The Girl Without a Name (9 page)

B
y Monday, it is clear the name Candy doesn't bring us any closer to an answer.

Half of the puzzle is solved, but we still don't know where she's from or her last name. Detective Adams does a fresh round of neighborhood canvassing and hangs up new missing-child posters with a smiling “Candy” instead of the stone-faced Jane Doe. Nothing comes of it. Meanwhile, Discharge Planning is still breathing down our collective necks. “We may not know who she is or where she belongs,” Tina Jessep said to me yesterday in a rather icy tone, “but she doesn't belong in the hospital.”

Today I catch up with Candy (I keep wanting to call her Jane) in group “share” therapy. Jason and I are sitting at the back of the room, watching our respective patients.

“Miss Judy” leads off the discussion. She has an unfortunate habit of ending all of her sentences with “uh-huh? uh-huh?” so that it's brutally annoying to listen to her for more than five consecutive minutes. This has also earned her the patient-wide nickname of “Miss Uh-huh.”

“So today,” she starts, flipping back long, dyed-black hair that reaches to the back of her thighs (how she doesn't get a basilar dissection every time she sits down, I'm not sure), “I'd like to focus on positives. Uh-huh? Uh-huh?”

No one answers. Chloe is chewing her fingernails. Brandon is tracing over the scars on one arm. Candy watches intently, like there might be a quiz.

“We always focus on what's going wrong—the negatives, uh-huh? So today I want to focus on the positives, uh-huh? The things we can think about to get us over the bad times, the humps in our lives. Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” She waits about ten seconds, but no one offers any response. Chloe chooses another nail to decimate.

“Because if there's one thing we know, uh-huh, it's that there's going to be tough times, whether we like it or not—tough times that we have to get through. Uh-huh? Uh-huh?”

I don't know how they get through twice-weekly share therapy with this woman. I would turn homicidal in a jiffy.

“Chloe?” Miss Judy asks.

Chloe looks around the room, like there might be someone else named Chloe who could save her from answering the question. Sadly, there isn't. “Yes?”

“I'd like you to tell me something positive you can focus on.”

“Positive?”

“Uh-huh. Positive. Like, maybe, a favorite perfume?”

“Perfumes give me migraines.”

“Or a favorite color then?”

“A favorite color. Let's see.” She pauses, pretending to think deeply. “Black. Black is my favorite color.”

“See now, that's a nice color, uh-huh? Uh-huh? Black?”

“Yes, I like black,” Chloe continues, “because it symbolizes death, depression, depravity, negativity. Basically everything I feel most days.”

Miss Judy looks at Chloe and debates whether she is being played and decides probably so. She turns to her next victim. “What about you, Candy?”

“Yes?” she answers without delay. Her speech has improved vastly this week since she figured out her name.

“Do you have a favorite color?”

“Yes, I do. Purple,” she announces.

I sit up straight in my chair. So she knows her favorite color but not her name?

“Uh-huh. Purple. What do you like about purple?” she asks, pleased to have someone finally responding to her.

“I don't know,” she says, shrugging. “I just do.”

“Now see, purple is good. That's a terrific start here. Uh-huh, uh-huh? Any other positives in your life?”

Candy leans back in her chair and thinks. “I like pizza. And leopard skin. One of the aides on the floor bought me a purple leopard-skin purse from the gift shop. I love it.”

“Good, good. Uh-huh. Now this is what I'm talking about. Positives, everybody, positives.”

It's odd, hearing her go on about how much she loves her new purple leopard-skin purse, like Little Orphan Annie is singing “Tomorrow” to a roomful of Eeyores.

“It's good to start with little things. Your favorite colors, foods. Then, you'll find, the good things start to take over. Take root in your garden. Remember we said last week how your brain is like a big garden? Well, it's time to weed out the bad thoughts and let the good things grow. Uh-huh?”

Candy is nodding right along while the other patients stare at Miss Judy in disbelief.
Let the good things grow?

It's just about time to round, and Jason and I manage to escape as Miss Judy attempts to pry some answers out of Brandon. I'm starting to wonder if the dreaded discharge planner is right. Maybe Candy doesn't belong here, dealing with the likes of Miss Judy.

Dr. Berringer is waiting in the room, flipping through charts. “I have a bitch of a headache,” he says, grabbing another chart. His eyes are glassy, and he's wearing the same clothes today as he was yesterday, a wrinkled blue checkered shirt with the second button undone. Must have put in a tough night, though I was on call last night and caught all my winks—didn't even get a Tylenol order. He turns to Jason. “How's Brandon the Burner doing? Can we discharge him yet?”

“I'm not sure about that. He was cutting himself with a sharpened toothbrush yesterday,” Jason says.

“Well, maybe we should just—” A text interrupts him, and Dr. Berringer whips out his phone, his face turning into a scowl. He shoves it back in his pocket. “Sorry, what were you saying about Brandon?” The phone buzzes again, and he grabs it. “Sorry,” he says, standing up and marching out into the hall to call someone. When he leaves, a strong smell hangs in his wake. A bitter scent that it takes me a second to recognize. But I've smelled it many a time on many a patient before. On young men with ripped shirts and bruised knuckles in the ER on any given Saturday night. On the impeccably dressed lawyer in my Thursday-afternoon clinic who assures me she never goes over two bottles of wine at dinner.

I'm about to ask Jason if he smelled it, too, when Dr. Berringer returns. “Okay, let's hear about Brandon.”

Jason goes on about Brandon's self-mutilation while Dr. Berringer listens but doesn't, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and I'm left half wondering if I imagined it, the scent still hanging in the air.

“Hello,” Mike calls out. “Honey, I'm home.”

I laugh at the corny line, turning a page in my RITE review book. “How was work?”

He leans down to pet Arthur, who is doing his happy “Mike's home” dance. “Not too bad. One MVA, four headaches, and about a hundred sinus infections.”

“That time of year.”

He drops his coat on the kitchen chair and starts rifling through the refrigerator. I catch his silhouette in scrubs in the gray light. “We have any food?”

“There's some leftover Chinese in there.”

“Ah, yes.” He takes out some lo mein and dumps it on a plate to microwave it. “So what's new with you?”

“Not much.”

“Have you solved the curious case of Candy yet?”

“Nope. But hopefully we'll talk with Jasmine tomorrow.”

After a bit, the microwave chimes and he grabs his plate. “You didn't talk to her yet?”

“No. I still have to explain it to Candy.” I take a sip of my wine. “Tomorrow.”

We sit for a bit as Mike digs into his lo mein and Arthur watches him with a mournful “feed me” expression.

“So I have a question for you.”

“Hmph?” he asks, still chewing.

“What would you do if you thought your attending had a drinking problem?”

He takes a gulp from a bottle of water. “Is this a theoretical question? Or do you think your attending has a drinking problem?”

“The latter.”

“Hmm.” Another gulp and the bottle is empty. “Honestly, I probably wouldn't do anything.”

“Really?”

“Well.” He looks around a second. “You have any wine left?” I point to the island, and he pours himself a glass and sits back down. “How sure are you about this?”

“I don't know.” I refortify my glass as well. “I don't have any definite evidence. But he looked like crap today, like he could have been hungover. And I could swear he smelled of alcohol.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn't sound impressed.

“Plus, he's seeing my psychiatrist.”

Mike gives me an odd look. “How do you know that?”

“I saw him come in the other day when I was leaving.”

“Huh. That's weird.” He pushes his plate to the side. Arthur takes a lightning-quick chomp and races off to another room, leaving Mike staring at an empty plate. “I wasn't actually done with that.”

“He means well. Have some more wine.” I pour the last drops from the bottle into his glass. “So you wouldn't say anything? About the drinking?”

“I don't know,” Mike says. “Do you think it's affecting his judgment?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Candy is getting better, so maybe he's on the right track there.”

“Yeah.”

“And he is smart as hell. That's pretty much common knowledge.” Arthur wanders by, a piece of lo mein stuck to his nose. “You think I should call the Chair and get her opinion?” I tap my glass. “I'm not excessively fond of her, though…”

He yawns. “I wouldn't.”

“No?”

“No, you're on probation.”

“So?”

“So this could seriously bite you in the ass.”

I yawn, too. It's contagious. “I suppose.”

He twirls his wine in a spiral. “Trust me. You don't want to do anything stupid here. You could get in some real trouble.”

Mike's right. It's an apt description of my modus operandi throughout life. It could be my gravestone inscription: “Zoe Goldman. Did stupid things. Got in real trouble.”

“Yeah, but what about if I—”

“Zoe?” He throws the rest of his wine back, then faces me, his eyebrows scrunching together in a way I've always found rather cute.

“Yes?”

He moves closer to me on the couch, warmth radiating off his body. As he leans in to kiss my neck, his breath smells of sweet white wine. “I have a question for you.”

His stubble tickles my face. A trace of cedar cologne that I bought him. “What?”

“Do you want to talk about your attending?” His hand, resting on my thigh, starts crawling up by inches. “Or do you want to do something else?”

S
he's all set for Monday,” the discharge planner tells me, then starts booking down the hall.

“Wait, wait.” I run after her and she stops, bracing herself. “Monday?” I ask.

“Yes. Monday.”

“But can't you just give us a little more time? She remembered her name. She's remembering more every day. I think if I can just work with her a little more—”

Ms. Jessep shakes her head, resigned. “We just don't have any more time. Administration cleared it. I've covered all the bases. She's excelling at art therapy and group therapy, graduated from PT and OT. The only issue that's been holding things up is placement.”

“Well, her identity, too,” I add. “That might have been holding things up a bit.”

“Yes, that's true,” she answers, unsure if I'm being sarcastic or not, which I am.

“Where is she going, might I ask?”

“A foster family. The Watsons. They're nice people.”

So they're not sending her to a pack of maniacs. That's a relief. “And will she be going to school?”

“Dr. Goldman,” she sighs, “I know you want the best for Candy. We all do. We're not throwing her to the sharks. She'll get therapy. She'll have siblings. A new school. Much better than we can offer her growing up on the psych floor of Children's Hospital, don't you think?”

I think back to her therapy with Miss Uh-huh and grudgingly agree.

“It's not until Monday,” she adds. “You'll have a chance to say your good-byes.” Ms. Jessep gives me a brisk farewell nod and escapes down the hall. I don't chase her this time.

When I go to see Candy, she's rummaging through her purse, like each new item in there is a treasure. She sniffs the wand of the lip gloss, then fits it back in. She snaps the silver makeup mirror open and shut.

I remember doing this myself as a child. Sitting up high on my mom's scratchy fabric stool, rifling through the makeup drawer, which seemed so chock-full of marvels and intrigue. Sky-blue eye shadow. Coral-red lipsticks. Fluffy makeup brushes with flakes clumped on the ends.

“Hi,” Candy says, seeing me come in.

“Nice purse,” I say.

“Thanks.” She taps her fingers on it. “The discharge lady came to see me.”

I nod. “Did she talk to you about going to another place on Monday?”

“Yeah. The Watsons, she said.”

I nod again, giving her time to talk, but she just stares at her purse. “How do you feel about that?” I prompt her.

“Okay, I guess.” She doesn't offer any further opinion.

“Better than getting hospital food every day, right?”

She laughs, to humor me I think. “The pizza isn't bad. I forgot how much I liked pizza.”

I pause. “So you remember liking pizza?”

“Yeah, I do remember some things. It's weird. I don't remember being at the police station, or my parents, or any of the big things. But I remember eating pizza one night in front of the TV.”

“What were you watching?” I ask, hoping to stimulate more memories.

“I don't know,” she says. “It's like I remember and I don't remember. You know? Like I'm watching a movie of me eating pizza, laughing, but that's all. I don't even know for sure that it's real.” She frowns.

“And the limo? Did you remember any more about that?”

“The detective guy asked me the same thing. But I don't remember. I just remember seeing a limo pull away. Trying to chase after it. That's the last thing I remember before waking up here.” She chews on her lower lip. “The discharge lady told me more will come back to me over time.”

“She did, did she?” Just then my phone rings, and the number on the top of the phone is Jasmine's. We had arranged for her to call this afternoon. I turn the ringer off. “Candy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“If there was someone who thought she knew you from before you came to the hospital, would you want to talk to her?”

“Like a friend or something?”

“Yes. I'm not sure, but it could be someone who could help you remember where you came from, your family and all that.”

“I guess that would be okay,” she says. “How do you know her?”

This is a tricky one. I sit down next to her and decide to chance it. If she doesn't know Jasmine, that's that. But if she does, it might keep her from being released before she's ready. “I put your information on a website for missing kids.”

She stares at me in silence for a moment, until I think she might be angry, but then her face breaks into a soft smile. “You did that for me?” she asks, in a whisper.

A pulse of joy surges through me, and I pull out my phone. “Shall I?”

She nods, and we wait only two rings before Jasmine answers.

“Okay,” I say. “It's Zoe Goldman. I've got my patient here. I'm putting her on speaker.”

“Hello?” Jasmine's voice is fuzzy over the speaker.

“Hi,” Candy answers back, unsure.

“You don't have FaceTime, do you?” I ask.

“No, not on this phone,” Jasmine apologizes.

“That's okay,” Candy says, leaning in to the phone.

“It's Jasmine,” the girl says, her voice excited. “Is this Destiny?”

“Um.” Candy looks at me. “I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't remember a Jasmine.”

The phone is silent for a moment. “We went to School 78 together. We had Mr. Benton, who was a total asshole. Oh, sorry for cussing.”

“That's okay,” I break in.

“I…I don't remember,” Candy stutters.

“You remember the song we loved in chorus? ‘I Will Always Love You'? The Whitney Houston song?”

“Oh, I know that song!” Candy says. She starts singing the chorus, her voice cracking and a bit off tune. She stops then, frowning. “But I don't remember singing it with you.”

“No.” Jasmine's voice is deflated. “I'd remember Destiny's singing anywhere. She sounded just like Whitney Houston.”

“I really don't think my name is Destiny,” Candy says, sounding disappointed as well.

The call ends with well-wishing on both sides, and my own sneaking suspicion that my meddling may be making things worse, not better.

Later that day, we are finishing off charts in the nurses' station, waiting to round.

“He looks fine today, doesn't he?” I ask.

Jason keeps writing in his chart. “And who are we talking about?”

“Dr. Berringer.”

“Yes, Zoe. He looks fine,” he says, in a weary voice. “I'd do him myself if I didn't have a boyfriend.” He pauses. “A pseudo-boyfriend,” he corrects himself.

“No, I mean…” I tap my pen on my chart but don't say anything more. Maybe I smelled alcohol on him, maybe I didn't. Maybe he was hungover, maybe he wasn't. I certainly don't want to tell Jason the town crier about my suspicions or it would be all over Children's within the half hour.

“Actually,” Jason says, “that French-blue shirt is rather becoming on him, I'll admit.”

“Wow.” I stack up my charts. “That was gay.”

“More gay than saying I have a boyfriend?”

“A pseudo-boyfriend.”

“We all set?” he asks, the French-blue-shirted Dr. Berringer himself poking his head into the room. We set off to see Candy, who is sitting on her perfectly made bed, reading
The Catcher in the Rye
. On the table beside her is a blue folder with silver cursive writing that says “Foster Care and You: Everything You Ever Needed to Know!”

“You about ready to leave us?” Dr. Berringer asks.

“I think so,” Candy says, putting the book in her lap.

“It sounds like a nice foster family,” Dr. Berringer assures her.

“Oh, I'm sure it is.”

He lifts up her latest drawing on the bed stand. It's a bright red maple leaf. The actual leaf she used as a model wafts down to the floor, spotted with mold.

“Nice picture,” he comments.

“Thanks,” she says. “I figure since it's fall and everything…”

“Right.” He crosses his arms. “We're gonna miss you, girl. But you've outgrown us.”

She smiles her megawatt Candy smile. “I'm going to miss you guys, too.”

We pause, all staring at each other, then she turns back to her book and is engrossed again in seconds. So much for good-bye.

“Taper her off the Ativan,” Dr. Berringer says to me as we're leaving the room.

“Completely? In one weekend?”

“We don't really have a choice. She can't exactly be on it out there.” He hands me the chart. “It's sink or swim, Zoe. You'll learn that about child psych. Sometimes you have to make tough decisions.”

I start writing the order. Sink or swim. I just hope she doesn't drown.

We have an hour before we're officially done at five p.m., and leaving early is just tempting an ER call, so I head to the library. My RITE book is patiently waiting for me to read it, but I hop on a computer first. Having assured myself that there is nothing new in Facebook, Instagram, or my Twitter feed, I have no choice but to open the RITE book.

Smells strongly of alcohol. An image of Dr. Berringer crosses my mind from yesterday, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes glazed. On a whim (and perhaps to avoid answering the question), I decide to do a quick Google search on the good doctor. I glance around the room to see if anyone is watching, but there's only one medical student in the room with me. She doles some red Tic Tacs out onto her hand and turns to her computer again.

After crossing out one from Alaska and another from Massachusetts, I zero in on the right child psychiatrist. Healthgrades gives him four and a half out of five thumbs up for patient ratings—not too shabby. He went to a decent medical school and residency in New Orleans. The website, meanwhile, assaults me with ads for ADHD medications, smartly assuming a person searching for pediatric psychiatrists might be concerned about this, though it feels Big Brothery and more than a little close to home. Then the site asks, “Do you want to check out Dr. Berringer's background?” I hit yes. Why not?

Yes? That is unexpected. I read on.

Just then I hear Jason's voice. “Wassup girlie girl?” He grabs the computer next to me and straightens his chair.

I close out of the website in an instant.

“What, are you looking at porn or something?” he asks.

The medical student, who has been making impossibly loud sucking noises with her Tic Tacs, glances over at us then back at her screen.

“No,” I say with annoyance.

“What? I look at porn all the time. But not in the hospital library. That's just gross.”

“I was
not
looking at porn.”

“Oh yeah?” He opens up his e-mail. “Then why were you all
Oh my God, let me X out of this site as fast as I can
?” He mimics my panicked face, whipping around the mouse.

“None of your business,” I mutter, pulling up my e-mail.

“Oh,” he says, like he just figured it out. He smooths his thin lavender tie, his bow tie replaced today. “It was Jean Luc.”

“Wrong.”

“Mike?”

I don't say anything, figuring it's a lie of omission.

“Fine. Be like that. Next time, I'm not telling you anything about Dominic.”

“Dominic's an asshole.”

“Nonetheless.”

I close out of my e-mail and stand up. “See you later.”

“Later,” he answers, leaning in to the computer to look at something.

I grab my bag. It's 4:45 p.m., but I'll risk the wrath of the ER consult by leaving early. Heading out, I walk past the lobby, past velvety rust-and-gold mums, to my car. My mind keeps traveling back to the Healthgrades website on Dr. Berringer. Sanctions? Yes.

So my nose was right. He
was
hungover, with the telltale scent of last night's bender. Maybe this is what Dr. Berringer meant then, with his hand over his heart, telling me that's how the light gets in.