and I barely slept a wink. I feel like roadkill, and this”—she held the champagne glass at arm's length—“is going straight to my head.”
“Peter!” Gray-haired and distinguished in a red plaid dinner jacket and black bow tie, Channing's husband, Drew Temple, came toward us, two glasses of champagne in hand. With his six-foot-plus frame, he had to stoop coming through the doorway. “Delighted you could make it.” When he smiled, the lines in his face deepened.
We took the champagne, and I introduced Annie.
Annie shivered. “You still cold?” I asked, and put my arm around her. Then I felt the draft, too.
We turned. The front door had been pushed open. Channing went over to the young woman who'd stepped into the hallway.
“Chan …” the woman stopped herself. “Dr. Temple,” she said, and extended a stiff arm. The bracelets on her thin wrist jingled.
Channing took her hand and squeezed it. “Jess, I'm so glad you could make it. Let me take your coat.”
The woman slipped off her wool coat. Beneath, she wore a short black sleeveless dress, like Annie's. I looked around. Most of the women at the party were wearing practically the same outfit. With her long neck, narrow waist, aristocratic nose, and the way she held her head slightly tilted, the young woman reminded me of a blond Audrey Hepburn. The same innocence mixed with sophistication. Definitely not Audrey Hepburn was the battered backpack she set on the floor, and the small tattoo, maybe a butterfly, that adorned her ankle.
“You look very pretty tonight,” Channing told her. Then, she put her arm around the young woman and presented her to me. “This is Jess Dyer,” she said, emphasizing the name as if it was one I should know. But it didn't ring a bell.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. She had long fingers, like the slender toes of a wading bird. I introduced her to Annie.
“Dr. Dyer. The resident I told you about,” Channing reminded me.
“Oh, right! You'll be starting your Neuropsych rotation next week,” I said remembering the message Channing had left me a few weeks ago. “We're looking forward to having you.” We were always understaffed. A good resident was an extra doctor on the unit, one with a not-yet-jaded perspective.
“Believe me, I'm looking forward to it as well,” Jess said.
“She's unusually talented,” Channing said. Jess blushed. “That's
why I recommended she work with you. She's interested in testing.” That was unusual—psychiatrists are generally content to leave testing to psychologists.
At the top of the stairs, a gangly, dark-haired girl peered down. She vanished before I could get a good look. Even from a brief glimpse, I realized I never would have recognized her as Channing's daughter.
“I'll be there, bright and early Monday morning,” Jess said. Then she excused herself to find the powder room.
Channing watched her leave. “Smart, very empathic. She's been through a rather difficult year. Just needs a bit of centering. Ballast. The kind of mentoring I got from Daphne when I was doing my own residency.”
How much centering, I wondered? I hoped this young woman wouldn't turn out to be an extra patient.
“Is Daphne here?” I asked.
A peel of laughter rippled from the adjoining room, followed by, “Oh, sod off, Liam. You can't be serious.”
Channing raised a finger. “That's her, in the flesh.”
We peered into the neighboring room. There was Dr. Daphne Smythe-Gooding, her straight, shoulder-length white hair gleaming against shoulders-to-floor dark silk. “She's looking well,” I said.
“She certainly seems to have come out of mourning.”
Daphne's husband had died the previous summer. Robert Smythe-Gooding had been only sixty years old. He and Daphne were icons of solidity at the Pearce. Robert, the brilliant researcher; Daphne, the scholarly clinician. When I first arrived at the Pearce, he was chief of psychiatry. Everyone assumed he'd be in line to become director of the hospital. Then, there had been some kind of reshuffling that had the whiff of scandal about it, and he was shunted aside to a new position, director of clinical trials.
I'd seen it happen many times since. Hearsay about drugs disappearing under a particular unit director's watch. A doctor rumored to be sleeping with his patients. Gossip about an administrator's mishandling of funds. Who knew if the stories were
true? The dirty little secret at the Pearce was that though senior staff rarely got fired, they got “promoted” into meaningless jobs, assigned “special projects.” The rumor mill managed attrition by grinding away at reputations. Eventually, the person disappeared from the org chart, leaving barely a ripple.
That wasn't what had happened to Robert. At first the new position had no real duties. Single-handedly, he'd written grant proposals and spearheaded research projects. He recruited doctors to work with him, courted the National Institute of Mental Health, the pharmaceutical companies, and the foundations. When the money started to roll in, it became apparent that research was going to be key to the institute's survival.
Robert had been director of clinical trials right up until his death. Cancer, metastasized to the brain. Daphne was at his side constantly in his final months, until they'd both disappeared from view. A few weeks later, I saw the obituary. I was glad for him. Cancer like that usually means a lingering death.
“Didn't I hear that Daphne's been named director of clinical trials?” I asked.
“Yes. Of course, she's been doing the job for a while anyway. Robert was trying to carry on for as long as possible with the same old routines, but he was failing. Refused help from anyone but her. Cantankerous old son of a bitch.” Channing smiled at the memory. “Still, I never expected her to defect to the dark side.”
It was typical Channing. She had no trouble seeing the issues her patients faced in every shade of the color palette. Medical ethics were another story. She saw a monochromatic battlefield, inhabited by armies of black hats and white hats.
There was another peel of laughter. “I almost don't recognize her these days,” Channing said.
Daphne seemed smaller than I remembered her, somewhat tentative in the way she stood, with her head tilted to one side. She was holding a wine glass in one hand, but her other hand seemed to float away from her side, as if she were groping for something that wasn't there. Perhaps without her husband beside her, she felt
off balance. That wasn't so unusual. Six months after Kate's death, I'd only just begun to come to terms with the loss—two years later, I still had trouble defining myself as “alone.” When my dad died, I remembered, my mother took more than a year to bounce back. Dad had been the one who had organized their social life, initiated friendships. No one was more surprised than Mom when she turned out to be a natural schmoozer.

Other books

The Hungry (Book 3): At the End of the World by Booth, Steven, Shannon, Harry
Having It All by Jurgen von Stuka
Duty Bound (1995) by Scott, Leonard B
Diving Into Him by Elizabeth Barone
Love in Vogue by Eve Bourton
The Devil's Dwelling by Jean Avery Brown