The Mafia.
The Crips.
The Bloods.
The Yakuda.
They had it good.
That's what I wanted. An organization I headed, where I could throw a dart at someone's picture and say, bang. Take 'em out. And someone would. No fuss, no muss.
But part of me wants to know what it's like to kill someone myself.
I've seen dead people in the movies. They got their eyes blank and some nasty-looking makeup. But what does it really feel like to kill?
Say if you're strangling someone. You've got your hands around the neck. You're squeezing. She's fighting. She's clawing. She's choking. She's getting weaker. Limp. Unconscious.
Can you feel the second the life leaves the body? Or do you just have to keep on squeezing until you're totally sure?
***
When I rolled in at 8:36 a.m. for my morning psych ER shift, Nancy had already lined up an eighteen year-old sent by the CLSC (Quebec community health) clinic for "R/O (rule out) first psychotic break."
But Mrs. Lee waved to me from beside the psychiatry office, her face bright with expectation.
Although she smiled, her eyes tracked my every move. She wore a navy dress and beige sandals with a matching handbag, a perfect lady who was no longer in strict mourning, except she'd taken full advantage of my disclosure that I was in the emerg most days on this rotation.
She had hope. In more than one sense of the word.
I groaned to myself. The psych office door was open and I couldn't see Nancy or the eighteen year-old, so I waved Mrs. Lee into the office. "Please sit down, Mrs. Lee."
"You read the file," she said, even as she tucked her skirt under her legs and drew her purse on to her lap. The woman did not waste time.
I nodded.
"You don't think I have a case."
My head jerked up.
The corners of her mouth turned up. "You think I haven't seen your expression before? I know it well."
That reminded me of a line in Eat, Pray, Love where Elizabeth Gilbert's ex says, "You have the opposite of a poker face. More like a...miniature golf face."
Mrs. Lee inclined her head regally. "I've read the file myself, many times. I know there isn't hard evidence, only hearsay. The police told me so. They felt sorry for me, but said they couldn't help me."
"Then why did you give me the file?"
She paused a long moment. "Did you see the picture?"
I nodded. They'd included her class photo in the news reports. "She was lovely." Clear brown eyes, delicate features, a touch of humour in her lips. Not to mention her pièce de resistance, a sweep of shiny black hair to mid-back, probably her one vanity.
Her eyelid flickered in acknowledgement. "Did you see the resemblance?"
I paused, unsure how much to let on. Who wants to admit that she looks like a dead woman? "Some."
"Not just in looks, but in how you act. She was very good at her work. She was always professional, always looking out for the patient, always studying." She paused. "She pretended to be tough."
I bit my tongue. Mrs. Lee was projecting Laura onto me, to use another psych term. How on earth would this woman know if I were tough or hard-working? I don't study enough.
I wouldn't argue with her. I didn't want to give her any more ammunition. I felt sorry for her, but Tucker was right. I'd gone far enough. Time to cut my ties. "Mrs. Lee."
"Yes." Her eyes were nearly black in the dim light, but extremely calm.
"I don't think I can help you."
"I admit the file doesn't give you a sense of Laura as a person. Her favourite colour was blue. She played soccer. We had a puppy who got run over when she was twelve and she refused to have a dog ever again because she loved him so much. She called me every week, even when she was terribly busy with her work."
I closed my eyes. I talk to my family every Sunday night, barring nights on call. The truth was, I could see myself in Laura and Laura in me.
"I know you're not a professional detective. But the professionals haven't helped me. I have to ask everywhere I can. Will you help me?"
I steeled myself. "Mrs. Lee, you asked me to read the file and I did."
"But there's more. In her room."
Going to a patient's house. Ixnay, ixnay. "No, thank you."
"She kept a filing cabinet that might contain more clues."
Clues to a hit-and-run?
"Please. I think that, as a medical professional, you might discover something the police passed over."
Why would a doctor make a better detective than a detective?
"Please, Dr. Sze."
I shook my head. "I'd be wasting your time."
She met my eyes. "Dr. Sze, as far as I'm concerned, my entire life has been a waste of time since she died. The only thing I can do is try and unearth the truth. I've been trying for eight years. I need a fresh pair of eyes."
It was illogical. It was false hope.
I opened my mouth to say no, but my heart answered instead of my brain. "All right. I'll think about going to your house." After I decide if it's unethical or not. "Actually, I was wondering something else."
"Yes?" Her fingers dented her bag.
"I know an engineer who does computer modeling in his spare time. I thought he might be able to use the measurements from the police report to simulate the...accident and prove that it was deliberate."
She nodded and cocked her head to one side. "The police thought it was an accident."
"But in 2003, they might not have done a computer simulation." If the Quebec police system is funded anything like the medical system, they'd be a good decade or two behind the rest of the civilized world. "R—I mean, my friend might be able to prove it. If it's true."
To my surprise, when I met her eyes, she was smiling. No tears. No argument. Just two words. "Thank you."
I licked my lips, more uncomfortable than if she'd argued with me. "But I don't want to give you false expectations. It probably won't prove anything."
"I know. But you're on my side. Thank you." She leaned over the desk to shake my hand. Her grasp was firm.
I glanced through the open door and spotted Nancy giving me the eye. Moments later, I ushered Walter Turrigan into the office. He looked like your average eighteen year-old who missed the golden days of heavy metal: a medium-built white guy with scraggly, shoulder-length hair, in a faded black Alice Cooper T-shirt and tight jeans ripped at the knees.
"Hello, Walter," I said after Nancy closed the door behind us. It seemed rude to read through the referral notes in front of him. I needed an ice breaker. "Do you go to school?" I'd never understood the Quebec school system. They do high school, some sort of pre-college thing called CÉGEP, and then college or university. At eighteen, I wasn't sure where he fit. "Or are you working?"
"I go to school. I might quit, though." He wasn't quite making eye contact. His gaze fell somewhere behind my left shoulder.
I glanced behind me. I saw nothing except some cabinets and a print of Van Gogh's sunflowers. I turned back to Walter. "Why might you quit?"
He paused. Shrugged. Brief eye contact. "I've got more important things to do."
The skin at the back of my neck prickled. "Like what?"
His eyes strayed to the sunflower print. No answer.
I repeated, "What more important things do you have to do?"
Another long pause, communion with the print.
I craned my neck around and took another look. Nice yellow sunflowers in a gold frame. We stared at it in silence together before I asked, "Does this picture mean something to you?"
His gaze flickered to me. "I can't tell you."
"Is somebody telling you not to?"
He shifted in his chair. "Maybe."
Bingo. This could be the moment to ask the most important questions. I needed to know if he heard voices and if they were dangerous. "Is this the same person who tells you to hurt yourself?"
His left eyelid twitched. "Who told you that?"
I had to move delicately and maintain our rapport but still gather the information. Once a psychiatrist told me his second choice of career was surgery. For the first time, I partially grasped the idea of slicing with words instead of with a scalpel. I parried, "Why don't you tell me about it? I want to help you."
He watched at the print for a long beat and seemed to ask it, instead of me, "Who are you?"
"I told you. Dr. Hope Sze. A resident doctor in psychiatry."
He paused. I waited. Silence is useful. But then he said, "I can't talk to you."
"Why not?" slipped out of my mouth. I'd rather have the scalpel. I'm way too blunt, too rushed, with words.
He raised his voice. "I can't."
Uh oh. I was losing him. "Would you rather talk to the psychiatrist?"
He stood up. "I have to get out of here."
"No. Please don't do that." I really couldn't let a psychotic patient leave, and the last thing I needed was a second Code White. "So, ah, tell me about yourself. Where do you live?"
"I live with my parents. I may move out, though."
There was a certain trend here. Whenever he gave me a little information, he immediately backtracked. "Okay. What school do you go to?"
"McGill."
Technically, we were enrolled at the same university, although the only time I saw the campus was when I got photographed for my student card and the few times I made it to aerobics class. "And what are you studying?"
"Engineering."
"That's a tough field," I said, meaning it. My dad was an electrical engineer. Ryan had a very heavy course load in mechanical.
"Yeah." I got a twitch of eye contact again.
"Do you think that's stressful? The work?"
He shrugged. "It's okay." He went back to staring at the sunflowers.
"How about staying at home? Do you get along with your parents?"
He glared at me for a second.
Ah. Houston, we have contact. "Are you mad at your mother for bringing you here? Or your father, for not coming?"
He burst out, "Leave me alone! My father—" His hands batted the air. "Shut up!"
I stayed silent.
His hand gripped the chair. The knuckles shone white under his skin, but his breathing slowed as he stared at the desk.
"Walter," I said quietly, "is someone besides me talking to you?"
He nodded, a tiny jerk of the chin.
It was enough. "Does he or she tell you to hurt yourself?"
An even smaller nod.
Geez. Poor guy. It was hard enough to battle through engineering and family feuds without the hallucinations. The stress might have triggered the psychotic break. "Did you hurt yourself?"
A curt shake of the head.
"No pills? Or, ah, weapons? A gun?" One of the suicide assessment scores specifically asks about firearms.
"No," he said to the ground.
"Do you take any drugs or alcohol?"
He lifted his chin and barked. "I said no!"
Damn it. I'd speeded ahead again and alienated him. But maybe I'd gotten enough. He'd admitted to voices in his head urging suicide. He needed to be admitted. I tried to remember what was left in the interview and realized I still needed to plow through everyone's favourite, the orientation questions. "I have just a few more questions left. They may sound stupid, but I have to ask everyone. Do you know where you are?"
He glared at me. "The hospital."
"Which one?" My voice was gentle.
"St. Joe's."
I asked him the date and what his mother's name was. Walter was looking more and more hostile as he answered correctly. I said, "I'm almost done, Walter, but I have to do a physical exam to make sure there aren't any problems. Is that okay?"
He checked the sunflower print. "I guess."
I was still getting a weird vibe off of him, so I opened the door. "This way, everyone can see that you're okay."
The psych nurse, Nancy, peered at me from behind the Plexiglas. Good. One of the med students, Robert, popped up beside her. I was covered.
I turned back to Walter's heart and lungs, finishing with a cursory neurological exam.
Next, Robert and I interviewed Walter's mother alone in the family room, a little room with a stuffed green couch, two armchairs, and omnipresent boxes of tissues. Mrs. Turrigan licked her lips. "Walter's very tired. I need to take him home and let him rest."
"Yes, but you told the CLSC doctor that—" Nancy had just handed me some more notes. I checked them so I could get the exact wording—"Walter said that he could talk to the birds outside his window. They threatened to peck his eyes out. A voice in his head said that he could save them the trouble and pluck his own eyeballs out, one by one."
She shuddered. "Yes. Well. That's true, but I don't think he would do that if I were watching him. He's always liked birds. So if I could take my Walter home..." She had a round face with wide-set blue eyes, a combination that somehow made her seem younger and slightly unbalanced.
"Mrs. Turrigan. Is there a history of mental illness in your or your husband's family?"
She shook her head. "No. Nothing serious."
"Anything un-serious?" She looked blank, so I said, "Was anyone sad, or anxious? Did they see anything or hear anything other people couldn't?"
She paused to think before she waved her hand. "Oh, one of my aunts. My father's sister. She was very religious. She talked to Jesus. But wouldn't we all like to?" She forced a laugh. "We consider her lucky. Blessed, you know."
"And your husband's family?"
"Not that he told me." She gave a smile that was more like a flash of teeth. "We're separated."
Parents breaking up. One more stressor for Walter. "How did you think it was going for him at school?"
"He's always been the top of his class. He won lots of awards when he graduated, and he received a good scholarship at McGill. I've never worried about my Walter and school." She chuckled. "I don't understand what he talks about half the time. He's a bright boy."
"As far as you know, does he take any drugs or alcohol?"
She reared back in her seat. "No, no! Our family is very strict about that. We've always told him to say no. And he's been too busy. He raised money for children with AIDS when he was in CÉGEP. He plays guitar in a band. And now, of course, with engineering, it can be a bit much." She folded her hands in her lap. "Walter is fine, just overtired."
I felt bad for her. Robert and I exchanged a look. I wasn't sure if I should try and break the bad news to her or let the staff doctor earn his keep. "Mrs. Turrigan—"
Her cheeks flamed. "No! I don't know what I'm doing here. It's been a very long day. All I wanted was for his doctor to give him a few pills to calm him down. She made me come to the emergency room and now they're talking about making him stay here? It's ridiculous!"
"Mrs. Turrigan, I know it's hard." What could I say? She was in denial and I had no good idea how to comfort her. "I am going to talk to the psychiatrist, but Walter is probably going to have to...stay here." That was a good euphemism. "We're going to have to work together to do what's best for Walter."
She held herself rigid, but tears sprouted in her eyes.
Robert had been silent up 'til now. It was my case and he was there to observe. But he reached forward and touched her hand.
She stiffened.
We all held our breath.
Then she blinked and tears fell from her eyes, even as she kept perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the coat hook on the back of the door. In that moment, she reminded me of her son.
That made me think of Mrs. Lee. There's more than one way to lose your kid.
After admitting Walter, I felt exhausted. Instead of grabbing a coffee, I hit the gym.
St. Joe's has a little, staff-only gym beside its cafeteria that costs ten dollars per month. Whenever I have a few spare minutes, I put on my running shoes. Since it was just before the lunch hour rush, I had the place nearly to myself. Now I just had to decide if I could go over to Mrs. Lee's house or not.
I sighed and lowered my stack of weights using my quads.
There are no fixed rules about interacting with patients, but we went over some guidelines in med school.
Don't hug. If they hug you, you can accept it, but never initiate. It's better if you just pat them on the arm, at most.
Don't date.
But then the question always came up, what if you live in a small town where you're the only doctor and you don't have anyone but patients to hang out with?
So they made up some more rules:
Psychiatrists, never. Never date. Certainly don't screw. Nothing. Completely off-limits.
Emerg, where's it's an in-and-out visit and you'll never see them again, wait six months.
Mrs. Lee couldn't wait six months.
I filled up my water bottle at the fountain while another guy blasted CNN and walked the treadmill. The door beeped, signaling another gym rat's entrance.
I sensed someone behind me and turned.
Tucker said, "Hey" and gave me a crooked smile. He'd combed his bangs down into his face, Brit-rocker style, and somehow it made him look more contrite.
My heart thawed. I was supposed to be mad at him for bossing me around, but it felt old. "Hey." For the first time, I noticed his nose was slightly deviated to the left. Born with it, or broken?
"What are you staring at?" He raised his voice to be heard over the news. An armed robbery in Arlington, Virginia. The suspect is male, estimated to be in his early twenties...
I lifted my water bottle and took a sip. It was a good excuse to break our gaze. "Nothing." I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
"Liar." He laughed softly and stepped toward me.
I felt trapped between him, the water fountain, and the trapezius pull machine. It wasn't a bad feeling, except I was totally confused about him, Ryan, and myself. Weren't Tucker and I fighting? Sort of?
"You're calculating how to do my rhinoplasty, right?" He tapped the side of his nose.
"Yeah. How much it would cost to repair if I broke it again, if you started ordering me around again."
He pretended to be shocked. "My mistake. Some girls like that sort of thing."
His last sentence rang out as the other guy suddenly cut the volume on the TV.
Ah. Masochism jokes. Way to undermine my physician image. I glanced over at the treadmill to see how the one guy was taking it. He was wiping it down and getting his access card out.
I swallowed hard. The tiny room smelled of old shoes and antiseptic spray. Not exactly romantic, but Tucker and I were going to be alone.
Always dangerous.
I tried to shift the mood and muttered, "Well, save your S&M moves for all your other girls."
Beep. The other guy passed his card over the reader. The door eased closed behind him.
When I looked up, Tucker was smiling. "I know. You're a tough nut."
Why was everyone calling me tough today? Mrs. Lee had said I was pretending to be tough, but still.
"Tori and I were talking about you."
I grimaced.
"—and if you can't beat 'em—" He paused slightly. I refused to meet his eyes. "—you join, 'em, right? So how can I help you help Mrs. Lee?"
Now I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you serious?"
He shrugged and straddled the lat bench. I felt both relieved and disappointed he'd moved away. "Why not?"
I struggled to control a smile. "So you admit I'm right?"
"Never." He started pulling down the bar. I watched the muscles in his arms. Unfortunately, he was wearing a baggy T-shirt. I still admired his forearms. "But, as Tori pointed out, if my chief complaint is that you're working too hard, my job is to cut down your workload, right? So we're going to be your Scoobies."
"Huh?"
"Off Buffy. Her sidekicks are the Scoobies." He sighed. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You have no idea what I'm talking about, right? Let your education begin."
I laughed.
"I'm serious. Once upon a time, there was a blonde chick in Sunnydale, California, who discovered she had a special talent for kicking vampire butt. And demon butt. And, well, evil in general."
I started doing my triceps. I could see him through our weight stacks, since our machines were facing each other. Nice leg muscles. Hairy but not gross. When I glanced up at him, he was smiling, but he just said, "There will be a test, Buffy."
If the test was on his legs, I'd probably pass. I cleared my throat. "There probably is something you can help me with." I glanced around one more time to make sure we were alone. "I've never been to Île-Ste-Hélène. Do you want to check it out with me? Maybe this weekend?"
The smile spread across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that."
My pager went off. I checked the number. Emerg.
I sighed. Tucker just waved at me. "Later, Buffy."
***
Nancy half-smiled as she pushed her own chart toward me, swiveling in her chair. "More business. Reena Schuster."
My heart fluttered in my chest. No. No more panic attacks. I took a deep breath. "Again?"
"We get a lot of repeat customers." She paused. "I already spoke with her. She said she doesn't want to talk to you."
I dropped into the chair beside her. It sank down to midget-height under my weight, reflecting my mood. "What happens then? Will the psychiatrist come in?" When I admitted Walter, Dr. Forbes had said he was in the middle of a case and would see him on the ward. I couldn't see the psychiatrist rushing in to interview Reena Schuster.
"I can give him my assessment. So can the medical student. But it's not unusual for patients to be antagonistic. You could try talking to her. Usually, they're cooperative if you keep trying."
Of course I would try, but my stomach tightened. I felt light-headed. I pinched my wrist to ground myself. I'd inserted tubes down people's airways and shocked people's hearts. Why did I have so much trouble on psych? "Sure. I just wonder why she keeps coming back here, if she refuses to see me."
She pointed to the address on the chart. "She's in our sector."
That made me think of Mrs. Lee again. I rubbed my forehead. Nancy gave me a strange look. "Headache," I said, trying to act as normal as possible. I checked my watch. It was almost 11:30 a.m. I asked Robert to come with me. It would be faster if we did it together, and he could take over if she refused me.
I strode in the office. Reena was sitting in the corner with a coat over her shoulders despite the heat outside. The same friend took the chair closest to the door. "Hi, Reena—"
She put her hands to her mouth and almost screamed. "I don't want to see you!"
My teeth clenched together so abruptly, I bit the skin inside my lower lip. Why did she hate me so much?
Robert gasped and almost bumped into my back. "Sorry!"
I ignored him. I clutched her chart harder to my chest. I would not drop anything this time. "I know you don't want to see me. I'm sorry—"
Reena covered her eyes. "Oh, God, you're sorry!"
Jodi slid off her chair and put her hand on Reena's arm, her body blocking me. "Chill."
Reena shoved her away. "I will not fucking chill, you bitch!" Her face was blotchy, as if she'd been crying or sleeping face-down. Her pupils were dilated and her lips were cracked. I wondered if she was on something. I started to glance at her chart, to check her vital signs, but Reena twisted her hair around her fists again, arresting my eye. Was she going to hit me next?
I stood frozen in the doorway, blocking the medical student, until I heard Nancy's heels tapping toward us.
I relaxed a smidgen and let her through. She said, "Now, now, Reena."
Reena pointed at me, her index finger trembling. "You want me to confess. You want me to go crazy. But I won't!"
Why would I want that? I shook my head.
"Of course you won't, Reena." Jodi threw her arm around her. "Everything is fine."
"LIAR!" She launched her head back and I could hear her gnashing her teeth. She was an animal.
I gulped. Jodi tried to draw her into her arms, but Reena shoved her away, shouting over her shoulder at me, "You should just give me drugs! I'm not fucking talking to you! You can't make me! Do you want me to get suicidal? Is that what you want, bitch? Would that make everything even? Well, I won't!"
She pounded to the other side of the exam room and wrenched open the door to the hallway. Two people waiting for their X-rays looked up, startled, as she rushed toward them.
Reena veered sharply to the right, then burst out of the emergency department exit on to the street.