WHEN I PEERED through my peephole, Graciela was there with the medication cart, and Mrs. Collier was experiencing her sundown confusion again. “Where are my children?” she pleaded, fear and bewilderment in her voice. “Amanda?”
Graciela, patient as always, tried to calm her. She gently took Mrs. Collier by the elbow and led her into the apartment.
I opened my door and peered down the corridor. It was empty. I stood for a moment, gathering myself and setting aside my cane before stepping carefully into the hall.
I scanned the top of the medication cart. As usual, there were the laminated index cards, inked with information and arranged into rows, topped with the pleated paper cups containing capsules and tablets. Some medicines were segregated into cups of aqua-colored plastic, and a few were in blister-packs. These were the pain meds: Oxycontin, Vicodin, Oxycodone. Powerful. Dangerous.
I knew Ridgewood used a double sign-off system: both the medication aide and the supervisor counted out and organized the meds, and both signed off before the cart left the locked drug room. Then, after the cart returned, drugs were counted, and any that were left undelivered were noted and the reason given. The sign-off sheets were registered and filed.
It occurred to me how easy it would have been for someone to skim some of those pain drugs, the Vicodin or Oxycontin, which had a substantial street value, once the cart left the med room. Maybe the good managers of Ridgewood figured they could rely on the residents to complain if something seemed missing. Or maybe they believed our small town was safe from those sorts of problems.
It didn’t matter. As a nurse I knew that any drug protocol, even those that required scanning bar-coded IV bags and sophisticated electronic monitoring, could be defeated by a cheating staff. Just as simple precautions are sufficient when staff are honest and do what they should.
Still. Those were very powerful drugs.
I shook my head. As tempting as they might be, I was not interested in them. The pain pills would be too much like … well. One of the things I have learned over a lifetime of nursing: the line between a medicine and poison blurs easily.
I felt Cal’s pills in my pocket.
I steeled myself, braced against the cart. I knew Cal’s pills looked almost exactly like Nathaniel’s. They were the same, really, just stronger. Same drug, three times the dose. The way I figured it, I was just opening the door to possibility. The digoxin wouldn’t look suspicious in an autopsy: it would be expected. And by using Cal’s leftover tablets, there was no paper trail to follow; nothing could point to me ever having the drug.
I scanned the cart again, not seeing the right card. Suddenly my own heart started racing. I heard footsteps in Mrs. Collier’s apartment, and Graciela’s muffled voice just on the other side of the door. The handle began to turn.
I scrambled backward into my own place like an awkward crab. Thank God, I’d left my door open. I slipped inside and managed to get it nearly closed before Graciela emerged. I didn’t dare push it all the way shut and risk the telltale click. I stood on my tiptoes, and watched through my peephole, still as a tree.
Graciela was speaking to Mrs. Collier over her shoulder. “Yes, yes, I’ll be right there,” she said as she grabbed the clipboard hanging off the edge of the cart. She glanced quickly down, picked up a pen, and went back inside. As the door closed, I heard Mrs. Collier call, “Amanda? Is that you?”
I puffed my cheeks and blew out slowly. I waited for a count of ten, till Graciela was further from the door and the murmur of voices from Mrs. Collier’s rooms faded.
I stepped again into the hall. My mouth felt like it was lined with sand, and I was afraid I would pee on myself. I couldn’t focus. My glance seemed to be almost physically deflected from the surface of the cart, as if my attention were a battle plane trying to land in a hostile field. Then all at once my vision cleared: Kearney, Apt 300. But my hand hovered over the pleated cups. I wasn’t sure I could go through with it.
Iris’s voice rang in my head. “Mom … I’m afraid … I’m having a hard time.”
The world tilted, and I had the whooshing sensation I’d experienced the first time I cut into a cadaver, the first time I held a retractor inside a living child, the first time I assisted in a C-section. I became all efficiency, my hands doing what I told them, just as in surgery, when there was no room for doubt. I lifted Nathaniel’s pleated paper cup, and with adept fingers dumped the tablets quickly into the left pocket of my sweater.
Except I missed. Instead of sliding neatly into my pocket, the pills hit the edge of the fabric and bounced to the floor. Damn.
I stopped for a moment. Should I retrieve them? They were under the cart, and Graciela probably wouldn’t notice. I’d leave them. Better to take care of the business at hand. Rushing now, I took Cal’s old pills from my right pocket. But my hands were shaking and this sight of my own nervousness further rattled me. Two of the three pills slipped out of my hand and also dropped on the carpet. Now I had no choice. I needed them to ensure a large enough dose.
Grunting, I eased down to kneeling position. I began clawing underneath the cart, raking the carpet for Cal’s old pills.
A tablet had lodged just behind the wheel. I managed to pick it up and examine it. The fact that Cal’s pills looked so similar to Nathaniel’s had been one of the beauties of the idea, but now I was forced to waste precious seconds trying to make sure I had the right one. Then I found the small mark on the tablet: it was definitely the larger dose, one of Cal’s. But where was the other? Frantic, I flattened against the carpet to squint in the shadows under the cart. Then I saw it.
It wasn’t under the cart. It had bounced and landed almost directly in front of Mrs. Collier’s door.
I decided that while I was on my hands and knees, I should try to locate the three smaller tablets of Nathaniel’s I was replacing, figuring I should scoop them up and hide them. Thank God, two of them had landed near one another, right next to the cart, nestled into the impression it had left in the carpet. I recovered them. Hopefully, wherever the other had landed, it wouldn’t be spotted by Graciela.
Knees aching, I pulled myself upright. Now all I needed was the tablet of Cal’s that landed in front of Mrs. Collier’s door. The errant pill glowed white against the carpet, a beacon pointing to my guilt. I had to retrieve it. Besides, it was necessary to make the dose large enough.
I worked my way around the edge of the cart, steadying myself. I didn’t want to drop to my knees again and risk looking like I’d fallen if Graciela happened to open the door. So I grabbed the cart with my left hand and stretched my right arm practically out of its socket. I managed to brush the tablet with my fingernail. It jumped a little but came no closer. I heard Graciela’s voice on the other side of Mrs. Collier’s door. She would reappear any second. Desperate, I plucked one of the pencils from the top of the cart. Reaching one more time, I managed to nudge the pill closer. I got hold of it and pulled myself upright, shaking with exertion and fear. Mrs. Collier’s voice was closer now.
A rush of adrenaline came to my rescue, and my hands flooded with confidence. Moving quickly, I deposited the stronger pills in the paper cup, and placed it back in its correct spot on the cart. I double-checked one last time. The card was labeled “Kearney.”
I retreated to my own doorway just as Graciela opened Mrs. Collier’s door.
“Mrs. Greene!” Graciela frowned slightly. “Is everything okay?”
My cardigan was twisted and my reading glasses were askew, and no doubt my hair was sticking out in places. I knew I must look disheveled and crazed and undone.
“Yes, I’m fine!” My forced grin hurt my chapped lips. “I was going into my kitchen, and I heard you out here, so I thought I’d save you the trouble of knocking.”
It didn’t make a lot of sense, but she didn’t say anything. She looked at me closely for a moment as she approached the cart. She inspected it quickly and then plucked my prescription from the top, handing me my thiazide and potassium. “Here you go.”
I tipped the pills into my hand, then lifted them one by one to my mouth, hyperaware of every movement. I motioned to the pitcher of water on top of the cart, and accepted the Dixie cup she handed me. I swallowed, hard. “Thanks,” I croaked.
“Have a good evening.” Then she paused, peering at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My smile felt showy, so forced and wide I probably looked like a lunatic. “Yes! I’m terrific!”
I shut my door and placed my forehead against the jamb, blood thudding through my temples. I waggled my hands from my wrists and inhaled, trying to steady my breathing.
It was over.
Relief flooded through me, along with something weirdly close to satisfaction. Success. Accomplishment. Certainly it had been challenging. My knees ached and my back twinged. I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, breathing in and out, in and out. Trying to slow my heart. To clear the adrenaline blasting my system.
It wasn’t working. I waggled my hands again. I tried to swallow, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t go away. There was a band around my chest, twisting tight. I made it to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were big and weirdly shiny. My hair was plastered against my head from when I had knelt on the carpet and looked under the cart, and my sweater was pulled around me, awkward and crooked. I stuck my hand in my pocket to straighten it, and my fingers curled around the pills. Around Nathaniel’s actual meds. I pulled them out and looked down. Suddenly my dry mouth was flooded with saliva, and I lurched forward as a retch gripped me.
My God. What had I just done? Oh God. What had I done? Sister Marie Clotilde’s voice mingled with the roaring in my ears: “Francine, what have you done?”
“Justice,” I croaked into the mirror.
Justice?
I gagged, a stream of bile rising in my throat. The vomit shot out almost pure liquid. I noted my undigested meds in the sink and gagged again, fighting down panic. I began to shake violently.
Oh God. Oh God! What had I done? Get thee behind me Satan, get thee behind me.
I must stop Graciela from delivering those pills. Could I stop it? I cried out and rushed to the door, yanking it open.
There was no sign of Graciela. No doubt she was hurrying to make up for the time she’d spent with Mrs. Collier. I grabbed my cane and hustled as best as I could to the elevator. I knew Katherine lived on the third floor because the judge was always reminding everyone they lived in the “penthouse.” As I madly pounded the “Call” button, I realized that despite my friendship with Katherine, I had never been invited.
The elevator wasn’t coming. Nearly in tears, I jabbed at the button again and again.
Maybe I could call Katherine, tell her to get rid of his meds? Maybe say that I suspected Ridgewood had made a mistake? But how would I justify my knowledge? Could I pull off some lie? I didn’t want to do anything that might trigger an investigation. But what could I say? How could I convince her?
As I fumbled with my phone, trying to think up the right words, the elevator whooshed open. I rushed inside and stabbed the button. I’d go to their apartment. I’d invent something. Say that I had tried to help Graciela and screwed up. Maybe I could pretend to faint and knock the pills from his hands. I prayed for luck—or divine intervention. As if they weren’t really the same thing.
It took a lifetime to get to their floor. Finally the elevator opened and I hobbled down the hall, chanting, “Dear God, dear God, dear God,” out loud.
I pounded on the door. After a moment I heard someone approach. Please let it be Katherine, I thought. Please, please, please. Some seconds later, Nathaniel appeared.
“Yes?” He spoke gruffly and seemed to have no idea who I was.
“Hello!” My voice wavered, though I tried to appear sprightly. But he glowered at me, so I immediately changed my tone. “It’s Francine … Katherine’s friend? You know, we’ve had dinner together, um, and, well …”
“Yes, I know who you are.” He cleared his throat. “What is it you need?”
“Ahh. May I come in?”
“We are not in the habit of receiving guests.”
“I normally wouldn’t intrude, but—”
“This is not a convenient time.” He began to close the door.
“Wait!” I cried, struggling not to scream. “It is important. Really.”
His eyes were cold, but a little hazy. Oh God, had he already taken them? “Mrs. Greene, I am about to retire and Katherine is already in bed.”
“But … please, you must …”
He waved his hand distractedly. “Good night.” He closed the door.
I stood there, hollow.
It wouldn’t matter anyway. I realized if they were ready for bed, they’d taken their meds. I slowly made my way to the elevator, which, of course, now came right away. My guts were churning.
My God. I had taken leave of my senses. How could I live with this? I had to clap my hands over my mouth to avoid vomiting again.
I slowly reentered my apartment, but I didn’t turn on the lights. I sank into my chair. I was shivering cold. I wrapped myself in a blanket and sat by my window all night. I clutched my phone in case Jimmy called. In case Katherine called. In case there was news. Staring into the darkest dark. Terrified.
The next morning their table was empty. I took my old spot behind the door. It felt like I was playing a part, watching myself trying to figure out where to place my eyes, how to make small talk with the staff. I stared at my plate, coffee roiling my stomach, and listened.
“Mrs. Collier was so upset.” I heard Graciela’s distinctive voice, always warmer when she was talking with Jannah. “What a night.”
“I know. The ambulance came to the Kearney’s this morning.” She dropped her volume, but not by much, since everyone here was deaf. Or practically everyone. I held my breath, listening hard. Jannah said, “Things aren’t good.” Then her beeper went off, and she hurried to the elevator.
I got up quickly. Oh, what had I done? I rushed out, struggling with my cane in the hall, feeling a frantic disconnect between my racing mind and my clumping body. I almost knocked over the small sign near the elevator telling people which way to the music room, which way to the lobby. Which way to the chapel.
I nearly ran there, if you could call my harried shuffle running.
By the time I arrived at the chapel, my panic was so intense I thought I was having a heart attack. I collapsed into a seat and gripped the back of the pew in front of me, trying to breathe.
For the first time in years, I slid onto a kneeler, clasped my hands together, and prayed. Fervently. Passionately. Unbelievably, I prayed for Nathaniel.
I tried to remember Cal, and my parents, my kids. All the years we went to church together, all the prayers we mouthed. But there was no answering sense of comfort. Everyone I knew on the other side of the cosmic divide seemed to have turned their face against me. Even Cal. All I sensed was an anonymous, hollow roar, like a furnace set to full blast, reverberating inside my head.
I’d wanted justice. To take advantage of being old and invisible, to get revenge for my Bethany, my Iris, my family. Nathaniel was a vain, dishonest, horrible man, sick and according to Katherine, not long for this world anyway. But who was I to make such judgments? Who was I to take a husband from Katherine, a father from Lisa?
And now I couldn’t hear Cal’s voice in my head any more. I didn’t deserve to hear his voice, the sense of his presence. I was being punished.
In horror I pushed myself up, and stumbled out of the chapel, so disoriented I could hardly walk straight. I bumped into one of the hallway benches and sank down into it, trembling. From where I sat I could see into the parking lot.
An ambulance was pulling away. But it was driving slowly, apparently in no rush.
I was starting to hyperventilate. As I scanned the lobby in alarm, the office door opened, and there was Lisa, ghostly pale. I watched in slow motion as Mr. Alfred patted her shoulder. His face wore a practiced sad expression, and I saw his mouth form the words “I’m so sorry.”
Some panic propelled me, and I was on my feet, mouth open. I must’ve made a sort of choking sound, because Lisa turned. She hurried over and took my hand.
“Oh, Frannie, you’ve heard.” Her voice caught in her throat, and she blinked quickly. Tears started falling, and she lifted a crumpled Kleenex. I looked wildly at her. Mr. Alfred, accustomed to these scenes, stepped forward and spoke in a low, soothing pitch.
“I’m so sorry, Francine. I’m afraid Mrs. Kearney died last night.” When he moved, I saw behind him an aide pushing a pallid Nathaniel in a wheelchair.
The room went blurry, and I clutched at Mr. Alfred as I went down.