“In a small town it’s the hare and the tortoise all over again. The hare being the bad news.”
“But the tortoise eventually wins?”
“If he keeps putting one foot in front of the other.” I puzzled over that image for a moment. Did a tortoise move one foot at a time? My analogy might need work.
“That’s optimistic,” he said. “They may tar and feather me while I’m plodding toward the finish line.”
“Why did you choose Emerald Springs? It’s so far off the beaten path.”
“I was practicing in Chicago, and I got tired of the rat race. My partner in the practice died, and I thought it was time to pull up stakes and try a quieter lifestyle. There was a need in this area for what I do, and when I saw Emerald Springs I knew this was the place for me.”
I know that looks can be deceiving, but Peter Schaefer has a quiet dignity and warmth that makes it difficult to imagine him initiating or feeding addictions. I decided to take advantage of it.
“Dr. Schaefer—”
“Peter.”
I nodded. “Peter, I have a couple of questions you might be able to help with.”
Warmth changed to wariness. I suspected he, like most doctors, was asked to diagnose everything from athlete’s foot to terminal cancer on sidewalks like this one.
I held up both hands and broke out my most disarming smile. “It’s not what you think. I don’t need medical advice. It’s about pain relief and what you do.”
The wariness didn’t abate. “It’s a big subject.”
“Well, it’s general stuff. Since the topic keeps coming up, I’d like to be armed with facts.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, but I was about to treat my pond. I’ve been away for the holidays, and I came back to a mess. If you don’t mind maybe we can talk while I mix these chemicals.”
We walked along the sidewalk, then across grass that crunched under our feet. The backyard was surrounded by a wooden fence that also blocked out the parking lot, and once he unhooked the gate and we walked through, I understood why. The front yard had been welcoming but the backyard was an oasis. Graceful evergreens, specimen shrubs, beds that were probably filled with flowers three seasons of the year. And best of all, a small waterfall cascading over boulders into a pond about ten feet in diameter. Benches were strategically placed at angles to enjoy the view.
“Oh, it’s lovely. Did you design it?”
He looked pleased. “Yes, and I did all the work the front-end loader didn’t.”
“I am so impressed.”
“I’ve got a problem with string algae. Not something I would expect this time of year, but it’s been warm enough that I’ve had minimal ice.”
“The pump keeps the water circulating fast enough to keep it from freezing?”
“Until the temperature stays low for a good while. But I should have taken care of this in the fall. I just expected the problem to go away on its own.” He gestured to a bench. “Take a seat. I’m just going to mix this with a little water and pour it in.” He held up a bottle.
I watched as he fetched a large white plastic bucket, dipped it in the pond to get water, then set it on the edge. I waited until he had measured the chemical and added it to the bucket. Then he dumped the concoction in.
“I hope this doesn’t kill my goldfish. It’s not supposed to.” He picked up a long-handled fishnet and scooped out some leaves.
I figured our time together was limited, so I began. “I guess my biggest question is how a doctor can measure pain. How do you know who to help and who to avoid?”
He rinsed the bucket in the pond, then he turned it over to drain. “You mean, who’s lying and who isn’t?”
“Yes.”
“There aren’t any reliable tests, if that’s what you mean. No instruments can detect degree of suffering. Everyone’s pain threshold is different. Discernment takes a lot of training and a lot of listening. Of course medical records are important, X-rays, blood work, the usual. Thorough examinations. I require my patients to document everything, every symptom, their response, what helps, what doesn’t.”
“Do you see certain kinds of problems more than others?”
“We see a lot of conditions repeatedly. Headaches, joint pain, neck and back pain. There’s something called trigeminal neuralgia that causes severe facial pain, almost like being struck by lightning. It’s so severe suicide sometimes seems like the best option.”
“And you can help?”
“Not always.”
“How do you help?”
“Well, this garden is a start. I offer meditation classes to my patients. Sometimes they practice here, or I just send them out to relax while they’re waiting to see me. I refer them to other practitioners when I think it will help. But it often comes down to drugs.”
He put the net on a rock. “Four billion workdays are missed every year due to pain. If we can manage it early and well, we can save lives, reduce suffering, keep people out of the hospital, and even decrease the burden on our healthcare systems.”
I was in sympathy, but I decided to ask the hard question. “Someone told me you prescribe hundreds of pills per day for some patients.”
“In the same way that pain thresholds are different, so are tolerance levels. A small dose that works for one patient won’t work for another. And patients build up a tolerance to some of the drugs we use, opiods in particular, and need more to obtain relief. We start with small doses of the short-acting opiods, and increase amounts or switch to long-acting. Sometimes we add other drugs to the mix while keeping careful records, until we achieve our goal. So yes, it sometimes looks as if we’re prescribing a ridiculous number of pills. But sometimes, that’s what it takes.”
I wondered about Ginger. Had she really needed this kind of help? Had she been forced to turn to Kas to get it because someone like Peter Schaefer hadn’t been available to her? Or had the extent of her pain been exaggerated so she could obtain drugs to sell?
“Clearly you’re wondering about something,” he said.
I guess I had been silent too long. “I’m wondering how many of those drugs end up on the street.”
“You and too many other people,” he said.
I heard the bitterness. If he was a good man trying to end suffering—and that was my best guess—the bitterness was understandable. “But how good are your safeguards, Peter? Can you weed out the addicts from the patients who really need help?”
“Addicts need help, too.”
“Well, not that kind of help.”
“I’ve had addicts come to me with unbearable pain completely unrelated to their addiction. Try figuring out how to deal with that.”
His was not a job I wanted. Ending suffering was noble. Contributing to the illegal drug trade, which promoted excruciating suffering, was despicable.
“I won’t keep you any longer.” I rose. “It’s clear there aren’t any easy answers here.”
“This is about more than questions from the community, isn’t it?”
I should have known he’d see through me. I hoped he was this insightful with his patients. “I’ve just learned someone I know may have been procuring and selling prescription painkillers. I just wanted to understand more about it.”
He didn’t look surprised, but he didn’t look pleased, either. “Don’t ever make the mistake of believing that everyone who writes a prescription does it with the same care and concern. This is my specialty. I’m trained, and I’m competent. But there are a lot of clueless doctors, and more than a few who are dishonest. They hurt all of us because legitimate specialists are coming under increasing fire. Pretty soon people who suffer won’t have anywhere to turn for help. Doctors will be too frightened of going to jail or losing their licenses.”
“Good luck with your algae problem.”
He smiled a little. “It’s one of the simpler problems I have to deal with.”
Hours later I was melting butter in a large skillet when Sid wandered down from her long winter’s nap. The pierogies were plump and perfect, some filled with potatoes, some with cheese. I told myself they wouldn’t be even better if I fried up a little kielbasa to go with them.
“What’s that smell?” Sid sniffed the air.
“Red cabbage to go with the pierogies. I found a sweet-and-sour recipe that looks good. I miss Vel’s cooking.”
She filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove for tea. “I got a call when I walked in the door. You’ll never guess from whom.”
I was guessing it hadn’t been Roussos telling her she could return to Atlanta with no fears.
“I’m clueless,” I said. “Who?”
“Hertz. Seems Bix never returned the rental car, and he’s not answering his cell phone. Unfortunately they had my number, too.”
“Whose name’s on the rental agreement?”
“His, but I signed on as an authorized driver. They have my credit card information, too.”
I wished Bix was sitting right here. Sid could pry open his jaws, and I would stuff him full of every single food in my kitchen that wasn’t organic or imported—which includes pretty much everything. Death by processed cheese slices and grape Jell-O. It was too good for him.
“What are you going to do?” I asked when I had calmed a little.
“Lest you think it ends there, I’ll sweeten the pot. I called directory assistance for Sag Harbor. That’s where his parents are supposed to live.”
“Supposed to?”
“There are no Minards in Sag Harbor.”
“Maybe he has a stepfather with a different name.”
“Not that he’s ever mentioned.”
“And you tried his cell?”
“Repeatedly. I left three messages. And, of course, I called his number in Atlanta.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me, too. Sorry I picked such a loser.”
While we both thought about that I dumped chopped onions in the skillet and stirred them until they were soft, then turned off the burner. The rest could be done right before we ate.
The back door opened, and Teddy stomped in with Junie behind her. Today Junie was clearly paying homage to Eskimos. Her parka was lined with thick faux fur and fastened with something akin to walrus tusks. Her down gloves were thick enough for building igloos. Junie moves from north to south like a migratory bird, and she always winters where the weather is warm. Emerald Springs is a shock to her system.
“Is Moonpie home yet?” Teddy asked.
“No, I’m sorry.” I had conducted another search of our yard and the immediate neighborhood this afternoon, but still to no avail. I even called the animal shelter.
“Were you and Junie looking for him, too?” I asked. There had been a note on the table when I returned home from my walk explaining that Deena was shoveling stalls at a local horse farm, and Junie and Teddy were spending the afternoon together.
“No, we were looking for angels.” Teddy left to hang up her coat, but Junie stripped off hers beside the door.
“Where were you two?” I asked my mother as the layers came off.
“After we got back from the fabric store she asked me to help her with her story for school.”
That surprised me. Teddy had refused to let me see it the last time I asked.
“And?”
“And, she’s not getting anywhere with it. Not because she doesn’t have an imagination, but because she’s still wrestling with angels.”
“She has a lifetime of that ahead of her, I’m afraid.”
“When you found out Santa Claus was just a concept, you spent most of your time trying to figure out who came up with the whole idea in the first place and whether we ought to report them. You always wanted to get to the bottom of things. Sid, you said as long as the Christmas presents kept coming, you didn’t care who brought them. My little Material Girl.”
Sid made a noise deep in her throat, something between a laugh and a groan.
“Teddy’s more like her dad,” I said. “She wants to understand all the universal implications.”
“I thought she ought to see some real angels, so I took her to the food bank and we put together bags of food for families in need. I told her all those people were angels in action.”
“How did you know about the food bank?”
“Lucy told me about it when she was giving me the grand tour. I called and they told us to come over.”
I put my arms around her and squeezed. “Extra pierogies for you, Grandma. That was a wonderful idea. No wonder I turned out so well.”
She patted my cheek. Stripped of outerwear she was resplendent in white stretch lace, a plump, perceptive snowflake. “Teddy’s thinking it over.”
“She can always do with a little Junie magic.”
“I need to see more of her. And Deena. They’re growing up too fast.” She sobered. “It seems like only yesterday you were all still with me. Ginger, too. And now there’s nothing left of that part of my life but memories.”
There was no self-pity in her voice, but the fact that she would express her sorrow over Ginger, in any form, was telling.
“You know,” I said, “I cleared all Ginger’s things out of the hotel. I have them in my closet. There was some lovely jewelry, and Cliff didn’t want it. I thought maybe you would.”
Wisely Junie didn’t refuse or say she wanted Sid and me to take it. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“I’ll get the suitcase after dinner. You can go through the jewelry yourself.”
The back door slammed and Deena came in, followed a minute later by her dad. Hugs were exchanged, the table was set, and I sauteed the pierogies with the butter and onions. Not a one was left by the time dinner was over.
Ed is reading our girls
Black Beauty
, and after we cleaned up the kitchen, Sid and Junie stayed downstairs to listen. Since I had heard last night’s chapter, I knew that Black Beauty had just met the pony Merrylegs as well as a snappy chestnut mare who scared little children and regularly bit the hand that fed her. Ironically the mare’s name was Ginger. I was hoping for a happy ending to that particular plot thread.
I used the opportunity to go upstairs and take Ginger’s suitcase out of my closet. Lying open on my bed it was a sad reminder. I doubted Junie would want Ginger’s clothes, but she often surprises me. I took out the things I had carefully folded and laid them on the bed with the jewelry in its satin case. I checked the two inside pockets to be sure nothing else was there, then closed it. There were two pockets on the front, as well, which I hadn’t checked on Christmas afternoon, since I hadn’t needed the room. Now I unzipped them to see if there was anything else for Junie to go through.