Addiction (23 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
“Go ahead, have a cup,” Olivia said. “Bet's over. You won.”
“I didn't win,” I admitted. “You were right. I was drinking too much coffee. I was having a few before I got in here. Then I couldn't get through morning meeting without more.”
“Gloria says that you're a grouchy pain in the ass when you haven't had your coffee. And she says lately you have the attention span of a gnat.”
I laughed. Sounded like Gloria. “She's a fine one to talk.”
“She drinks decaf in the afternoon,” Olivia offered.
“She does?”
“Moderation.” Olivia said the word solemnly.
“Do you think that's what you need?” I asked her seriously.
“No. If I started to take Ritalin again, I'd probably take too much. And I don't want to feel like that, ever again.” I hoped Channing was somewhere listening. “Dr. Zak, it's okay with me if you want to go back to drinking your coffee. Maybe I'll try it, too.”
Moments like this were the reason I'd gotten into doing therapy in the first place. Here was classic transferenceâOlivia identifying with me. I felt a surge of satisfaction.
Later that afternoon, I met Daphne in front of the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit. We were strolling down the path toward the cafeteria. The air smelled loamy. The forsythia was budding, and one bright yellow witch-hazel bush was in bloom. Daphne lit a cigarette.
“I don't know,” she said, when I told her she might be needed to testify at the hearing.
“Olivia has given her permission,” I said.
Daphne didn't answer at first. “What kinds of questions are they going to ask?” she said finally.
“They may ask what you know about how Olivia became addicted
to Ritalin. How she abused it. And they may ask your opinion about the messages she wrote to her mother.”
to Ritalin. How she abused it. And they may ask your opinion about the messages she wrote to her mother.”
Daphne squinted into the low sun. “Has Olivia told you she's been stealing Ritalin?”
“She has.”
“And you're sure my testimony will help her? You could be opening up a tin of ⦔ Daphne waved her hand as she tried to come up with the expression.
“A can of worms?” I suggested.
Daphne nodded.
“You're right, it could backfire. Especially since the DA can ask you anything he likes once you're on the stand. Is there anything that he could ask that would be a problem?”
Daphne paused, midstep. “I don't think so. But lawyers can twist your words. It's what they do.”
She was right. And Monty Sherman was a gifted word twister. “Her lawyer will call you only if it's necessary,” I said.
“You know I'll do whatever I can to help. Olivia is innocent.”
Despite our differences, that was one thing we agreed on. “I'll let them know,” I said. We resumed our walk. “By the way, I've seen the raw data from Channing's Kutril study.”
“How did you manage that?” Daphne asked. She sounded surprised.
“Destler showed me the files.”
“Ah,” Daphne said, as if that explained something. “So they had it all along.” I couldn't read her look.
“Did you know she included subjects that should have been out-of-bounds? Too old. I can't help wondering if other improprieties are buried in the data.”
Daphne stopped, momentarily at a loss for words. Then, “You aren't seriously suggesting that Channing deliberately included subjects who didn't meet the study protocol? Bloody hell's bells!” Daphne said, her eyes flashing. Then, more quietly, “I wonder what they're up to.”
“They?”
“It's the same thing that happened to Robert. Plagiarism? Bloody unlikely. But that's how it works. They bring in a young resident, keen as mustard, supposedly helping you organize your papers. And before you know it, he's saying your research is corrupt, you've copied passages whole from other people's work. Not the conclusions, mind you. No one has ever suggested that Robert's work was anything but original and brilliant. He managed to get past it, but the ordeal weakened him. If you ask me, gave the cancer a place to grow.” She paused, her face animated. “If he were with us, he'd be there for her. Telling her how to survive.”
Sadly, I thought, survival was beyond any help even Robert could offer. “You don't think we've overestimated her, do you?” I asked.
“Channing?” Daphne asked. She shivered. “That's what they want you to think.” There was that
they
again. She gave a wry smile. “That incorruptible Channing,
sans peur et sans reproche,
who always colored inside the lines, suddenly smudged the rules because she'd do anything to reach her goal.” Daphne sniffed. “Not even remotely possible.”
they
again. She gave a wry smile. “That incorruptible Channing,
sans peur et sans reproche,
who always colored inside the lines, suddenly smudged the rules because she'd do anything to reach her goal.” Daphne sniffed. “Not even remotely possible.”
She smoothed strands of silver hair on one side of her face, then the other. “I'll grant you, she was quite obsessed with her research. Worked nights, weekends, like it was all that mattered. That's because she had a passion for truth. About that, she was steadfast. Perhaps a bit too steadfast for her own good.”
“Veritas,”
I said.
I said.
“Pardon me?”
“Just something Channing once told me. Truth. Sometimes it can devour you.”
THAT WEEKEND Annie and I met on Memorial Drive near Harvard Square. It was a gorgeous day with only the occasional white cotton-ball cloud suspended in a clear field of blue. The street was closed to traffic, and bicyclists, runners, and in-line skaters competed aggressively for the right of way, treating ordinary pedestrians like obstacles in a slalom.
The grassy riverbank was still sparsely populated, the occasional couple sitting on a blanket and admiring the sparkling water, the Boston skyline, and the hardy varsity rowers gliding under the arched brick bridges of the Charles.
I waited for Annie in front of a yellow tent set up on the grass by Roll-Our-Own Rentals. I was working on a large coffee from Peet's. Annie rolled up and screeched to a halt in front of meâif she'd been on ice, she'd have kicked up a spray of shavings.
She had on a bright blue down vest and purple leggings. She pulled off her helmet and shook her hair loose.
“I thought you gave up coffee,” she said.
“I got a reprieve. Actually, I'm trying to go easy. This is just my second cup today. I'm savoring it to the last drop.”
“Good plan,” she said, and gave me a light kiss on the cheek. We went inside to find a pair of skates that fit my size-twelve feet.
“Trust me, you'll love it,” Annie told me, as we found an empty bench. I unfastened the Velcro and started to loosen the lace on one skate. “Here, I'll do that for you,” Annie said. “You should put on your safety gear first.”
“Just in case I fall off the bench?” I said.
“Don't laugh. It's been known to happen.”
I eyed the pile of padded armor with something less than enthusiasm. Helmet, wrist guards, knee- and elbow padsâthe black plastic was already scraped and scuffed from earlier encounters with paved surfaces.
When I'd put it all on except for the helmet, Annie handed me the skates. I put one on, then the other. Annie knelt in front of me and pressed the buckles in place. “Comfy?” she asked.
“Just ducky,” I replied, and started to get up.
“Whoa. Helmet next.”
I put on my helmet, fastened the strap, and pulled it taut.
“Okay. Now set your feet so your toes are pointing out, just a bit. Now, up we go.”
I held onto Annie and stood.
“Now we take a little walk on the grass. Keep your toes pointed slightly out.”
I did. With every step, I felt more like a dancing ostrich from
Fantasia,
the skates my oversize toe shoes.
Fantasia,
the skates my oversize toe shoes.
“Now, stop and balance on one foot,” Annie instructed when we got outside the tent. I obeyedâan ostrich doing a flamingo imitation. “That's terrific. Now the other foot.” She watched me perform. “You sure you haven't done this before?” It was dumb, but I grinned anyway.
“Okay. Now let's practice finding your balance.” Annie faced me and held palms up to mine, our arms bent at the elbow. “Flex your knees, and lean forward on the balls of your feet.”
For a minute it felt as if my knees wouldn't bend. But then they did, and I leaned forward.
“A little more,” she coaxed. I did. “That's good. Weight in the toes, knees bent. Perfect.”
It felt perfectly idiotic, standing there with my butt hanging out. “This feels ridiculous,” I said.
“That's because you're doing it right. If you go too far forwardâgo ahead, try it.” I leaned forward some more until it was only because Annie was holding me up that I didn't fall to my hands and knees. “Right. That's just what you want to do. Fall forward.”
“Only you won't be here to catch me.”
“Right. Now here's the deal about falling. It's going to happen. And when you fall down, you're going to need to get up.”
“Fall down. Get up,” I said. In-line skating. How the hell had I gotten myself into this? Not only was it dangerous, it was complicated.
“Okay, give it a try. With your arms out in front of you, fall forward onto your knees. And keep your knees together because the kneepads have a tendency to slide apart.”
“Arms in front, fall forward,” I said. I did it, feeling extremely undignified. It seemed like every little kid in Cambridge was whizzing by, backward, on in-line skates.
“See that hard plate on your wrist guard? It's designed to slide on the pavement, not slam straight down. Try to use your body like a shock absorberâcrumple into the fall.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted. “Now, how the hell do I get up.”
“Okay, first one knee up.” I did it. “Now put your hands on the ground on either side and push up slowly.” It was working. I was almost up. Annie was saying, “Don't forget to put your feet in a V position, then you won't fall ⦠.” But before I realized what was happening, I was flapping my arms like a pair of propellers. I landed with a crash on my ass.
“Shit,” I said.
Annie had a hand over her mouth. She lowered the hand and said, “The one piece of protective gear you haven't got is a pillow bungeed to your butt.”
“I knew we forgot something.”
“So rule number one of in-line skating: Always always always fall forward. That's where you've got all your protection. If you start to feel yourself falling backward, do not flap your arms.”
“Right,” I said, still on my back staring at Annie's knees. She had very nice knees and firm thighs, and a nice round behind encased in those shiny Lycra leggings. “No flapping.”
At last, we were ready to launch. I'd gotten to my feet without a hitch. I took a tentative step out onto the pavement. I took a breath, counted to ten, focusing on feeling my own center of gravity. Then I pushed out. One step, two, three. Then I rolled to a stop on the grass.
Sweat was already dripping from my eyebrows. I longed to take off the helmet and wipe it away. Clever Annie was wearing a sweatband under her helmet.
We skated up the sidewalk, over the Anderson Bridge, and started down the path on the Boston side. Annie skated backward as I lumbered alongâone, two, three, roll. “Don't forget to bend at the knees and the ankles. And try to relax,” she instructed.
We rolled past the tidy brick buildings of the Harvard Business School. Annie was right about one thing. The stiff boots meant my ankles weren't hurting at all. It was the balls of my feet that felt like red-hot pokers were sticking into them.
The pleasantly cool air in the shadows of overhanging trees turned chilly as we passed in front of the Acu-Med Building. The redbrick monster, topped by a tower, loomed like a processing center for refugees entering a Brave New World. Through its massive windows, the only things visible were machinery, cabling, and pipes.
Once we were out in the sun again, Annie rolled up to a railing and stopped. I crashed into her and stayed there, my body pressed up against hers.
“Stopping,” we said simultaneously.
“You haven't taught me that,” I observed.
“Next time.”
“Maybe we can skip that lesson. I kind of like doing it this way.”
Annie gazed at the Acu-Med Building. “That place gives me the willies. One day lightning will hit the steeple and a huge guy with a bolt through his neck will come stomping out.”
I laughed. “Acu-Med. They fund a lot of the research at the institute. Liam Jensen's research, just for example.”
“Which reminds me,” Annie said. “That Social Security number you asked me to check onâthe guy who dropped out of Jensen's study. He's not dead.”
“Not dead,” I murmured. “So, we still don't know what Liam and Channing were arguing about. And with Liam dead, he can't tell us. By the way, turns out the CFO at the institute had Channing Temple's research files.”
“So they're not missing after all.”
“Apparently not. He says he was given them for safekeeping. I assume he got them from Jensen, who I can only assume helped himself. Destler let me look through them. I think he wanted me to see that Channing included some subjects in the trial who were too old.”
“Is that a big deal?”
“Major league. It's really got me agonizing. I can't conceive of Channing doing that. She was compulsive about details, about ethics.”
“And you're sure they're too old.”
“That's what I'm wondering. It doesn't make any sense. There's a lot of things about this that don't make any sense at all.”
Annie stared at me. “So, what does your gut say?”
Go with what you
know
about people. Ignore reality. It was what I was paid to do. Day in and day out, working with patients, my gut worked overtime. Sometimes I let it guide me, sometimes I acknowledged the feelings and consciously set them aside. Outside the therapy room, I wore lenses to filter out all that extraneous noise.
know
about people. Ignore reality. It was what I was paid to do. Day in and day out, working with patients, my gut worked overtime. Sometimes I let it guide me, sometimes I acknowledged the feelings and consciously set them aside. Outside the therapy room, I wore lenses to filter out all that extraneous noise.
“Okay,” I said, “my gut says Channing wouldn't include overage subjects.”
“Therefore ⦔ Annie urged me on.
“Maybe someone doctored the records to make her subjects look as if they're older than they are. To discredit her work.”
“Or maybe someone inserted records, after the fact, of people who weren't in her trial at all, to make it look like she was behaving unethically,” Annie suggested. “It's easy enough to find out. I can track down these people and ask them if they participated in the Kutril trial and how old they are. Just give me the names.”
That stopped me. “No can do,” I said. “Patient confidentiality. It's bad enough that I've got them written down.”
Annie rested her chin in her hand and pondered. “Okay. So we're looking forâhow many?”
“Four.”
“Four addicts, or former addicts. Who may or may not be how old?”
“Over forty.”
“And who may or may not have participated in the Kutril trial.” It sounded impossible, but Annie didn't seem at all dismayed. “I'd start with AA meetings,” Annie said, a gleam in her eye.
She was right. The protocol required that they go to AA for support.
“And addicts getting treatment at the Pearce tend to go to the same AA meeting,” Annie added.
“You're right. But how do you ⦠?”
“That story I told Olivia about how I used to binge drink and ended up in jail? I fudged the truth a bitâall that really happened to my sister. But I figured Olivia would take it more seriously if I was speaking from firsthand experience. Valerie finally stopped drinking a few years ago. I'm the one who got her into AA. She still goes regularly, and I go with her from time to time. It won't raise an eyebrow if I show up. Then I can nose around after the meeting and see what I can find out.”
I didn't like the sound of that. The last thing I wanted to do was subvert treatment that substance abusers were voluntarily seeking. Reading my concerns, Annie said, “Don't worry. I won't do anything to upset the meeting. I'll just hang around after. Then I'll
bring you names of over-forty folks who've participated in a drug trial at the Pearce. Maybe we'll come up with a match, maybe not. In any event, you won't have given me any names, and no one's privacy gets mangled without their consent.”
bring you names of over-forty folks who've participated in a drug trial at the Pearce. Maybe we'll come up with a match, maybe not. In any event, you won't have given me any names, and no one's privacy gets mangled without their consent.”
I thought about it and couldn't come up with an objection, though it still seemed as if what Annie proposed was just barely on the side of the angels.
We started back. Pushing off was easier this time. I was actually starting to enjoy myself. We skated across the Western Avenue Bridge and started up Memorial Drive on the Cambridge side.
Still, when we got back to the tent, I was relieved to sit, ease my feet out of the skates, and return them to the Roll-Our-Own folks.
We walked up onto the bridge and gazed down the river toward downtown.
“I'd have thought it would be impossible to find out. You're amazing,” I said.
“It's what I do,” Annie said, “and I'm good at it.”
“I've noticed.”
“And in this case, I care.”
The sun was low in the sky, and the temperature was dropping fast. “Hey,” Annie said, “isn't that the courthouse?” She pointed to a tall, red-and-gray building in the distance with red lights blinking on top. “Which reminds me. I knew there was something else I was supposed to tell you. The hearing. It's Wednesday afternoon at three.”
“Wednesday. I'll tell Kwan and Daphne. I hope this works.”
“A delay isn't an acquittal,” Annie observed.
She was right. The only way to save Olivia from an extended stay in purgatory was for the police to find someone else to arrest, and time was running out.
The traffic pulsed across the bridge behind us. Before us the river gleamed, smooth and peaceful. A sleek boat with a crew of eight sliced toward us and slid under the bridge into the dark shadows, leaving behind only their puddles and a rapidly fading, silvery wake.
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