Little Black Lies (19 page)

W
as she wearing purple?” Jason asks.

He is inquiring about my manic patient, Claudia, who is improving. This morning at least she didn't way the word “whore” once, and I could get a word in “edgily” as Dr. A would say. And she is back to accepting medications into the holy temple of her body. As usual, we are waiting in the resident room for Dr. Grant to start Professor Rounds. A week after my disastrous Jean Luc/not-birth-mother reunion, I am back in the saddl
e
at work.

“No,” I say, thinking back. “A pink sundress. Why?”

“I have a theory. All manic women wear purple.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, that's reductionist.”

Dr. A looks up from the DSM V that he is halfway through memorizing. “Zoe! That is an excellent use of the word ‘reductionist.'”

“Thank you.”

“You people are beyond help,” Jason mutters, pulling out his phone to check e-mail.

“You're wearing purple,” I point out, noticing his lavender shirt and matching tie. “So does that mean
you're
manic?”

“No, that means I'm gay.”

Dr. A shakes his head at us as if we are children, and just then Dr. Grant sticks his head in the doorway unexpectedly. “Dr. Goldman, can I see you for a moment?''

“Sure,” I say, standing up clumsily on my leg.

“Let's go in my office,” he says. Dr. A and Jason watch us, thinking for sure I'm about to get fired. I am wondering what on earth I could have said to the manic patient. His office is cramped with piles of books stacked on the floor, as if a hoarder might live here. We sit across from each other with his desk, which is buried under academic articles, between us. He has a poorly drawn cartoon framed above his desk with a lightbulb saying “Q: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb? A: One, but it has to really want to change.” Despite myself, I chuckle.

“Zoe,” he says. I realize he has never called me by my first name. “I wanted to talk to you about your patient.”

“Claudia?” I swallow. “I think we're getting somewhere, but we still have a few weeks for the meds to really kick in and—”

“No, no, not that one. Sofia Vallano.”

“Oh, okay. What is it?”

“Well,” he says, pulling some large drawings from the side of his desk. “It appears she may have developed a sort of unhealthy attraction to you.”

“Oh?”

Dr. Grant pushes some charcoal pictures my way, and I lean over to look. There are about ten pictures in all. In one, I am smiling, my stethoscope hanging lopsided on my neck, mid-speech, seriously engaged in therapy. Another shows me standing tall, framed by the doorway, even catching the sheen of my name tag. Sofia has nailed every detail: my minimally uneven incisor, my eyes looking round and fishlike when I get excited, the slant of my lab coat against my chest, pockets stuffed with papers.

One in particular strikes me. I am sitting, thoughtful, by the window. My face is pale against the night sky, the moon a white ball in the corner of the page. The shadow of the tree branches can just be seen reflecting off the wall beside me. This must have been from the one time I went to see her at night, when she told me about her father.

“Interesting,” I say, leafing through them. Maybe I have made more of an impression on her than I thought. “They are intense. But innocent, I would think. What did she say about them?”

Dr. Grant rubs his hands together. “She said she connected with you.”

Her words come back to me. “I like you, Dr. Goldman.” But was that
like
like?

“It's funny. I feel like we haven't really connected at all.”

He clears his throat and inches his chair closer to the desk. “I do have to ask, in these circumstances…” There is a pause. I know what he is going to ask, and it is horrifying. “Is there any type of”—he barks out a cough—“romantic relationship, possibly, between you?”

“No,” I say. Once, firmly, that's all. No explanation needed.

“Okay.” He looks relieved. Then he quickly adds, “If there were, we could talk about it. It's not an uncommon part of the transference/countertransference process. Even if it's emotions that haven't been acted on yet. That's the best time to catch it.”

“No, Dr. Grant. I appreciate your concern, but I don't have any strong emotional attachment to Sofia Vallano.” Other than the fact that she's invaded my hypnosis sessions and my nightmares.

He bites his lip, thinking. “You know, the pictures might actually be a positive sign then. A signal that she is trying to connect with people again.”

“Maybe,” I say, though I'm not so sure.

“In any case, I'm transferring her to Jason on Monday, just to be on the safe side.” He puts his hands on the desk as if he's about to stand up.

“Actually, there is something about Sofia that I wanted to discuss.”

He drops his hands back on his lap. “All right.”

“I just”—I say, struggling with how to put this best and decide to keep it simple—“I just don't like her.”

Dr. Grant smiles, then stops, trying to be serious for my sake. “Empathy, Zoe, is something we can work on. It doesn't come naturally with every patient, especially one like this. There are exercises we can do, steps we can take. Sometimes, honestly, you just have to fake it.”

“So here's the scoop, Zoe.” It's my high school friend Parker, the Syracuse reporter extraordinaire. No one else would actually call it a “scoop.”

“Yes,” I say, reaching for the back of my patient printout to write down notes. I push Sofia Vallano's chart to the side, and it sticks to some invisible stain on the Formica table at the nurses' station.

“Here's the short version: I can find no evidence of a fire.”

“Really?” Dizziness washes over me. “Are you sure?”

I hear banter in the background, laughter. No typewriters, though, because this isn't the movies. “I only go
t
a couple of minutes here, but I'll tell you what I found. I went back through all the potential years, from a few years before your birth to five years later.”

“And there were no Syracuse fires in all that time?”

“I'm not saying that,” he clarifies, a bit testy. “There were a dozen restaurants with suspicious fires, arson of a suspected heroin den, several house fires, but definitely nothing at the address you gave me. It was a new build, you're right there. But the land had been a wilderness preserve for a rare tree species, fought over for years before a new pro-business mayor came on board and the rules changed. That was the big news on that address, if you can call that news.”

“And nearby, no fires?”

“A young mother dies in a fire? We would have found it, Zoe. Nothing that fits your description. Sorry.”

I pause. “What about the article on it?”

“Oh yeah,” Parker says. “That's another thing. We couldn't find that file in the archives at all. Same with the obituary.”

A nurse comes into the room, grabs an IV bag, and leaves again. “What do you mean? Was it lost maybe? Do your archives go back that far?”

“Yes, they do,” he says. “We have issues saved from that year, but that article wasn't in there. Neither was the obituary. In fact, they don't even look like actual articles from our paper.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's weird. The header is from our paper; that's for sure. But the margins are off, and they have a different font than we were using back then.”

“So you're saying the articles aren't real?”

“That's what I'm saying.
I think somebody cobbled them together, forged them. Maybe someone gave your parents fake copies or something? I don't know.”

Or maybe my parents gave
me
fake copies.

I hear Parker's name yelled out in the background. “Hey, I really got to go. Call me later if you need to.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I say, staring at what I have written on the back of my patient list.

It looks like a bizarre haiku. My life feels like a bizarre haiku.

I open Sofia's chart again when a familiar form walks by with his usual confident stride: Mike. He leans over the counter across from me, pointing at my cast. “I distinctly remember stating, ‘No work for one month.'”

“It's
been
a month,” I argue.

“It's been two weeks.”

“Oh well, you know. A month, two weeks…”

“You were bored?”

“To death.”

Mike swings around into the nurses' station, looks through the chart rack, grabs a chart, and sits next to me, perusing it. “How's the leg doing, anyway?”

“Okay.” I start my note while he flips through pages of his chart. The fluttering of the pages echo in the silence. “You know, Mike?”

“Yes, Zoe.”

“I'm sorry if I was a jerk before. I was just…in the process of getting over someone.”

“Would this be the Frenchman your mom was so fond of?”

“One and the same.”

Mike keeps flipping through his chart. “And where might the Frenchman be now?”

“Back in DC,” I say. “With his new girlfriend.”

Now he looks up from the chart. “Apology accepted.”

“So, in that vein, I was thinking we could maybe try the dinner thing again.”

Mike slaps shut the chart and grins at me. “Why, Dr. Zoe Goldman, are you asking me out on a date?”

“What are you doing next Saturday?''

“Hmmm, let me think.” He looks up at the ceiling. “Nothing. Did I let an appropriate number of seconds go by before admitting that?”

I smile. “I think you're in the clear.”

“So what are we doing?” he asks.

“Dinner, my house, seven sharp.”

“
You're
making dinner?” he says, not hiding his disbelief.

“What, you think I can't cook?''

Mike stands. “I guess we'll just have to see,” he says with a grin and walks down the hall, whistling.

M
y mom is putting together a puzzle. I think it is a kitty. She never used to like puzzles (“What a goddamn enormous waste of time”) or kitties in the past, but that was all BD. We have some time to visit before my “hot date with Mike,” as Scotty called it. Scotty actually likes Mike, whom he deems “a million times better than Frog-Boy.” Sun streams through the curtains of the window, striping the varnished table. My mom maneuvers another piece while Scotty works on a corner. I toy with a couple pieces myself.

“How did you break your leg?” My mom looks up at me from the puzzle, tapping one of the pieces on the table. This is the third time she has asked me this visit, and I am not counting the previous visits.

“I was running.” I leave out the horse part this time; that was just too confusing. And admittedly, even for a person without dementia, the scene was confusing.

“Why were you running?”

“Exercise. Mom, you know I run.”

“So you weren't running away from anyone?”

“No. Why would I be running away from anyone? I was just running, you know.”

“Okay. You were running,
I get it.”

Scotty already has a good chunk of the corner done. I keep getting mismatches for my one piece. I have never been good at puzzles. The cafeteria doors open, and a strong meaty smell wafts through the air.

“Meatloaf, my favorite,” my mom says, sounding like her BD sarcastic self.

I finally find a match and search through the pile for another. Scotty has assembled the mouse kitty toy. My mom is working on a cloud. I think I'm making a whisker. “So, Mom,” I say, unsure how to proceed.

Scotty shoots me a warning glance, which I ignore.

“About the fire.”

“Yes, dear,” she answers, sliding around her cluster of pieces.

“
Was
there actually a fire?” I ask.

She doesn't answer for a bit, searching for another piece, though it occurs to me she might be stalling. “Of course there was a fire.”

Scotty is silent. He is irked at my “obsessive” insistence on finding my real mother, but since the facial recognition fiasco, he himself admits the pieces aren't adding up.

“It's just…I researched it, Mom, and there was no fire at the address you gave me.”

“Maybe you got the address wrong.”

“No,” I counter. “I didn't.”

“Then maybe I got the address wrong. Zoe, it was over twenty years ago. I told you I've been having memory problems,” she says, her volume escalating.

“Okay.” I slap the picture of my supposed mother down onto the table. The frizzy-haired mother, who in truth used to be my father's secretary and who left me devastated, with sore armpits, on her disintegrating Astroturf porch. And by the way, the adorable, puffy-eyed, five-day-old is named Robyn, not Zoe. “Who is this?” I ask.

Mom drops her puzzle pieces, the cloud falling apart. Scotty pushes away the cat toy he was creating. The room is emptying, walkers inching toward the dining room, aides coming and rolling patients away. “What are you asking me, Zoe? What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth,” I say, staring right into her eyes. “That's all I've ever wanted.”

Mom chews on her bottom lip. Tears spring up in her eyes. One pools over and a tear falls onto the tip of her nose. She wipes it away, as if she's surprised to find it there. “Zoe, I'm sorry. I love you, honey. I love you more than anything. I don't know what else to tell you.
I'm
your mother, honey.
I'
m
your mother.”
Then she starts really crying.

Scotty flashes me a look of pure disgust, which is exactly how I feel about myself right now. I scoop up the photo without a word and put my arm around my broken, breaking-down mother. She is my real mom, she's right. Maybe there was no fire. Maybe there was no Beth Winters. Just a reborn version of the best friend she killed. But
here
is my real mom, right in front of me, and I am making her cry. And maybe she had her reasons for lying. And maybe she doesn't even remember the reasons anymore. Sam is right: You would do anything for your kids. Anything. Maybe it's time to take his advice and assume the best.

“I'm sorry, Mom,” I say, rubbing her bony shoulders, noticing how thin she has grown. “I love you, too. I don't care about the fire. I don't care about any of it.”

She nods, her hiccups calming. We continue working on the puzzle in silence. Scotty has nearly half of it done, and my mom has reassembled her whole cloud, cotton floating through a blue puzzle sky. I was wrong about the whisker; I'm not sure what I'm making. She looks up at me, then at my cast, her face registering surprise. “How did you break your leg?”

A sweetish smell floats up from the crinkly plastic as I unwrap the flowers.

The sunset is a cold pink, mixed with creamy orange, the same color as the flowers. I am almost done tidying the apartment, dusting side tables, piling books and magazines, vacuuming in high-traffic areas. I'm not the cleanest person alive, as Scotty would attest, but I'm making an effort. I spritz some air freshener in every corner for good measure, then admire the bouquet on the dining room table. Flowers do spruce up the place.

Scotty is over at Random Girl #38's house tonight, and Mike is coming at seven. Mike was right: I don't make a mean manicotti, or a mean
anything, except maybe a mean tuna-fish sandwich, and I'm guessing that's not what he had in mind for our romantic dinner. Scotty (an excellent cook, actually) taught me how to make my own marinara, which isn't bad, so I'm going for simple: angel hair pasta with marinara. It's not going as well as planned, however. Chopping the tomatoes, I am making a watery mess. Scotty always made this part seem effortless (though maybe he wasn't using a bread knife) while I was very helpful at pouring the wine, or even going as far as to lay out some cheese and crackers on a plate. The sky has darkened to blue-black out of the square of the kitchen window, the outline of two planets shining through like dot-to-dots. My cell phone rings. It is the number for the hospital, the psych floor.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Dr. Goldman?” a female voice asks.

“This is.”

“Yes, all right. We know you're not on call, but we're having a bit of an issue over here.”

“Okay?”

“Your patient Sofia Vallano—do you remember her?”

“Yes, I remember her.” To say the least.

“She says she refuses to take any of her meds unless she sees you.”

“Did you call the on-call doc?”

“Dr. A is here. She won't listen to him.”

“So one night without meds won't kill her. I can see her in the morning.”

“She said she would hurt herself.”

I give my leg a ferocious scratch. It tends to act up when I'm annoyed. “Did she specify?”

“No, she didn't.”

“Can you make her a one-on-one?”

“Listen,” the nurse says, not unkindly, but tired of the conversation. “I already ran through all this with Dr. Grant. I asked if it would be okay to miss one night of medication. I asked if we could put her one-on-one tonight.”

“And what did he say? Did he tell you she's not even going to be my patient after this weekend?”

“Yes, he did. He said as of tonight she still is your patient, and he would like you to come in and work with her.”

I clench my teeth, wanting to throw a tomato at him. If this is one of Dr. Grant's tricks for teaching empathy, it's not effective. I am feeling lots of things, but empathy is not one of them. I look at the grandfather clock and figure I should be okay if I delay the date by an hour. Worst-case scenario, I could call in pizza, my usual dinner fare. “Fine. I'll be there.”

I send out a text to Mike.
Something stupid came up with patient. Make it 8?

His answer pings right back.
NP. Watching bad reality TV. No hurry.

Then a
:)
comes on my phone screen, and I send one right back. And as I march out into the frigid night air to face my manipulative, narcissistic, sociopathic, matricidal patient, I am smiling like an emoticon.