Notorious D.O.C. (Hope Sze medical mystery) (8 page)

"Engineering."

"That's a tough field," I said,
meaning it. My dad was an electrical engineer. Ryan had a very heavy course
load in mechanical.

"Yeah." I got a twitch of eye
contact again.

"Do you think that's stressful? The
work?"

He shrugged. "It's okay." He
went back to staring at the sunflowers.

"How about staying at home? Do you
get along with your parents?"

He glared at me for a second.

Ah. Houston, we have contact. "Are
you mad at your mother for bringing you here? Or your father, for not
coming?"

He burst out, "Leave me alone!
 
My father—" His hands batted the
air. "Shut up!"

I stayed silent.

His hand gripped the chair. The knuckles
shone white under his skin, but his breathing slowed as he stared at the desk.

"Walter," I said quietly,
"is someone besides me talking to you?"

He nodded, a tiny jerk of the chin.

It was enough. "Does he or she tell
you to hurt yourself?"

An even smaller nod.

Geez. Poor guy. It was hard enough to
battle through engineering and family feuds without the hallucinations. The
stress might have triggered the psychotic break. "Did you hurt
yourself?"

A curt shake of the head.

"No pills? Or, ah, weapons? A
gun?" One of the suicide assessment scores specifically asks about
firearms.

"No," he said to the ground.

"Do you take any drugs or alcohol?"

He lifted his chin and barked. "I
said no!"

Damn it. I'd speeded ahead again and
alienated him. But maybe I'd gotten enough. He'd admitted to voices in his head
urging suicide. He needed to be admitted. I tried to remember what was left in
the interview and realized I still needed to plow through everyone's favourite,
the orientation questions. "I have just a few more questions left. They
may sound stupid, but I have to ask everyone. Do you know where you are?"

He glared at me. "The
hospital."

"Which one?" My voice was
gentle.

"St. Joe's."

I asked him the date and what his
mother's name was. Walter was looking more and more hostile as he answered
correctly. I said, "I'm almost done, Walter, but I have to do a physical
exam to make sure there aren't any problems. Is that okay?"

He checked the sunflower print. "I
guess."

I was still getting a weird vibe off of
him, so I opened the door. "This way, everyone can see that you're
okay."

The psych nurse, Nancy, peered at me from
behind the Plexiglas. Good. One of the med students, Robert, popped up beside
her. I was covered.

I turned back to Walter's heart and
lungs, finishing with a cursory neurological exam.

Next, Robert and I interviewed Walter's
mother alone in the family room, a little room with a stuffed green couch, two
armchairs, and omnipresent boxes of tissues. Mrs. Turrigan licked her lips.
"Walter's very tired. I need to take him home and let him rest."

"Yes, but you told the CLSC doctor
that—" Nancy had just handed me some more notes. I checked them so I
could get the exact wording—"Walter said that he could talk to the
birds outside his window. They threatened to peck his eyes out. A voice in his
head said that he could save them the trouble and pluck his own eyeballs out,
one by one."

She shuddered. "Yes. Well. That's
true, but I don't think he would do that if I were watching him. He's always
liked birds. So if I could take my Walter home..." She had a round face
with wide-set blue eyes, a combination that somehow made her seem younger and
slightly unbalanced.

"Mrs. Turrigan. Is there a history
of mental illness in your or your husband's family?"

She shook her head. "No. Nothing
serious."

"Anything un-serious?" She
looked blank, so I said, "Was anyone sad, or anxious? Did they see
anything or hear anything other people couldn't?"

She paused to think before she waved her
hand. "Oh, one of my aunts. My father's sister. She was very religious.
She talked to Jesus. But wouldn't we all like to?" She forced a laugh.
"We consider her lucky. Blessed, you know."

"And your husband's family?"

"Not that he told me." She gave
a smile that was more like a flash of teeth. "We're separated."

Parents breaking up. One more stressor
for Walter. "How did you think it was going for him at school?"

"He's always been the top of his
class. He won lots of awards when he graduated, and he received a good
scholarship at McGill. I've never worried about my Walter and school." She
chuckled. "I don't understand what he talks about half the time. He's a
bright boy."

"As far as you know, does he take
any drugs or alcohol?"

She reared back in her seat. "No,
no! Our family is very strict about that. We've always told him to say no. And
he's been too busy. He raised money for children with AIDS when he was in
CÉGEP. He plays guitar in a band. And now, of course, with engineering, it can
be a bit much." She folded her hands in her lap. "Walter is fine,
just overtired."

I felt bad for her. Robert and I
exchanged a look. I wasn't sure if I should try and break the bad news to her
or let the staff doctor earn his keep. "Mrs. Turrigan—"

Her cheeks flamed. "No! I don't know
what I'm doing here. It's been a very long day. All I wanted was for his doctor
to give him a few pills to calm him down. She made me come to the emergency
room and now they're talking about making him stay here? It's ridiculous!"

"Mrs. Turrigan, I know it's
hard." What could I say? She was in denial and I had no good idea how to
comfort her. "I am going to talk to the psychiatrist, but Walter is
probably going to have to...stay here." That was a good euphemism.
"We're going to have to work together to do what's best for Walter."

She held herself rigid, but tears
sprouted in her eyes.

Robert had been silent up 'til now. It
was my case and he was there to observe. But he reached forward and touched her
hand.

She stiffened.

We all held our breath.

Then she blinked and tears fell from her
eyes, even as she kept perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the coat hook on the
back of the door. In that moment, she reminded me of her son.

That made me think of Mrs. Lee. There's
more than one way to lose your kid.

After admitting Walter, I felt exhausted.
Instead of grabbing a coffee, I hit the gym.

St. Joe's has a little, staff-only gym
beside its cafeteria that costs ten dollars per month. Whenever I have a few
spare minutes, I put on my running shoes. Since it was just before the lunch
hour rush, I had the place nearly to myself. Now I just had to decide if I
could go over to Mrs. Lee's house or not.

I sighed and lowered my stack of weights
using my quads.

There are no fixed rules about
interacting with patients, but we went over some guidelines in med school.

Don't hug. If they hug you, you can
accept it, but never initiate. It's better if you just pat them on the arm, at
most.

Don't date.

But then the question always came up,
what if you live in a small town where you're the only doctor and you don't
have anyone but patients to hang out with?

So they made up some more rules:

Psychiatrists, never. Never date.
Certainly don't screw. Nothing. Completely off-limits.

Emerg, where's it's an in-and-out visit
and you'll never see them again, wait six months.

Mrs. Lee couldn't wait six months.

I filled up my water bottle at the
fountain while another guy blasted CNN and walked the treadmill. The door beeped,
signaling another gym rat's entrance.

I sensed someone behind me and turned.

Tucker said, "Hey" and gave me
a crooked smile. He'd combed his bangs down into his face, Brit-rocker style,
and somehow it made him look more contrite.

My heart thawed. I was supposed to be mad
at him for bossing me around, but it felt old. "Hey." For the first
time, I noticed his nose was slightly deviated to the left. Born with it, or
broken?

"What are you staring at?" He
raised his voice to be heard over the news.
An
armed robbery in Arlington, Virginia. The suspect is male, estimated to be in
his early twenties...

I lifted my water bottle and took a sip.
It was a good excuse to break our gaze. "Nothing." I wiped my mouth
with the back of my hand.

"Liar." He laughed softly and
stepped toward me.

I felt trapped between him, the water
fountain, and the trapezius pull machine. It wasn't a bad feeling, except I was
totally confused about him, Ryan, and myself. Weren't Tucker and I fighting?
Sort of?

"You're calculating how to do my
rhinoplasty, right?" He tapped the side of his nose.

"Yeah. How much it would cost to
repair if I broke it again, if you started ordering me around again."

He pretended to be shocked. "My
mistake. Some girls like that sort of thing."

His last sentence rang out as the other
guy suddenly cut the volume on the TV.

Ah. Masochism jokes. Way to undermine my
physician image. I glanced over at the treadmill to see how the one guy was
taking it. He was wiping it down and getting his access card out.

I swallowed hard. The tiny room smelled
of old shoes and antiseptic spray. Not exactly romantic, but Tucker and I were
going to be alone.

Always dangerous.

I tried to shift the mood and muttered,
"Well, save your S&M moves for all your other girls."

Beep. The other guy passed his card over
the reader. The door eased closed behind him.

When I looked up, Tucker was smiling.
"I know. You're a tough nut."

Why was everyone calling me tough
today?
 
Mrs. Lee had said I was
pretending to be tough, but still.

"Tori and I were talking about
you."

I grimaced.

"—and if you can't beat
'em—" He paused slightly. I refused to meet his eyes.
"—you join, 'em, right? So how can I help you help Mrs. Lee?"

Now I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are
you serious?"

He shrugged and straddled the lat bench.
I felt both relieved and disappointed he'd moved away. "Why not?"

I struggled to control a smile. "So
you admit I'm right?"

"Never." He started pulling
down the bar. I watched the muscles in his arms. Unfortunately, he was wearing
a baggy T-shirt. I still admired his forearms. "But, as Tori pointed out,
if my chief complaint is that you're working too hard, my job is to cut down
your workload, right?
 
So we're going to
be your Scoobies."

"Huh?"

"Off
Buffy
. Her sidekicks are the Scoobies." He sighed. "
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
. You have no
idea what I'm talking about, right?
 
Let
your education begin."

I laughed.

"I'm serious. Once upon a time,
there was a blonde chick in Sunnydale, California, who discovered she had a
special talent for kicking vampire butt. And demon butt. And, well, evil in
general."

I started doing my triceps. I could see
him through our weight stacks, since our machines were facing each other. Nice
leg muscles. Hairy but not gross. When I glanced up at him, he was smiling, but
he just said, "There will be a test, Buffy."

If the test was on his legs, I'd probably
pass. I cleared my throat. "There probably is something you can help me
with." I glanced around one more time to make sure we were alone.
"I've never been to Île-Ste-Hélène. Do you want to check it out with
me?
 
Maybe this weekend?"

The smile spread across his face. "I
was hoping you'd say that."

My pager went off. I checked the number.
Emerg.

I sighed. Tucker just waved at me.
"Later, Buffy."

***

Nancy half-smiled as she pushed her own
chart toward me, swiveling in her chair. "More business. Reena
Schuster."

My heart fluttered in my chest. No. No
more panic attacks. I took a deep breath. "Again?"

"We get a lot of repeat
customers." She paused. "I already spoke with her. She said she
doesn't want to talk to you."

I dropped into the chair beside her. It
sank down to midget-height under my weight, reflecting my mood. "What
happens then?
 
Will the psychiatrist come
in?" When I admitted Walter, Dr. Forbes had said he was in the middle of a
case and would see him on the ward. I couldn't see the psychiatrist rushing in
to interview Reena Schuster.

"I can give him my assessment. So
can the medical student. But it's not unusual for patients to be antagonistic.
You could try talking to her. Usually, they're cooperative if you keep
trying."