The Dog Year (4 page)

L
ucy moved through the clean walls and floors of the clinic: a five-story throat lozenge. When she felt rough, sore, anxious, she came here. It was filled with two kinds of people: doctors like herself who excelled in chemistry and calculus but were often clueless when dealing with actual humans. Their insensitivity and poor eye contact were instantly forgiven in the clinic, if the tradeoff was a reduction in pain or an excised tumor. The second kind of people were the nurses and patients who gave Lucy's life meaning. Feeling considerably calmer after rounding on her patients, she made her way back to the nurse's station and found Melissa at the desk, tapping at her computer. Without pausing, Melissa said, “We missed you at the after-party.”

“Aw. I missed you, too, Melissa. How many cases are scheduled today?”

“How'd you feel yesterday after all that . . . punch?”

“I'm ignoring you. How many cases?”

“Two. Second-stage breast reconstruction and placement of tissue expanders.”

Lucy frowned. “Only two?”

“The Menken wants to see you. He said to reserve the morning for a meeting, so I moved everything to the afternoon.”

Lucy paled. “Now? He wants to see me now?”

“That's what he said.” And she turned away to answer the phone.

Lucy swallowed, her throat immediately dry and her hands sweaty. Her heart pounded like a kettledrum as she marched to the elevator.

“Wait! Lucy!” Melissa jogged over to the elevator doors, holding the stethoscope around her neck in a chokehold and carrying a file folder in her other hand. “Menken wanted me to send this up with you, for your meeting.”

“What is it?”

“A six-month inventory of our supplies.”

The elevator doors closed, blocking Melissa's cheerful face and leaving Lucy instantly sick, looking at the file in her hands. It was a short ride to the sixth floor, and when the doors opened, she hesitated then darted across the hall to the restroom. Shaking, she emptied her pockets of anything hospital-related into the trash and covered the supplies with damp, wadded paper towels. She leaned on the counter and looked in the mirror. She was sweating, and her pale skin looked gray.

“Deny everything,” she said to herself, and ran her hand across her forehead.

Stanley Menken spent most of his time in the hospital holed up in his office, a short, dead-man's walk down the carpeted hallway. Lucy clenched her teeth. Mercifully, Janice, his longtime assistant, was not at her desk. Lucy knocked once and pushed her way in.

Stan Menken stood with his back to the door, looking out one of the large office windows. Yellow, gold, and brown leaves fluttered past.

Lucy breathed in and said, “Stan?”

Dark-haired and youthful despite his fifty-plus years, Stan Menken turned to her, briefly closed his eyes, and said, “We have film of you taking supplies from the hospital.” He put both hands up, as if he were being robbed, and said, “Don't deny it—because then I'll have to show you the video, and I don't want to watch it again. I don't want to think about it any more than I have to.”

Lucy straightened as if a chiropractor had entered the room and cracked her back. She opened her mouth.

“Is it drugs?” Stan asked. “Is that it?”

Lucy said, “No. My God. No.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said, but it came out as four syllables:
Jee-zus Kee-ryst
. “Then what? Why? Phyllis Parmenter says the counts have been off for months. IV bags, lactated ringers, saline, tubing. Other things, too: chux pads, bandages, irrigation kits.” He walked over to Lucy and snatched the manila file from her hand. He started to open it but instead pitched it across his desk like a Frisbee. “The tape shows you carrying a box of supplies to your car. You walked right under the surveillance camera at the exit.” He looked to the ceiling and stretched his neck. “You're selling them. Is that it? On eBay or something? To Canada?”

“No, Stan. No. I'd never do that.”

“What then, Lucy? Why is my top reconstructive surgeon siphoning supplies? You starting your own clinic?”

Stiff-backed, Lucy lowered herself into the chair nearest the door. “I . . . I don't know why I take the stuff. I don't use it.” As if presenting a neat, tidy solution, she brightened and said, “I have it all. I can give it all back. All of it. Today.”

Too loudly, Stan said, “It's not about the stuff, Lucy. It's not worth anything compared to what you do for us here. What you do for our patients. It's about you
taking
the stuff.”

She shook her head so hard that the reading glasses perched there dropped into her lap. “It's all in my bedroom.”

“Don't screw with me, Lucy. What are you doing with it?” The intensity of his anger threw a wall up between them.

“I'm not doing anything with it.” She tried tightening her lips but they trembled despite her efforts, and her eyes filled.
Don't you dare start crying. Not now. Not you.
She managed to say, “I don't even know I'm taking it. I mean, I
know
I'm taking it, but it's like I'm watching someone else and I can't get her to stop. I put things in my pocket and, before you know it, I have more than my pockets can hold.”

Stiff but relieved, Stan said, “That's the right answer, Lucy.”

“What?”

“If you were selling or stealing for someone I'd have to have you arrested. It's a felony. You'd lose your license to practice medicine. If it's for you, for whatever the reason, I don't have to fire you. You can keep your job, go to treatment.”

Lucy stood, knocking her chair into the wall. “Treatment!”

Stan gave her an incredulous look. “What did you think?” he said, angry again. “It's a crime. You lose your license and go to jail, or go to treatment and keep your job.”

Lucy approached Stan at his desk. “I'm not a drug addict.” She stopped and tried to think like a surgeon. Cut to the heart of it. “I took some IV bags. You said yourself, it doesn't cost the hospital much. No one is hurt by it.”

Stan raised his voice. “It's called kleptomania. You might have heard about it in medical school.”

Lucy pulled her head back as if slapped. “I'm not a kleptomaniac. I don't case the aisles at Macy's and steal lipstick.” She broke eye contact and glanced at the family photograph that sat on Menken's desk. “Don't do this, Stan.”

His jaw was tight, his lips thin. “It's done, Lucy. You did it and we're done. You can sign a form that says you stole for mental health reasons or resign right now and try to find another job with this on your record.”

“We've known each other for years, Stan.”

“Apparently I didn't know you as well as I thought. And Richard? Yeah, what would he say about this?” Stan produced a piece of paper and a pen and set them on his desk, in front of Lucy. Then he stepped back as if her behavior might be contagious. “Once you sign this, you've committed yourself to getting treatment. We will hold your position for a year. That is our obligation.”

“Obligation?”

“Yes, obligation. Frankly, I'd fire you. When you take from this hospital, you take from me.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes and said, “So that's what this is about? You're angry. Someone took something you couldn't control. Well, join the club.”

“What part of ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal'
don't you understand?”

She sneered. “Scripture? You're quoting scripture to me? That's a little out of your domain, don't you think?” Lucy's voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Well, you clearly don't have a handle on
hospital
policy.” The autumn leaves outside the window slowed in their play. The room felt suddenly coated in frost.

Shaking, Lucy shouted, “You leave God out of this. God has nothing to do with me. But I'll say this in my defense, Holy Stanley Menken. Next time you lose your spouse and your child in one afternoon, you can let me know what miserable thing you do to cope. I hope it's as harmless as taking an armful of IV tubing and not an armful of sleeping pills.”

I
n the hall, flanked by security guards who only knew her as the pleasant, unremarkable doctor who occasionally needed a nighttime escort through the parking ramp, Lucy fought to keep her emotions hidden. She tried to smile but felt her lips twitch involuntarily. The older of the two guards, having seen much suffering in his years there, touched Lucy's elbow, offering his gentle assistance.

Looking up into his face and blinking, she felt shame settle around her sternum and sink to take up residence in her lower back. “Thank you,” she said, opening her car door.

He nodded and said, “I don't know what's going on, but you know that line from
Young Frankenstein
: ‘Could be worse. Could be raining.'”

She grimaced. “I'll remember that.” Then she waved the security guard off. The look of relief on his face made it clear that he'd rather deal with vandals or peace disturbers than a distraught woman. Lucy checked her appearance in the mirror. She rubbed her smudged mascara from under her eyes and saw that her Stay Put foundation had not broken its promise. She didn't actually look any worse than she did after a long day in surgery, which was good because she needed to make a stop. Pulling out of the parking lot, she touched the Halloween-candy coupons bunched in her pocket and lifted them out; smoothing them on the dash, she drove to the grocery store. She left a voice mail on Charles's phone. “I'm getting chocolate. I need you. Come over.” She hung up, hoping he would get the message.
A binge was coming, get help.

Inside the store, she blew past the small plastic shopping baskets not made for heavy lifting, and wheeled the full-sized grocery cart over to the holiday aisle. One of the wheels dragged like a conscience, pulling the cart halfheartedly in the direction of the fresh produce. The other wheels squealed in protest.

Lucy examined the bags of Halloween candy, selecting Jolly Ranchers for their longevity, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups for their obvious yin and yang charm, and Charleston Chews for pure nostalgia. Before long, there were several candy bags in her cart. While Lucy considered a bag of mini Snickers, her hand, seemingly of its own accord, palmed a foil-covered chocolate jack-o'-lantern the size of her fist. Leaning close to the shelves, she slid the treat neatly into her pocket: a tiny sleight of hand performed without a deck of cards and no trick bunny in sight.

“Dr. Peterman, hi there. Having a party?”

Lucy whirled around, feeling the rabbit that was her heart jump into her throat. “Oh!”

“Jeez, I'm sorry, Doc. Did I scare you? I sure didn't mean to sneak up on you.”

Lucy wrenched her hand from her pocket and looked around.
Had he seen her? Did he know?

He
was Stewart from frozen foods. Stewart looked like every fifty-year-old man in America, like the avocado pit her mother was forever sprouting on the kitchen windowsill. Round and smooth as an egg, with toothpick legs and arms and no noticeable hair above the water line. She cringed as she realized he was eyeing her shopping cart, sizing her up, possibly estimating the inevitable “paper or plastic?” decision at the checkout.

“No,” she said too quickly, “No party. Why do you ask?” He pointed to the orange and black bags of candy with a puzzled expression on his face. “Oh no,” she said with a nervous laugh, smoothing the flap of her pocket, “I'm making a drop-off at the food pantry.” As if losing her grip on a ledge, she added, “They need a treat, too, sometimes.”

Stewart laughed and shook his head. “Dr. Peterman, you always crack me up.”
Always
seemed a bit much, considering most of their conversations were about the location of a frozen entrée or why he'd moved the Cool Whip again.

Once Lucy had asked him for a particular brand of frozen pizza and gave him her phone number in case he located it. He searched every Piggly Wiggly grocery in the area until he found one without sausage. Later, after he called her at home, she had pretended to be thrilled even though she had already eaten an egg salad sandwich and gone on with her life.

“I aim to be pleasing,” he'd said, sounding like someone with a marginal grasp on English. But he was from Michigan and this was just one of his little quirks. Stewart was always making a muddle of common phrases. “Don't worry, be snappy,” he would say with a wave, or “Beauty is in the eye of the moldy,”
or her favorite, “Blue flies are coming!” like he was announcing a biblical plague.

“Please, call me Lucy. I'm uncomfortable with the ‘doctor' part these days.” She began to slowly move away with her cart, hoping to put some distance between her bulging pocket and the possibility of Stewart noticing her bulging pocket.

He flushed. “Lucy, then. We just got in a new brand of lasagna.”

“I'll make sure to try it next time I'm in.” She picked up speed.

“I haven't had the chance myself. It's made for two people, which really means there's enough for four.” Stewart held up four fingers for emphasis as he moved to keep up.

“That's true,” she said, totally unaware of what was about to happen. She had little experience with subtle hints and the setup for a date. If she were savvy, she might have zippered her purse and hustled her sweets out the door but, instead, she was like a deer, misunderstanding the rifle and the kindly-looking man in orange. He took aim.

“Maybe we could do a taste-test together sometime. I'm not much for main courses, but I make a good salad. I use spinach. Sometimes I put in pine nuts.” Since Lucy didn't speak right away, he added, “And cheese.” It dawned on her finally that he was asking her over for dinner and now her cart was trapped in the checkout line.

“Um, sure,” she said, her mouth moving without her brain's permission.

Overhead, an amplified voice ended their awkward exchange, beckoning Stewart to return to frozen foods for a price check.

As Lucy continued to stand in line, her body half hidden between a cooler of Pepsi products and the magazine stand, she jammed her hand in her pocket and returned the stolen chocolate jack-o'-lantern to lie on top of an almost empty box of Oh Henry! candy bars. Glancing around, she shoved her selected candy onto the conveyer belt and paid in cash with record speed, refusing to use her rewards card.

*   *   *

The phone was ringing as she entered her kitchen. She gently placed her sugary loot on the kitchen table and picked up the phone.

“Charles?”

“Lucy, hi, it's Stewart from frozen foods.”

“Oh,” she said in surprise. “Did I forget something?”

“No, I just thought that maybe if you weren't busy tonight we could try that lasagna. I suppose someone as pretty as you already has plans, though.”

“Pretty? I'm not. No, I don't. I was just going to recover from the day.”

“Will you come over then? I'll make my special salad, the one with the cheese. You could come now. I'm just getting home from work. I have a little house at Twenty-four Lazy Park Lane. We're not very motivated around here, so take your time.” And he gave himself a courtesy laugh for his little neighborhood joke.

Without wanting to, she said, “Okay.”

“Really? Wow, I've wanted to ask you over for quite a while. This is great. I'll turn the oven on right now.” As if this was the deal clincher. Once that oven was turned on, there would be no going back. Then he signed off in his usual scattered, cliché way. “Over and under then,” he said, and the phone went dead.

Lucy walked to the hall mirror and took a long look. She turned sideways and pulled in her stomach. She checked her teeth. She touched her hair and placed a bit behind her ear. Still in her wool coat with her purse on her shoulder, she reached in for her ChapStick and bit her lips before putting it on. She slowly walked back into the kitchen and sat heavily in her chair, pulling open a package of peanut butter cups. The smell came to her like the whisper of a best friend. She shrugged off her coat, slipped off each shoe, and took a bite.
Beauty is in the eye of the moldy.

She never intended to
not
go. But she never intended to go, either. Instead, Lucy walked to her bedroom door and placed her hand on the door frame, her cheek on the solid oak panels that only come with a leaky, older house. She let the memory of the accident float free of its restraints, let it circle around her head, and descend around her shoulders.

She and Richard, they'd been talking—no, laughing—in the car. The trip was an insignificant one, to a nearby town to purchase a new mattress. After that she could only recall the deafening
whap, whap, whap
of the helicopter and her seizure-like shivering, frenetic activity all around.

She remembered nothing else until the moment she saw Charles at the hospital, who said, “You've been in a car accident, Lucy. Richard didn't make it.” She tried to sit upright, her hand moving to her deflated abdomen, her lips dry with a crusty seam of blood. She licked them in slow motion, trying to form a sentence that made sense, saw Charles go paler still and shake his head.

Now she touched the doorknob and lay on the carpet.

Much later, Lucy woke to darkness and a phone buzzing at her hip. She lifted her head from her numb and sleeping arm. Without thinking she opened her phone and croaked a dry “Hello?”

“Hey, I'm coming over in a bit. Can I bring over Mom's old trunk? Phong and I are getting a new dresser and we don't have room for it.”

“What?”

There was a pause on the line. “Luce? You sound terrible, like . . . I'm coming over now.”