See Jane Run Page 24

  “Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re dressed a little warmly for a day like today. The weatherman said it might hit a hundred! Do you think you can stand up?”

  Jane shook her head. “I’d rather not.”

  “I’ve got a chair just behind the counter. We can’t have you sitting on the floor. Come on, you can keep me company for a few minutes till you get your strength back.” He used both arms to help pull her to her feet.

  Jane felt someone come up behind her, pushing her from behind. Jane turned to see Paula smiling politely, her hand wedged securely into her back. “No!”

  “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” the startled young girl asked. Not Paula at all, Jane realized, allowing the pharmacist to lead her to the chair behind the counter.

  “Are you ill?” the man asked, his voice full of concern.

  Jane felt tears forming, beginning to fall. She collapsed into the chair, her shaking hand reaching into the pocket of her pants to pull out the two little white pills. “Is there some way you can tell me what these are? I mean without having to send them away for analysis.”

  The pharmacist took the pills from her extended palm, turning them over several times and examining them carefully. “Where did you get these?”

  “Do you know what they are?”

  “I know what I think they are.”

  “Ativan?”

  “Ativan? Oh, no, these aren’t Ativan. Ativan are skinny and oblong in shape. Who told you these were Ativan?”

  Jane felt her heart starting to race. “They’re not Ativan?”

  “No, these look more like Haldol.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something you don’t want to mess with.” His eyes grew narrow. “You haven’t been taking these, have you? I mean, without a prescription?”

  She nodded guiltily. “I was having trouble sleeping and a friend said these would help.”

  “First get rid of the pills, then get rid of the friend. Friends like that are dangerous.” He grunted in disgust. “No wonder you almost fainted. How many of these did you take?”

  “Only a couple.”

  “Jesus.”

  “You’re sure it’s … Haldol?”

  “Almost positive. But I’ll look it up just to be sure.” He disappeared for a few minutes behind a row of files and returned with a heavy blue book. “This has everything.” He opened it. “See? Even pictures.”

  Jane’s eyes scanned the glossy pages, perusing the list of medications, accompanied by pictures of the pills themselves. The pharmacist located the H’s, quickly finding Haldol. He laid the small pill on the page next to the photograph. “See? They’re the same size and color. They both have these beveled edges. They’re scored, uncoated. These are definitely Haldol.”

  “And they’re not good for insomnia.”

  “You got insomnia? I’ve got a million over-the-counter remedies. You got a major psychosis, you take Haldol.”

  “Psychosis?”

  “Haldol is essentially a drug of last resort. You give it to someone who’s suffering from severe depression. If you give it to someone who isn’t suffering from a severe depression, odds are you’re going to induce one.”

  “So someone who wasn’t depressed to begin with is going to get depressed?”

  “You take Haldol long enough without good reason, you’ll turn into a real zombie. Not to mention, physically it can produce all the symptoms of Parkinson’s disease.”

  “Which are?”

  “Difficulty swallowing, spasms, shuffling—”

  “Drooling?”

  He nodded. “You’d run the gamut of psycho impairment. Trust me, these are not pills to blithely hand over to your friends when they’re having trouble sleeping. You’ll have to speak to your friend. Warn this idiot that he or she is playing with people’s lives. Someone could get seriously hurt.” He shook his head in amazement. “You were lucky you only took a couple. You could have been one very sick young lady.” He stopped, studying her carefully. “You’re sure that’s all you took?”

  She smiled, feeling something close to relief. So, she wasn’t going crazy after all. The pills Michael had been giving her weren’t the pills Dr. Meloff had prescribed. The pills she’d been taking, far from being a mild tranquilizer, were “essentially a drug of last resort,” whose prolonged use could turn her into a “zombie.” No wonder she felt so damned depressed all the time. No wonder she could barely get out of bed in the mornings. No wonder she could hardly move. She had drug-induced Parkinson’s disease! She was “running the gamut of psycho impairment!”

  “I need my pills back,” she told the druggist almost calmly. “And I have to get to the Boston City Hospital. Do you think you could lend me some money for a cab?”

  “Maybe it would be a better idea if I called for an ambulance.”

  “I don’t need an ambulance. I just need to speak to someone at the Boston City Hospital. Please, won’t you help me?”

  TWENTY

  “I need to see Dr. Meloff.”

  Jane stared down at the black-haired young woman who sat guard in front of Dr. Meloff’s office pretending to be working at her computer. The woman, whose blue eyes were as pale as her hair was dark, regarded Jane with a mixture of boredom and uncertainty. She’s not quite sure what to make of me, Jane realized, smoothing the wrinkles from her white slacks, adjusting the bottom of her long-sleeved pink sweater, feeling the lingering dampness on her fingertips.

  The young woman, whose name plate identified her as Vicki Lewis and who was elegantly dressed beneath her white lab coat, studied the inappropriateness of Jane’s attire for several seconds before responding. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  “I know I don’t have an appointment, but I’m prepared to wait.” Her eyes scanned the empty office. No one else was waiting to see him.

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to see me when he knows who it is. Please tell him that Jane Whittaker is here.”

  “But I’m afraid Dr. Meloff isn’t.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Jane checked her watch. It was a little early for lunch. Maybe he was on a coffee break. Maybe she could find him in the cafeteria.

  “Dr. Meloff is on vacation. He won’t be back for several weeks.”

  “Vacation?”

  “He’s white-water rafting, or whatever they call it. To each his own.” Vicki Lewis shrugged. “If you’d care to make an appointment for when he gets back….”

  “No. This really can’t wait.”

  “Well, you could see Dr. Turner or one of the residents.”

  “No, it has to be Dr. Meloff.”

  Vicki Lewis peered uneasily into the screen of her computer. “Then there’s really nothing I can do for you unless you make an appointment to see him when he gets back.”

  “I can’t wait till then.” Jane heard the sudden injection of shrillness into her voice, noted the look of concern that flashed across Vicki Lewis’s ghostlike eyes, and knew she had to sit down and think things through before she said anything more, before she did anything stupid. “Do you mind if I sit down for a while?”

  Again Vicki Lewis shrugged. Jane lowered herself into an uncomfortable orange chair against the far wall and took several deep breaths, mindful of Vicki Lewis’s suspicious gaze. She doesn’t know what to make of me, what to do about me. Am I someone she should risk offending? Perhaps a personal friend of the good doctor? Am I in genuine need of medical care? Or am I some lunatic off the street, a former patient with a deranged fan’s obsession? Do I carry a concealed weapon underneath my baby-pink sweater? Is it the heat or my neurosis that is responsible for my wet skin and shaky hands?

  “Are you a patient of Dr. Meloff’s?” the young woman asked, obviously eager to see Jane out of her office.

  “He examined me about a month ago.” Had it been a month? She was no longer sure. She’d lost all track of time. “What day is it?”

  “Thursday. July twent
y-sixth, 1990,” Vicki Lewis told her, dividing the date into three distinct sentences.

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe I should call one of the residents. I think Dr. Klinger might be available.”

  “No!”

  The sudden outburst caused Vicki Lewis to jump. Her hand reached reflexively for the telephone.

  “I don’t want to see Dr. Klinger.” Dr. Klinger with his blank eyes and unsmiling mouth, his lack of humor and zero sense of compassion. What would he make of the story she had to tell? “I just need to sit here for a few minutes until I decide what to do. Please.”

  Another shrug, and Vicki Lewis returned her attention to her computer screen.

  So what do I do now? Jane wondered, fighting back tears. She’d had everything so nicely worked out. In the taxi, she’d rehearsed her speech to Dr. Meloff until it was letter perfect. She’d prepared herself for his every possible reply, known exactly how she would answer each incredulous question. She had decided to lead him into her nightmare gently, the experienced guide directing the wary visitor toward significant points of interest: I know you’re going to find this very difficult to believe, Dr. Meloff, and it’s possible there’s a logical explanation for everything, but I haven’t been able to figure it out. Maybe you can.

  And what seems to be the problem, Jane?

  Well, you know how you said my memory would probably return in a few weeks….

  That wasn’t a promise, Jane. The mind has its own agenda.

  I know that. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here because strange things have been happening to me since I went home….

  What kind of things?

  I’ve been very sick, Dr. Meloff. Depressed and lethargic. Some days I can barely get out of bed.

  We discussed this on the phone, Jane. I told you that it’s not uncommon to be depressed under the circumstances.

  I know, but it’s more than that. You see, I think my husband has been altering my medication.

  What makes you think that?

  You told me that you prescribed Ativan, but I took a few of the pills Michael’s been giving me to the druggist. He said they’re not Ativan. They’re something called Haldol.

  Haldol? You must be mistaken. Do you have them with you?

  Yes. Here.

  These are definitely not the pills I prescribed. Are you sure these are the pills he’s been giving you?

  Yes. And they make me feel awful. They make me dizzy and dopey and sick.

  That’s not surprising. This is very potent medication. But why would your husband give you incorrect medication? He’s a very respected doctor. He knows better. It doesn’t make any sense.

  I haven’t told you the whole story, Dr. Meloff.

  Which is?

  When I found myself walking the streets of Boston, I discovered something else, something that I didn’t tell anyone.

  Not even the police?

  I was afraid to tell the police. You see, the pockets of my trench coat were filled with almost ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.

  What?

  And the front of my dress was covered in blood.

  Blood?

  I was going to tell you. And then that doctor recognized me, and after that, everything happened so fast that I didn’t tell anyone.

  Not even Michael.

  No.

  Whose blood was it?

  At first I had no idea. But now I know that Michael lied about the scar on his forehead.

  I see.

  What do you see?

  You think it was Michael’s blood covering the front of your dress.

  Yes! I think he knows something he’s not telling me, that something might have happened between us, that I might have hit him.

  And you think he’s been giving you Haldol in order to keep you from remembering what provoked the outburst?

  He’s been talking about having me committed. That would certainly get me out of the way. Silence me forever.

  But what about the money?

  The money?

  The ten thousand dollars you found in your pockets. Where did that come from?

  I don’t know. I don’t know how it got there.

  These are very serious charges you’re making against a man whose reputation is above reproach.

  I know that. That’s why I came to you. If I went straight to the police, they’d never believe me. They’d never take my word against his. But with you helping me, at least I have a chance. Please say you’ll help me, Dr. Meloff. Say you’ll come with me when I talk to the police.

  I’ll come with you, Jane.

  You believe me, then. You don’t think I’m crazy.

  I’m not sure what I think. I only know that these are not the pills I prescribed.

  Oh, thank you, Dr. Meloff. Thank you.

  “Is something funny?” Vicki Lewis’s voice interrupted Jane’s reverie. “You were laughing.”

  Jane shook her head, knowing she had definitely overstayed her welcome, but not sure what her next move should be. She could go to the police without Dr. Meloff, but where would that get her? Even if she were to confide in them all her suspicions, even if she were to tell them about the pills, even if she were to lead them to her locker at the Greyhound Bus Terminal and actually present them with her bloodied dress and the stacks of hundred-dollar bills, she would be regarded with skepticism and outright disbelief. She had lied, after all, had neglected to inform them of the money and the blood the first time she had appealed for their help. And who were they more likely to believe now—some crazy dame who still didn’t know who she was, or the renowned pediatric surgeon who was her husband and who would undoubtedly have a logical answer to all their queries? And then she’d be back where she started. Only worse. Because now Michael would have all the proof he needed to have her put away for good.

  No, she couldn’t go to the police. Not yet. She’d have to wait—maybe disappear again—until Dr. Meloff returned from his holiday. Except that she no longer had the financial resources to make disappearing a viable alternative. The key to her locker was in the sole of a shoe at the rear of a closet in a house to which she couldn’t risk returning. Maybe if she explained to the officials at the Greyhound Bus Terminal that she had lost the key, they’d open the locker for her. No, they’d never do that, especially since she had no money or identification. She’d have to think of something else.

  There was nothing else. She had nowhere to go, no place to hide. She had exactly two choices: She could either return home and confront Michael directly or she could turn herself in to the police and let them confront him. “I guess that’s it, then,” she said out loud.

  “What’s it?” Vicki Lewis asked reluctantly.

  Unless she could somehow force herself to remember. Unless she could arm herself with enough facts about her condition to give her subconscious the boost it needed to recall exactly what had gone on between her and Michael. Then she could go to the police. Then she might stand a chance. “Is there a medical library in the building?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Obviously not a question Vicki Lewis had been expecting.

  “Does the hospital have a medical library?”

  “On the third floor,” Vicki Lewis answered, “but it’s off limits to anyone except staff.”

  “Thank you.” Jane stood up and teetered out of the office, steadying herself against the wall for support, aware of Vicki Lewis’s eyes on her back.

  She followed the gray line that ran along the side of the wall to the elevators, waiting beside an elderly black lady for one to arrive.

  “You must be very warm,” the woman said as they stepped inside, the other passengers trying to maintain as much distance as they could between themselves and Jane’s pink wool sweater.

  “I didn’t know it was going to be so hot,” Jane said, then directed her eyes to the buttons on the wall panel when she realized no one was interested. She sniffed at the fetid air in the confined space, and instantly beca
me aware of unpleasant body odors, understanding that she was the one responsible. The elevator stopped at every floor, letting people off, picking others up, prolonging the agony, until Jane found herself pushed to the very back of the elevator, and then it was the third floor, her turn to get off. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing her way back to the front, getting off just before the doors closed, hearing the sighs of relief from those who remained inside. She tried to focus on the various signs on the walls, arrows and directions which presumably told her all she needed to know, but the letters swam in and out of her consciousness and she ultimately gave up trying to force her eyes to cooperate. “Excuse me,” she asked a passing intern, “could you please tell me where the medical library is located?”

  He pointed in the proper direction, but not before telling her that the library was off limits to all but hospital personnel. Jane thanked him, then waited until he was out of sight before proceeding. If the medical library was off limits to all but hospital personnel, she’d just have to see to it that she was gainfully employed. “Hello,” she told the middle-aged woman she assumed was the librarian. “I’m Vicki Lewis, Dr. Meloff’s secretary. The doctor asked me to look up some information for him while he’s away.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  Jane exhaled a deep breath of air. If the woman was at all suspicious, she was doing a very good job of hiding it. If only everything else should prove so easy, Jane prayed, wondering how to go about locating the information she was seeking. “I was wondering if you could help me,” she ventured.

  The librarian smiled. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m looking for a comprehensive book on psychiatry.”

  “We have many.” The woman, who was short and remarkably round, rose from her desk and led Jane past several aisles of books toward a shelf along the back wall. “These are all the psychiatry texts. As I’m sure you know,” she added, as if it had just occurred to her that the secretary of a neurologist should be familiar with such things. She pointed to a particularly large and cumbersome text. “This one probably has all that you’ll need.”

  “Thank you.” Jane gathered the heavy tome into her arms, then looked around for somewhere to take it.