The Girl Without a Name (12 page)

“Hmm,” I answer.

“Anyway, she packed up all her stuff. So the place is empty. It's as depressing as hell at my house right now.” He takes a drink. “So that was a surprise. Saying you want a divorce is one thing. Moving out the next day is another.”

“Dr. Berringer,” I say.

“Tad. Oh God. Please call me Tad. Dr. Berringer sounds like my father.”

“Was your father a doctor?”

“Yeah. Retired now. He was a radiologist. A
real
doctor.” He puts air quotes around “real.” I'm guessing he has some issues with his father, and I wouldn't even need to be a psychiatrist to suss that one out.

“Okay, Tad,” I say, though the name feels funny to say. “Maybe you just need to give her some space for now. And let her come back when she's ready.”

“Yeah, maybe. But I don't think so.” He twists the cap on and lobs the empty bottle toward the garbage. It misses entirely, though he doesn't seem to notice. “I don't think she's ever coming back.”

We sit in glum silence for a while, and then he gets a text. The phone is sitting on the table between us, so we both see it.

O-club tomorrow?

He rolls his eyes. “That's my sponsor, Oscar. Our stupid name for AA.”

“The O-club?”

“Yeah. There's an Omar and an Ozzie we hang out with there. So we took to calling it the O-club.”

“So you messed it up with a T.”

“Huh?”

“T for Tad.”

“Oh yeah, guess I did.”

We fall into silence again, staring outside, when he stands up, stretching. “Zoe, I've kept you long enough. I've gotta get back home.” He fishes in his pocket for keys. “I'll walk you to the lot.”

“You know what, I'll drive you.”

“Oh, please, Zoe. I've been far worse.”

“That may be true, but I'm still driving. We can take my car.”

“You don't even know where I live.”

“My Google Maps is very smart.”

He finds his keys finally, debates, then drops them back in his pocket. “You're one tough broad, ain't you?”

“Yup, that's me.”

He follows me to the elevators, and I pick up his misthrown bottle and toss our drinks in the trash, which smells sour, like the bag hasn't been changed in months. How we get to my car, I'm not exactly sure. He leans heavily on me, probably more heavily than he needs to, and we lumber slowly over the gravel road to the residents' lot. It's an awkward slough, some odd approximation of a three-legged race at the fair, his thigh rocking against me. His sweater is scratchy and smells like sweat and gin with notes of root beer—not a bad smell, actually. I type his address in my GPS, and we're on our way. Within minutes, he is dead asleep beside me, his head lolling back and forth like a rag doll. With no small effort, I am finally able to wake him up when we get to his house.

“You ready?” I ask.

He falls back asleep on my shoulder, which gives me the answer.

“Come on,” I say, giving him a shove. I get out of the car and open his door. “Tad,” I whisper, as loud as I can whisper. “Come on.”

“Okay,” he mumbles. “I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.”

“Then get out of the car.”

It takes him a few tries, but he lumbers out of my little car like he's overplaying a drunk in a movie. We do our three-legged shuffle up to his doorstep, and he manages to fit his key in the slot after a couple flubs. The door opens to a dank, cold house. I have to agree with him: It's depressing as hell. “Haven't you turned on your heat?” I ask him.

“I keep meaning to,” he answers, gazing around his house. His face looks on the verge of despair. I don't know if I can handle him crying.

“Where's your bedroom?”

“Upstairs,” he says and lopes off that way, banging his knee on a coffee table. We climb up the stairs, him leaning on the rail and me supporting his other arm. His room is neat but bare, like someone just moved out and took all the pretty things away. Staggering over to the bed, he sits down, putting his head in his hands. “I really fucked up this time, didn't I?”

“It's not so bad,” I lie.

He shakes his head and looks up at me, his eyes shiny with tears. “Did I ever tell you about that Leonard Cohen song?”

“Yes, you did.”

Unexpectedly, he grabs my hand. His hand is warm, despite the cold drive home and the cold house. I swallow, my heart rate elevating. He pulls me closer to him, and I stand there awkwardly with his shoulder digging into my ribs. Heat radiates off his scratchy sweater. I sit on the bed and pat his shoulder. “Zoe?”

“Yes?”

He grabs my shoulder and pulls me in closer. The smell of root beer, gin, and wool. “Don't ever let me fall in love with you, okay?” His whisper is hot on my neck. His words are mumbled, barely intelligible. I could have misheard them. “Promise me that, okay? Because I am some bad, bad news.”

“Okay,” I answer, gently pulling away from him before I do something stupid like lie down beside him.

When the phone rings, the clock says 10:00 a.m. My mouth is dry as cotton.

“Hello?” I croak out.

“Sounds like someone had a bad night,” Mike says.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“I figured. So I let you sleep. Whereas I, on the other hand, have already put in two hours at the gym.”

“Oh, okay, Mr. Show-off,” I say, sitting up stiffly.

“That's
Dr.
Show-off to you.”

“Ha.” I shove on my slippers and make my way to the kitchen. “You working today?”

“No, I'm off. You want to do something?”

I set up my coffee, a one-cup jobber that Scotty gave me for my birthday. I love the thing, though he told me it would probably put him out of business. “Sure. I'm on call, though, so we can't go far.”

“We could drive up to Letchworth,” he offers. “Prime time for leaf peeping.”

“No, too far. And don't ever say that again.”

“Don't ever say what again?”

“Leaf peeping.”

“What?” he objects. “That's what they call it.”

“A movie maybe?” The coffee hisses to a close, and I pour in my fixings. As I take my first sip, my brain comes to life.

“I already checked. Nothing good up. Just a couple of action movies.”

“What kind of action movies?” I ask.

“The kind with elderly heroes in bad toupees.”

“Oh, no. You're right. No interest.” I take another lovely sip. A huge linden tree glows yellow outside the window, the leaves flickering in the sun. “How about a walk?”

There is a pause while he thinks about this. “Sure, we could do that. Where do you want to go?”

“Surprise me,” I say, “within a ten-mile radius.”

“Okay. It's a deal,” he says. “Pick you up in ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes? I haven't even finished my coffee. I still have to put my face on.” We both know this is a joke. I barely remember to use ChapStick. Once I wore foundation to cover my freckles for a medical school dance with Jean Luc. He told me I looked “beige.”

“Pick me up in an hour.” I hang up the phone in a good mood, 8.7 at least, ready to spend a gorgeous fall day with Mike. But the guilty thought still surfaces, that I didn't tell him the truth about last night, about Dr. Berringer.

And I'm not exactly sure why.

A
ny idea how her picture ended up on Facebook?” the detective's voice booms into my Bluetooth.

“Whose picture?” I turn left at a light that was almost still yellow, and someone honks at me.

He guffaws. “Whose picture? Zoe, a word of advice: Don't take up a life of crime. You're a terrible liar.”

“Yeah, um…”

“I assume you're pleading the fifth?” he asks.

“Can I do that?”

A laugh comes over the speaker. “Don't you watch any cop shows?”

I take a sip of coffee, which I swallow wrong and cough all over my just-dry-cleaned sweater. “Fuck.” I'm going to need some of Scotty's magical Treasury bonds to deal with my mounting dry-cleaning bills.

“Don't swear in the phone, please.”

“Sorry.”

“Well,” he says, “as much as I hate to admit it, your little stunt might have provided our first lead.”

“My
alleged
stunt.”

“Yes, your alleged stunt. A woman recognized the picture.”

“Oh yeah?”

“But she's says the name isn't Daneesha or Candy. It's Monica. Monica Green.”

“Monica Green,” I repeat, pondering this. She doesn't look like a Monica Green.

“She's a girl from North Carolina, missing about a month now. Her uncle picked her up from school one day, and she was never heard from again.”

“No one looked for her for a month?”

“No, they looked for her, just in North Carolina. The Amber Alert was a no-go, and then all the leads went cold. But it just so happens her cousin is friends with someone who's friends with someone, et cetera, however the hell these things work, and saw the post.”

“Aren't you on Facebook?”

“No, I'm not on Facebook,” he says, offended. “My wife's on that thing all the damn time. It's the last thing I need.”

“How did you hear about it then? I didn't see any comments on it.”

“On the post you didn't write?” he asks. “She thought it might have been a hoax, and she saw the post was from Buffalo, so she called us. She's sure that's her.”

I pull off the exit to the hospital. “How could it get missed all this time, though? Don't you guys share missing person photos across states?”

“Of course.” Boisterous laughter rises up in the background. “It got missed somehow, Zoe. I don't know. It might not even be the same girl. But it's worth a look.”

“What does her mom say?”

“The mother's deceased.”

I stop at a red light. “Was her name Heaven by chance?”

“No. I checked that out already. Her name was Vonya. She died of breast cancer. The girl's being raised by her aunt.”

“Huh.”

“The aunt's a solid citizen, but I can't say the same for her abusive asshole of a husband.”

“And the aunt thinks it's her niece?”

He clears his throat. “She's not sure honestly, because it's a crappy picture. Said she's ten pounds thinner and pale as a ghost, but says it could be her.”

“Wow.” The light turns green. We may have finally solved the puzzle of Jane.

“The aunt's flying in soon to confirm. We're still firming up the date. So I guess we'll see.”

“Why don't you just Skype?”

“I suggested that. She said if it's her girl, she wants to be able to hold her.”

The nurse supervisor, a sixtysomething-year-old with a light-brown beehive hairdo, pokes her head in the charting room. “Did any of you guys write a Demerol order yesterday?”

“I was shooting up yesterday,” Jason says, “but not with Demerol.”

“You're awful, you know that?” she titters, heading back to her desk. “I'll have to ask Dr. Berringer. It's recorded as taken from the Pyxis, but I don't have any orders for it.”

“Nancy, did you waste any Demerol?” she calls down the hall.

“No,” Nancy calls back.

Dr. Berringer on Demerol? He's been hungover before, but not strung out. No pinpoint pupils or mini-nods. No scratching at his skin as the day wears on. I vote yes for Jim Beam but no for the opiates. If anyone wants my opinion. As if to answer for himself, Dr. Berringer appears in the doorway, wearing his famous French-blue shirt. Dr. Berringer confirms that he, too, did not order any Demerol.

“Hmm,” the nurse says. “I also have insulin taken out without an order. Did any of you guys order that?”

“No insulin, no Demerol,” he answers. “Call the pharmacy. Maybe there's a problem with the machine.” He grabs a couple of charts. “Let's go,” he says, up and happy, with no sign of the downtrodden man from Friday night. I notice he doesn't say a word about it either. But then again, what's he supposed to say? “How's Chloe doing?”

“Not great. Lost a pound and some privileges. Extra-hostile today,” I answer.

“Sounds fun. And Candy? Or should I say Daneesha?”

“It was Daneesha this morning. Daneesha Jones.”

He stops walking. “You got a last name?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. It was before the weekend.”

He nods, scratching at his head.

“But that might not even be her real last name. The detective's got a lead. He thinks she might be a missing girl from North Carolina. Monica Green.”

“Monica Green?” he repeats with some confusion. “Well, whatever, let's go see her.” When we walk in, she's sitting in a chair with her socks off, flipping through
Gulliver's Travels
. It's got to be Candy.

“You like it?” I ask.

“It's kind of boring, actually,” she says with a nervous laugh.

Daneesha's response when the acne-ridden, mousy volunteer handed her the book from the bare offerings on the roller shelf:
What's this shit?

“I didn't like it much either,” I say with a vague memory of a giant peeing on a fire and my frustrated English teacher telling me that's perhaps the least relevant thing in the whole book. I was skilled at frustrating English teachers.

“By the way,” Candy starts, her voice soft. “I don't mean to pry. But do you know when the foster home thing might happen again?”

So now both of them are badgering me about getting out. “We're trying our best, Candy. It's great of you to be so patient.”

She nods and blushes, pleased with the compliment. “Okay. Just wondering is all.” We don't get much further. She doesn't remember her last name being Jones, still doesn't know a Daneesha, has no recollection of an aunt (though is excited to meet her!), and as for fat white guys chasing her, no clue. I have to agree with the detective that, if this case gets solved, it's going to be by Daneesha.

I leaf through the artwork on her desk. The newest picture is rows of purple decorated with repeating letters, numbers, and suns, much like the one Jane Doe did for her first art project. The paper is warped, still drying. “What was the assignment for this one?”

“A quilt,” she says.

I nod. It does look like a quilt. Donny Not-Osmond likely drew rows of disemboweled puppies. Farther down in the art pile is a work in multicolored, zigzagged, polka-dotted bubble letters that reads “FUCK THIS SHIT.” Wonder who wrote that one?

“We'll see you later, okay?” Dr. Berringer says.

“Yeah, that sounds good.” She offers a shy smile. “Your eye looks better, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I reach up automatically to touch it, the tenderness almost gone. We get back to the nurses' station, to a pumpkin bowl full of hard candies and a loop of alternating smiley ghosts and grinning pumpkins spanning the counter. Last year, they decided the mummies and spiders were “mentally inappropriate” for a psychiatric floor (yes, a committee took the time to determine this), so this year, it looks like all the decorations are on Prozac. Not to mention that it's over two weeks past Halloween now, and no one's bothered to take them down yet.

“Should we be doing more?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Berringer asks.

“It doesn't seem like we're getting anywhere with CBT. She just keeps streaming Candy and Daneesha. It's pretty unstable.”

“Or we could be heading for a breakthrough,” he says.

“Maybe,” I answer, doubtfully.

“What do you think, Jason?” he asks.

Jason shrugs. “I don't know. We could try something.”

“Okay,” he says, weighing our opinions. We residents appreciate this. Unlike most of the attendings, Dr. Berringer at least pretends to listen to your suggestions, even if he doesn't usually follow them. “And what would you suggest?”

Jason purses his lips. “Increase the Ativan?”

“How about adding an antipsychotic?” I ask. “They say if benzos aren't working, you might want to add an antipsychotic.”

“Who's they?”

“The
Journal of Clinical Psychiatry
.”

He leans his elbow against the Formica countertop, drumming his fingers. “All right, here's what we're going to do. Keep working the CBT. It may not be helping much, but it can't hurt. Look for triggers. We can try some anti-anxiety techniques if we can identify a trigger.”

“Okay.”

A nurse walks by us in her scrubs, black with glow-in-the-dark skeletons. I wonder if she had to run those by the committee. (“You can wear them during the day, but at night, definitely mentally inappropriate.”)

“Let's increase the Ativan to two mgs q six. An antipsychotic's not a bad idea, but let's wait. You should always make one change at a time. But if we're not seeing any movement with the benzos, we'll try it.”