In the Nick of Time (102 page)

Perplexed, she frowned in confusion. “What? Really?” She leaned forward, preparing herself.

“You’re not ovulating regularly, Mrs. Vitale. Yes, you’re having periods, but you even said yourself that they are sometimes very light at this stage, and that’s not how you’ve always been. Now, here’s what I want to do.” He cleared his throat and opened a desk drawer to pull out another sheet of paper with charts on it. “I want you to read this information and monitor yourself. I am going to write you a prescription for Clomid. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve heard of it. It’s a fertility drug, right?”

“Yes. It helps with ovulation, and has been used for over two decades. It is highly effective in regulating ovulation and will give you the least amount of side effects. I suspect your cancer treatment interfered with your ovulation in some way… it’s not unheard of, and you’re still on Tamoxifen, which can also be causing problems. Now, typically, Tamoxifen can sometimes actually make periods heavier, but everyone is different. Having a lighter period while on it is also not unheard of. We’ve given you another pelvic exam, and that’s not the problem. You’re fine in that regard.

“Generally, it’s believed the chemotherapy can interfere with the quality of a woman’s eggs but in your case, that’s not the issue, or at least I don’t believe so. That’s a good thing because it’s much easier to address an ovulation issue than an egg one.” He smiled pleasantly at her, then turned back towards his computer and began typing away.

Sitting there in relief and shock, she continued to listen to the man go into explanations of her next steps. She took the prescription, got to her feet, and shook his hand.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me, okay?”

She nodded, smiled a farewell, and raced out the door, her phone in hand.

“Detective Vitale speaking.”

“Oh shut up, show off!” She chuckled. “You know who this is!”

He chortled. “No I didn’t! This is my work phone and I didn’t see the caller ID. I’m on my way to a witness’ house. What’s up? How’d the doctor’s visit go?”

“It went surprisingly well. Well, I have the infamous break up line for you. It’s me, not you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your boys are fine.”

“My boys?” He laughed heartily. “Yeah, okay, they get first prize in swimming competitions… what else?”

“My girls are fine, too.”

“Well, that doesn’t leave much else, so what are we doing wrong?”

“It’s my periods. He gave me a prescription to take, but it could take like six months before we conceive, maybe longer. He said around the third or fourth month after taking it is when we’d typically see results. It is supposed to help get my ovulation together.”

“But you have periods. So, you’re not releasing eggs regularly, but they are healthy?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, got it. Well, that’s good. At least we have some answers now.” He sighed on the other end.

“Yes we do, so.” She exhaled as she made her way to the parking lot and looked around, trying to recall where’d she parked her car. “So, anyway, we can talk about it more later. When will you be home? I won’t be there until after eight, that’s for certain.” She smiled in relief after finally spotting her black Mercedes.

“Around the same time as last night unless something pops up…”

“And it always does,” she hissed. “Alright, kisses, baby.”

“Kissing you back! I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And then she disconnected the call.

She sat there in the car for a moment or two, reeling from the information.

This could really happen…

She looked down at the prescription, placed it inside of her purse, and started the car, on her way to Duane Reade to get the damn thing filled. She tried, oh how she tried, but she couldn’t wipe the damn grin off her face…

He looked at
his reflection in the tin soup lid, debating on whether to use the serrated edge to slice his own throat. The knives would be no good; they would leave even cuts, not torn flesh, and he wanted to go out in the most despicable of ways. No, he needed something jagged and painful… Something that would make it all the more wonderful as he took himself down.

Oliver stood there for the longest in that cream and gray tiled industrial kitchen, registering the scent of freshly diced onion and green peppers that filled the air. He’d signed up to help in the lunch preparation—anything to take his mind off things… but it simply didn’t work. Nothing worked.

Maybe it’s the medication making me feel this way…

He’d told the psychiatrist he’d not been feeling well, but watched his words, for he knew the wrong sentence or declaration would land him in isolation on suicide watch, and he didn’t want to be surveyed, monitored, stopped… No, this needed to transpire without a hitch.

He took a deep breath, untied his tomato sauce stained apron and marched towards the door. The guard gave him the once over.

“I need to make a phone call,” he explained as he squeezed past the man and made his way down the short hall until he’d arrived at the antiquated silver and black pay phones, smudged with face oils and other gooey, disgusting things he couldn’t quite classify. He clutched the receiver and slid out the business card he’d been given long ago. His nostrils, reddened and raw from a recent cold, twitched as he sniffed with nervousness, looking both ways as people past him by, careful of how his voice may carry.

“Detective Nick Vitale speaking…”

“…Nick…. It’s Don…I mean, Oliver…”

Things were quiet for a moment, almost as if he’d dialed the wrong number.

“Nick?”

“Yeah, yeah… Uh, you just caught me by surprise. Hold on a sec, okay?”

“Okay.”

He waited through the sounds of honking and other hectic noises, a melee of urban instrumentals.

He’s in traffic… I couldn’t have called at a worse time…

“Okay, I was driving and I’m actually working right now. I’m pulling over to the side here… You in trouble? I get monthly reports on you, you know. Your therapist says you’re doing well. What’s going on?”

I don’t know who else to call, who else can help me…

“Well?” Nick questioned, his patience apparently running thin and they’d just begun.

Stinging tears filled Oliver’s eyes up like goblets. Panic-stricken and out of his mind, a crooked grin split his face. “Nick, I think I’m done, man… I’m done.”

“What do you mean,
you’re
done?!” The guy’s anger boomed through the receiver, almost as if he could reach through the damn thing and wring his neck through the earpiece. The not-so-distant memory flashed in his mind of the monster’s hands wrapped tightly against his coat collar, of him dragging him across the slick, shiny floor like a damn rag.

“Motherfucker, we had an agreement!” Nick’s deep voice rang out, shattering any semblance of peace.

“Yes, yes, we had an agreement, and I did my part. You don’t understand.”

“Make me understand it then! What the hell is going on?!”

“I don’t… I don’t want to live anymore!” His voice shook as he clutched the phone. “I’m tired, Nick!” he said in a whisper, quickly swiping away the tears that trekked down his face. His heart sank down to his damn feet, and the heaviness made him suddenly immobile. “I just want to die…”

“How long have you been feeling this way?” His tone softened, and a shred of compassion coated his words.

“Maybe a month or two… I tried yesterday morning, but… but I got interrupted. Nick… the medicine is making me sick. Why keep on living, huh? This isn’t the life I wanted but it’s too late to change it. I’ve done and seen too much, I’m damaged goods! I’m worthless!”

“No you’re not…”

“I
am
worthless! My family wants nothing to do with me since I’m here now. Everyone knows what I did!
Everyone!
That’s not the worst of it, Nick, not by a long shot. Anyway…” He shook his head like a maniac and clamped his eyes closed for a spell as he leaned against the wall. “I can’t leave, and I can’t go home. I’m already dead, so what’s the difference?!”

“Oliver, home is where you make it. You are
not
worthless; you are mentally sick! You care about what you’ve done, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! You know that I do or I wouldn’t want it all to end! The guilt is killing me, and I have no one… no one to love me, care about me. I have no friends and now no family, either.” He tried to push back the tears, but he couldn’t. He closed his eyes and raised his hand to veil them. His face ached as the tiny muscles beneath his skin strained while the emotions seized and locked him up. “I…I’m useless!”

“Oliver, stop it. I have an idea. Here’s what I want you to do…here’s what I want to arrange. Are you listening?”

“….Yes.”

“What you’re feeling now, the pain, the anguish, I want you to channel it differently. I want you to use it, okay? Just like how they told us in rehab.”

“That’s different! I don’t want to use; I just want to disappear! It’s not the same principles.”

“It
is
the same philosophies, Oliver. Most of us used because we didn’t want to feel anything else; we wanted to be numb to the hurt and pain. Many of us also felt unloved and forgotten. You want to feel wanted, liked and loved, right? Well, I have the solution…
help
people, Oliver. I want you to speak at least once a month at some of the juvenile sex offender facilities in New York. I want you to tell your story!”

He was suddenly snatched with panic at such a notion, but as quickly as that fear came, it left… opening the door to truth, and welcoming in the fresh breeze of innovative possibilities.

“You said it yourself—people know who you are and what you’ve done now. You might as well step completely out of the shadows so you can help others—kids and young men who still have time to turn themselves around, man. They’ve already been caught and stopped much earlier than you. If you catch this sort of thing early enough, sometimes, Oliver…and you
know
this…you can actually save some lives, stop people from going through what you’re going through. And you can save some victims, too. If you catch it when a kid is seven, ten, sometimes even in his teens, you can make a difference! That’s when the child is still moldable, impressionable. You’d be perfect for that. You’re a natural born teacher, and you know the psychology and drive behind your illness, too.”

“Nick, I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“… If I tell the
whole
thing, any chance of my family accepting me back will be over!”

“You
must
tell the whole thing, Oliver! All of that asshole attitude of yours was just an act. You’re not an asshole! You care, so prove it!”

“But you don’t know what happened!” His damn bladder swelled. God, would it give out on him, make him lose his piss right then and there? He hopped about from foot to foot, feeling like a lost little boy, a troubled child with a broken heart. “I never told you. I ripped it out of the journals long before handing them over to you… I refused to let anyone know!”

“I
do
know what happened, goddamn it! He was touching you! Your father molested you!”

Oliver grew quieter on the phone, disappearing within himself while his knees grew weak. Then, wrapping the chord slowly around his hand, he leaned against the wall, lest he fall and never recover.

“How… did you know?” he whispered, his eyes darting back and forth.

“Sometimes, what we
don’t
say, Oliver, is more important than what we do say. It’s not too late for you to make a difference. There is still time.”

He smiled into the phone, a huge weight off his shoulders, and he didn’t even have to utter a word.

He knew my secret…he knew it all along!

“You know.” He swallowed. “I denied it to the therapists, the psychiatrists, the counselors, all of them. They kept pushing me, but I refused. I wouldn’t say it, I wouldn’t hurt my father… he’d have too much to lose. He never acknowledged the abuse…but it happened.” He took a deep breath. “He’s also been sending me money, though he won’t speak to me.”

“…It’s to keep you quiet, Oliver, not because he loves you. All he is concerned about is his reputation. He wants you to keep his secrets. He knows you need the income and that you’re afraid of him, always have been. He put you in drug rehabilitation, thinking that would set you straight, but your drug use was the least of your problems. The same thing probably happened to him, too… but we can’t worry about him. This is about saving your life, Oliver… and your life is worth living.”

They were quiet for a moment or two.

“You know what?” He smiled tentatively into the phone. “I think that’s okay, you know? I think I can do this and as far as the money my father sends me…” He shrugged. “I’ll find a way to make it, I suppose.”

“You will, Oliver. You always do.”

“Oh, I never got a chance to tell you, but you did a real good job on that Dollhouse case… I wish I could have seen the interrogation. I bet you were simply brilliant.”