Addiction (15 page)
Authors: G. H. Ephron
There were dark shadows under Olivia's eyes. “I never ever wanted to kill my mother.” Then her voice turned strident. “She couldn't have just deleted them, could she? She had to save them. Like I'm one of her stupid patients. Or precious students. Leave it to her to screw things up.”
Olivia's face had gone taut with rage. Anger at her mother for what she did, for what she didn't do, and especially for dying. Anger and griefâone the doorway to the other. It would be my job to help her pass through. Maybe it would help me deal with my own feelings of helplessness and rage at Channing's death.
“Your mother probably saved everything you didâyour drawings, your storiesâbecause it was all important to her.”
Olivia's face softened.
“Dr. Smythe-Gooding can explain to the police that the e-mail messages were part of your treatment. And she can explain how you were taking Ritalin.”
Olivia sniffled. “She promised ⦔ She stopped abruptly. I had the distinct impression she'd just stubbed her toe on something she wasn't supposed to say.
“Has she been here to see you? Was that when she promised?”
Olivia looked frightened.
“Dr. Smythe-Gooding told me she paid you a visit,” I said.
Olivia's face relaxed. Then she spotted my mug. She peered into it. “You caving already?” Olivia's mood could turn on a dime.
“Decaf,” I said. “I came down here to talk to you about a treatment we'd like to try. It should reduce your craving for Ritalin. It's called Kutril, and it's something your mother was working on. I talked to your dad and Dr. Liu about it, and we'd like to start you on it right away.”
“It will make me feel better?” Olivia asked.
“It might.”
“When?”
“I don't know for sure. A few days. A week.”
Olivia groaned.
“Around the time this pounding headache stops,” I added.
That got a smile out of her. It is, after all, one of the truest clichés in life that misery loves company.
WHEN I got home that night, I went down to my wine cellar. I pulled out a 1992 Caymus cabernet that I'd bought about five years earlier when Kate and I were in the Napa Valley. I brought the bottle upstairs, eased out the cork, and wiped a bit of mold from the rim. I poured a glass, walked it into the living room, and set it on the coffee table. The room was cozy, with its dark woodwork and Mission furniture. I turned on a reading lamp and sat down to the newspaper.
When I finished the sports section, I took a sip. The cabernet was rich and thick, with a smell of leather and a hint of cherry. It's amazing how a good wine can satisfy, like finally being able to reach an itch at the center of your back and giving it a good scratch. If only I had some cheese and crackers to go with it. I went to the cabinet and settled for a little package of peanuts that said American Airlines on itâI had no idea where I'd picked it up.
I was eating the last one when the phone rang. It was Chip Ferguson.
“I got a call from Drew Temple today,” Chip said. There was a pause. “How much do you know about this guy?” I couldn't read Chip's tone.
“Known him a long time. Married someone I went to school with.”
“So his wife was a close friend?”
“Um-hmm.”
“I'm sorry, Peter. That's tough.”
I grunted.
“And what does he do?” he said, getting back to business.
“He works ⦔ I stopped. I didn't actually know exactly what Drew did. “He manages his family money, assets.” That sounded pretty vague. “What gives?”
“Sounds like his wife was loaded. Her money's tied up in probate and won't be settled for a while.”
“They live in this incredible house ⦔ I started.
“Mortgaged to the hilt,” Chip said.
“I'm surprised. I thought they had the kind of money that doesn't need borrowing.”
“No one has that kind of money,” Chip said. “But it sounds like he's been playing the market. Badly. Day trading, maybe. His wife's death came at a very inopportune time. He was over his head in margin calls, and now he can't dig himself out.”
More reasons for Drew's despair, his drinking.
“I thought I was giving up charity cases when I left the public defender's office,” Chip said, griping.
“Drew is under a lot of stress,” I said. “And you'd be representing his daughter, not him. Chip, she's seventeen and they're probably going to arrest her for a murder she didn't commit.”
“Sounds like they've got a strong case. The judge could easily deny bail and send her to one of the holding pens for violent young offenders.”
“Not if you talk them into sending her to us for evaluation.”
Chip didn't say anything. I waited. “I'm not real anxious to take this case,” he said at last. “You know I'm not crazy about working with kids.”
“No, I don't know that. Since when? Besides, she's not a kid.”
“Okay. So she's an adolescent. Even worse.”
“Just a few years younger than your daughter.”
“Now you're hitting below the belt.”
“Remember when you called me six months ago? Said you had a case and all you wanted to do was talk to me about it?”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember.”
“And I ended up evaluating the memory of the surviving victim and nearly getting myself and Annie killed?”
Chip didn't answer. I thought I heard him shifting in his chair. Good. I hoped that made him uncomfortable as hell. “Now,
you
owe
me
,” I said.
you
owe
me
,” I said.
There were a few moments of dead air. Then, “You found the body?” His tone had turned businesslike, and I could hear his keyboard clicking.
“I had an appointment to talk with Channing and Olivia the morning Channing was killed. Channing wanted me to evaluate Olivia ⦠.”
“Evaluate her for what?”
“To see if she had Asperger's syndrome.”
More clicking. “Which is?”
“Actually, it's like a severe learning disability for emotions. And I don't think she's got it. Anyway, when they didn't show up at the cafeteria, I went over to her office. That's where I found her, dead. Olivia standing beside her, holding the gun.” They were just words, like I was reading them from the newspaper, trying to get as much information across in the shortest amount of time. “I bent a few rules to get her admitted to my unit.”
“Sounds like you're up to your neck in this, personally and professionally. I assume you're not going to be able to help me as an expert witness.”
I gave a dry laugh. “I think not.”
“But unofficially?”
“I'm at your disposal.”
“Good. I'm going to need your expertise in planning for all contingencies. Are there other people with motive and opportunity?”
My fingers cramped on the receiver. Who would I point to? Colleagues? Friends? Drew?
“Peter?” Chip asked. “You still there?”
“Yes.”
“You know, if they come up with enough evidence to arrest Olivia Temple, there's a good chance there's enough to convict.”
“There are no eyewitnesses,” I said.
“You saw her yourself, holding the gun!”
“I didn't see her pull the trigger. Besides which, if the gunshot wound was through the mouth, then how did she manage it? There was no sign of a struggle.”
“Okay, okay.” He gave an exasperated sigh. “Let's move on. Suppose something unexpected happens, like Olivia confesses. Or they dig up an eyewitness. As in, just suppose for a moment that Olivia Temple did kill her mother.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Have we got any extenuating circumstances?”
I didn't like going down this path. It took some effort for me to give him a suggestion. “Olivia was taking Ritalin.”
Chip guffawed. “Olivia Temple and half the kids in junior high.”
“No joke. It's become a major problem.”
He scoffed. “Get outa here.”
“It's true. A good percentage of drug abuse among adolescents is Ritalin.” I started to lay out the case. “Olivia's psychiatrist prescribed Ritalin, presumably to treat a brain dysfunction. The Ritalin helps her to keep focused and makes it easier for her to do her schoolwork. While taking Ritalin, the prescribed dosageâ”
“The prescribed dosage,” Chip whispered under his breath. I could hear his keyboard clicking furiously.
I slowed down. “She becomes addicted. She loses control over her cravings and takes more. The medication itself ultimately impairs her judgment, makes her hypomanic, impulsive.”
“Hypomanic, impulsive,” Chip repeated. The keyboard clicking stopped. “We're just talking Ritalin here, right?”
“That's all they found in her blood screen.”
“Because you know, if it's something like cocaine or ecstasy, or even some other drug that she's using without a doctor's prescription, then it's a lot harder to make the case.”
“As far as I know, just Ritalin.”
“Diminished capacity,” Chip said. “Always a stretch to prove. Requires someone to take the jury through a lot of torturous logic. I hate cases that hinge on legal technicalities. And without you in the witness box ⦔
“I can recommend someone.”
“Can we demonstrate that she does, in fact, have diminished capacityâhow did you describe her?”
“Impulsive. Hypomanic. See, she may not be either of those things any longer, now that we've weaned her from the drug. But we can certainly test her to establish that she has an organic disability for which she needed the Ritalin, which in turn is documented to have those harmful effects.”
“When abused?”
“When abused,” I admitted.
“She's at the Pearce now? In your care?”
“Yes. And we were planning to evaluate her anyway. Once she's tested, the tests become part of her medical record.”
“We'll need her test results if we go to trial. Peter, I don't know how fast the police are going to move. Could you get started as soon as you can?”
“Sure. Right away.”
“And who prescribed Ritalin?”
“Dr. Daphne Smythe-Gooding. A psychiatrist at the Pearce. Also a close friend of the deceased.”
“Another friend. Great.”
“Sorry, that's what happens when you're dealing with children of shrinks. It can get incestuous.”
“Okay if I drop by tomorrow and talk with my client?”
“Make it in the afternoon. I'm going to start testing her in the morning. And thanks, Chip.”
“Don't mention it,” he muttered.
I hung up the phone, sat back, and tried to get into the newspaper again. But my brain wasn't ready to shift into neutral. I wondered, did Channing know Drew was hemorrhaging money? Was she aware of his affair? With her clear sense of right and wrong, black and white, wouldn't she have wanted to divorce him? And if she was planning to divorce him, then wasn't her death conveniently timed for Drew?
THE NEXT morning, I woke up in a foul mood. The world seemed to move in slow motion, the air so thick I had to fight my way through it. More than anything, I wanted a cup of coffee. Barring that, I was desperate for a run. But I'd overslept, and there wasn't time.
I found some instant decaf at the back of a kitchen cabinet. The jar was coated with dust and the expiration date was four years earlier. I threw a handful into a mug of hot tap water and knocked it back. It tasted god-awful. Then I managed to break my coffee mug, tossing it into the sink. On my way to the car, I stepped in a pile of dog shit, no doubt courtesy of some civic-minded dog walker.
Scowling, I went back in to change my shoes. I was looking for my car keys when my mother's knock sounded. I yanked open the door.
“The tax collector gets a warmer hello,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “What stinks?”
She has an infallible nose. I gave her a hug but didn't invite her in. “It's exactly what it smells like,” I said. “And now I'm late. Can't find my keys.”
“So? What did you find out?” she asked, up on the balls of her feet.
I must have looked baffled.
“The pills!”
“Oh, right! I gave them to Kwan, and he couldn't find them in the reference book. He said he'd ask someone else. Might have an answer today. That okay?”
“I should live so long,” she said. “Are those what you're looking for?” she asked, indicating the set of car keys lying on the first stair step.
Before I could thank her, she'd disappeared into her own side of the house.
It took four tries for my car to start. But once I got it going, it didn't falter. I ran a hand across the dashboard and relaxed deep into the leather seat. I could feel the wheels hug the road as I turned into the street and accelerated into the flow of traffic. At least I could still enjoy driving. Traffic cooperated, and the ten-minute drive to the institute went without incident.
When I got there, Jess was already at work in the dining room, administering an intelligence test and a mental-status exam to Olivia. Jess had been pleased when I'd asked her to help.
An hour later, Jess and I huddled in the hall. She summarized for me: “Superior IQ. Verbal much higher than Performance.”
That didn't surprise me. With a nonverbal learning disability, I'd expect Olivia to do better on language-mediated tasks.
Jess continued, “Problems with concentration. Irritability. Labile affect. She broke down when I asked her if she'd ever thought about killing herself. She's terrified that suicide is hereditary. And she's next.”
It was succinct and to the point, though nothing I didn't already know.
I grabbed a leather case from a storage closet and went to the dining room. Olivia glared at me. “When is this Kutrid or whatever it is supposed to start working? I still feel completely gross.”
I stood, rigid. Quit whining, I wanted to snap. Get past it. Think
about something other than yourself for a change. But that would have been the caffeine withdrawal talking. I tried to relax the muscles in my back and shoulders, to release the tension from my neck and jaw.
about something other than yourself for a change. But that would have been the caffeine withdrawal talking. I tried to relax the muscles in my back and shoulders, to release the tension from my neck and jaw.
“Do you need to take a break, or can we go on to another test?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You're not going to make me write things, are you?”
“Not this time,” I said, putting the case on the table and unzipping it. Olivia watched as I pulled out an odd assortment of items. Forty-six in all. When I was done, they covered half the table. Olivia picked up the little brown-and-white plastic toy dog. I could see from her look that she didn't think much of my so-called test.
I took the dog from her and put it back on the table. “As you know, we have some concerns about how efficiently you're processing information,” I said. “It's probably one of the reasons Dr. Smythe-Gooding started you on Ritalin.” A small moth fluttered close to my head, and I brushed it away.
“What do you mean, âprocessing information'?”
“It means how you make sense of the world and deal with it. Here's an example. You take a person with information-processing problems and plunk them down in the middle of Grand Central Station in rush hour and tell them they have to be on a certain train. They become overwhelmed by all the people racing around, the hullabalooâso much so that they can't figure out how to get to where they're going. They become anxious and shut down.
“But, take that same person and plunk them in Grand Central Station at midnight. In the deserted station, they can figure out where they need to go, no problem.”
Olivia still looked skeptical.
“In this test, the objects on the table are Grand Central Station. And the fact that I'm sitting here timing you makes it rush hour.” Olivia tried to contain a smile, but it leaked out the edges. “The test gives me some idea how you take in and categorize the world around you.”
“What do I have to do?” she asked.
“Just sort the items. Put the things together that go together. In any way you like.”
“How much time do I get?”
“Five minutes,” I said. Olivia eyes widened. “You'll see, that's actually quite a lot of time. Ready?”
Olivia nodded.
I started my stopwatch, and the second hand began its first sweep around the dial. Olivia tucked her feet up on the chair, hugged her knees, and rocked forward and back. She surveyed the table. She sighed, put her legs down, and propped her elbows on the table. She twiddled with her hair.
Abruptly, she stood up, knocking her chair over. “This is lame. Why do I have to do this?”
“Bear with me,” I said. “I know this feels babyish.”
She folded her arms and glared at the table. “There are too many things. And I'm probably already out of time.”
“You're right, there are a lot of things. Sometimes people have trouble deciding where to begin. Why don't you just start with one or two things and see how it goes. If you need help, I'm here.”
Reluctantly, Olivia sidled back into the chair. She put her elbows on the table, her head in her hands. Casually, she fingered the bicycle bell.
“That's a good one to start with. Now what goes with it?” I asked.
She picked up a red ball and gave me a sideways look before putting it down, alongside the bicycle bell.
“Very good,” I said. As she worked, I took careful notes.
She added the sugar cube, the piece of candy, and the stick of gum to the grouping. Then she sat back.
“Great job,” I said.
To most of us, this test is straightforward. But it went right to the core of the problems Olivia had, structuring her world. For someone who gave equal importance to tasks like brushing her teeth and writing a term paper, picking a starting point when faced
with forty-six items was a risky act, opening herself up to the shame of making a foolish choice.
with forty-six items was a risky act, opening herself up to the shame of making a foolish choice.
“How about another group?” I suggested. She had three minutes left.
Olivia pushed the chair away. She got up and walked around the table. Then she sat back down.
She pulled aside the plastic dog and held it in her hand while she stared at the remaining items. Her gaze shifted to the edge of the table, where the moth was now resting. Her head tilted to one side as she watched it sit there, and then fly off. After that, her attention drifted and she started rocking, stroking the ears of her bunny slippers.
“Any other groups?” I asked.
She looked at me as if she wasn't sure what it was she'd been doing. Remembered. And then concentrated once again on the remaining items.
Hesitantly, she touched the red picnic plate.
“Good,” I said. “Is that the beginning of a new group?”
She set the plate to one side. On top of it, she placed the plastic cup, the napkin, the silverware, a package of saltines, a chocolate kiss, and a candy cigarette. As an afterthought, she pulled over a little toy fork and spoon as well.
“Super,” I said.
Then she made another grouping with the hammer, matches, a jackknife, pliers, a screwdriver, nails, a padlock, and keys.
About a dozen items remained ungrouped. Olivia stared at them. Then she looked up at the ceiling. The moth now fluttering around the fluorescent light.
“Time's up,” I said.
She was still holding the plastic dog.
“You did a great job. Let's look at this group.” I pointed to the grouping with the bicycle bell, ball, and candy. “What would you call it?”
“Things that make you happy,” she replied promptly.
“What about them makes you happy?”
She rolled her eyes. “Sugar is sweet. You play with the ball.” She rang the bicycle bell and smiled. “I had one of these when I was little. On my purple bike. It had silvery streamers that came out of the handle.” Her eyes glazed over. “My mom taught me to ride it.” She brushed away a tear.
“And what about this,” I asked, pointing to the grouping of utensils and plates.
Olivia gave me a pitying look. “Things for eating, I guess.”
“What makes them things for eating?”
“Come on,” she whined.
“Just humor me.”
“Well, these are the things you put on the table, and you use them to eat your food. And these are toys. Like, you could pretend to eat your food with them. And these things, you eat.”
“Good. What do you call this next group?”
She looked at me sideways. “These are things you can hurt people with,” she said.
“Can you tell me more?”
“Well,” she said slowly, picking up the jackknife and opening it up, “you can stab people with a knife. Or hit people with a hammer.” She poked at the padlock. “You can lock people up, like I'm locked up, so they can't get out. And they can't go outside.” She started to cry. “And they can't do anything but what you tell them to.”
I took more notes and waited, hoping her frustration would dissipate itself. More than a dozen other items, mostly at the edges, remained untouched. It was odd that she had omitted the toy gun and the bullet from the things-you-can-hurt-people-with group.
“Any other groups?” I asked.
She opened her hand. The plastic dog was in her palm. She set it on the table. “This is by itself. It needs to be taken care of,” she said.
I was reminded of the time I gave the same test to a patient who was a loner. He had great difficulty relating to other people. He divided everything into two groups. One group, he said, were objects that went with other objects. The other group consisted of items that stood alone. That, in a nutshell, was that young man's worldâa place where he stood alone while other people were able to relate to one another.
Olivia's response was nowhere near that extreme. But that little dog that needed to be taken care of certainly reflected her own need for the same. The extent to which drives and emotions ruled the way in which she organized the items spoke to how she was still reeling from recent events. It was also evident that she had a hard time getting organized, deciding where to begin, and making good use of her time. The average person makes about ten groups, Olivia had made only four. Psychological tests never cease to amaze meâso simple and yet so insightful.
I asked her to sort the items again, in a different way. This time, she created only three groups, leaving more items unsorted. The things-you-can-hurt-people-with group reappeared, again without the toy gun or bullet.
When I asked her to sort the items a third time, she said she couldn't. There weren't any other ways.
I had more testing to do, but I could already hear clattering in the kitchen as the staff prepared for lunch. If a single moth was enough to distract Olivia, she'd never manage to concentrate with the anvil chorus going on.
I wondered if my results were consistent with Daphne's impressions. “Olivia, I'd like to call Dr. Smythe-Gooding,” I said.
“I don't wantâ” Olivia started, her face hardening.
“Look, it will really help in determining the best long-term treatment for you if I can talk to her. She's been working with you for a year. She knows ⦔
“She doesn't know me at all,” Olivia said. “She's always telling me that I have to stop being so stupid. I try. I make lists so I won't
forget things. I write down my feelings, but it doesn't make them go away. None of it helps.
She
doesn't help. She just makes me feel like an idiot.”
forget things. I write down my feelings, but it doesn't make them go away. None of it helps.
She
doesn't help. She just makes me feel like an idiot.”
Olivia's inability to organize her world must have baffled Channing. It was a shame that she'd turned to Daphne for help. Olivia and Daphne were a mismatch. Instead of building Olivia's confidence and then teaching her new behaviors, Daphne had Olivia continually practice what she was weakest at doing. The wounds were picked raw, rather than bound and soothed. Self-confidence collapsed at a time in Olivia's development when she was most vulnerable.
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