Rick had calmed down on the way. At some point, the swimming colors of the cars and the sounds of the traffic coalesced into something he was able to classify. He’d cast aside all thoughts of the game—or had he fled them?—as he worried about his wife on the way to the hospital. He heard not a word Manuel had said, though he’d have guessed it was all something to the effect of, “I’m sure she’ll be alright.”
After the front desk and an elevator ride, he’d seen her, briefly, where she lay in a hospital bed. She’d weakly grasped his hand and smiled, but it was such a sad smile, his heart ached to remember it. There was so much shame behind her eyes. He wanted to crawl into bed with her and hold her tight, but he didn’t. A doctor had pulled him aside after a nurse came in with a water pitcher and medicine. He beckoned Rick to follow him through hallways to an emptier part of the hospital, then to a small office where a woman in a pristine lab coat—another doctor—sat behind a desk.
The male doctor who’d pulled him away from his wife said, “This is Dr. Chavez. She’s a specialist.”
Her dark brown eyes were large, but they seemed larger even than they were, accentuated by the enormous lenses of glasses so fashionable, he wondered if they were ornamental, like her long, light pink nails or the tasteful silver cross she wore around her neck.
“Mr. Prophet?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Dr. Davis here tells me this is your wife’s… fourth suicide attempt in three years?”
He nodded again. “She gonna be okay?”
She gave him a curious look. “Will she be okay?” She sighed. “Mr. Prophet, Dr. Davis tells me this is her second attempt in seven months.”
“Yeah?” Rick waited for more from her.
“Has she always been…” Dr. Chavez frowned and started again. “Has she always been troubled, Mr. Prophet?”
How did anyone answer that kind of question?
Dr. Chavez held up a bottle he recognized. “She took ten of these. These are powerful drugs, Mr. Prophet. Did you know she had them? They’re not prescribed to her.”
Rick shook his head. “Never seen them before in my life.”
Why explain? To her? With her designer shoes and manicured nails and her immaculately coiffed hair? What would she know about his life, or Kristina-Anne’s for that matter? He looked at her badge. Amelia Chavez. He imagined her driveway, with a late-model Lexus SUV parked in front of a house that was big enough for four families—then he imagined her in the kitchen with her husband. First, he envisioned her spouse as an actor, then as a plastic surgeon or some other bullshit not-really-a-doctor doctor who still had the rugged good looks of a leading man. He studied her blemish-free brown skin, so different than that of Manuel, or even Hector, who had the olive skin of a Greek or some other Baltic, hardscrabble, “what-the-fuck-you-gonna-do-about-it” criminal. He imagined her 3.5 kids, because she could afford them, and the vaginal rejuvenation surgery her husband encouraged her to—
“Mr. Prophet? I’m not…” She sighed, and her face looked genuinely pained. “We’re not the police, Mr.—”
“Rick.” He hadn’t meant to say it so loudly. “Rick,” he said again, more softly this time.
“Rick…” She leaned forward over the desk. “Why do you thi—”
“You’re a specialist?” he asked.
She blinked, then nodded.
“What kind of…”
“I’m a clinical psychologist, Mr.”—she cut herself off—“Rick.”
He winced, and she must have seen it, because she went ahead and said, “Nothing like that, Rick. We’re not law enforcement and I don’t work for the government. Okay?” It was a soothing voice, a “pleased don’t jump from the ledge, sir, you have so much to live for—think about your children” voice. Rick hated that voice. Nothing good came from anyone who needed to use a voice like that. Worst case, she’d sell him a useless, overpriced life insurance policy, but he’d been exposed to terrible people—men and women both—who wielded that tone of voice like a weapon. Mostly, though, he hated it because it made him feel weak.
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He breathed deeply to calm himself.
“I know about your… history,” she said. “It’s not like that—nothing like that.”
He gave her a quick nod, and she continued. “I work for a company researching simulation-based therapies for people…” Dr. Chavez paused, then said, “Like your wife. People in pain.”
Pain? He set his jaw. What in the wide world did this woman know about pain? He forced himself to relax, to remind himself that he didn’t know her. He relaxed the tight muscles around his eyes and mouth. “Can you help her?” Please don’t make me regret asking.
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t know.”
His expression softened further. Her honesty was refreshing.
“Mr. Prophet, there’s a brain scan I’d like to perform on your wife. It’s not invasive, it’s just a scan, but I think she might be a candidate for a new technique we’re developing to treat people who’ve experienced extensive trauma.”
Rick stiffened as a memory flashed in his mind about the last time his wife had received a “procedure.” That man—a butcher, though he called himself doctor—had bluntly stated, “This was your wife’s third suicide attempt, Mr. Prophet. She’s been deemed unworthy of the responsibilities of parenthood, and to reduce the burden improperly cared-for children continue to place on our great nation, she’s been sterilized, pursuant to bill 16.5b of the California Code of Social justice. As her husband, you share the burden of the cost of this procedure.”
They’d left her ovaries intact so as to minimally affect her normal hormonal balance.
Rick’s eyes were glassy as he stared through the Dr., no longer seeing her.
“Mr. Prophet?” she asked.
He shook himself from the disturbing memory. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Your wife has just attempted suicide, Mr.—Rick—and she’s been placed on suicide precautions. Do you know what that means?”
It meant she had to wear a paper gown, had to eat with disposable utensils, and there were no plastic bags in the trash. It meant a nurse or an aide would be with her at all times, and that she couldn’t pee or shower without an audience.
He nodded.
“You’re her health care power of attorney, Rick. Until she’s cleared, she can’t consent.”
He nodded again, then squinted.
“This is part of a trial for a new procedure. It’s not deemed medically necessary, and I need your permission to do the scan.” Dr. Chavez winced, as though prepared for the worst.
They can sterilize her and I can’t do a goddamned thing about it, but they need my permission for a scan? “What?”
The doctor held her hands up defensively. “You don’t have to pay for it, and if she’s a candidate—”
“What?” He wanted to leave the room, or throw a chair through the plate-glass window, or punch…. he got woozy at the thought of violence and braced himself on the desk.
There were tears in his eyes now. “This is her fourth suicide attempt. Do you know what they do after three?” His voice was even, and he breathed deeply, trying to calm himself.
Dr. Chavez sucked her lips into her mouth and nodded, as if she felt his pain. Something wet splashed the wooden surface of the desk, and she reached across it to put her hand on his. “I’m so sorry.”
He felt old and tired as he turned, searching for a seat. The male doctor—Dr. Davis—pushed a plastic and metal office chair behind Rick so he could sit.
He understood himself, and why he wanted to refuse, but it occurred to him that by that very definition, this was a wholly different situation. He had a choice. “How likely is this to, y’know…”
“It’s early”—she nodded—“in the trial. If this works, if we help her, I don’t know how far down the road that happens, if it happens at all.”
She’d only made it four months this time. Would she try again? He hated himself for forgetting to take the pills with him. Dammit! And if it wasn’t pills, what next? Something less… reversible? He searched Dr. Chavez’s face. “You said the scan was free?”
The doctor’s smile was hopeful. “The whole thing will be free. People like her are vital—”
“Can it mess her up worse, though?” he asked.
“It’s not invasive. It’s not surgery.”
He narrowed his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be surgery to be bad, though, right?” They’d performed surgery on him, but even without it, what they’d done before that had likely already crippled him.”
“Rick, she’s tried to kill herself twice in less than half a year.”
“Yeah,” he said.
She leaned back. “Have you heard of something called a trauma engram?”
He shook his head.
She passed a tablet across the desk with a document displayed on it. “It’s sort of technical, but that’s what I’d scan for.”
He pushed the tablet a few inches back. “I have to ask her about this.”
“We’ve already talked to her, and she said she’d try it if you thought it would help her.” Dr. Chavez frowned. “She cares a lot about you, you know.”
Rick pulled the tablet back. “If the scan shows something?”
She smiled. “The treatment will be free. It’s simulation-based, and there’s a neurotransmitter protocol, as well as free therapy appointments. We really think we’re onto something with this treatment.”
Over the intercom, a voice announced, “It is now nine-thirty p.m. Visiting hours have concluded for the day in order to allow our patience the healing rest they need.”
Rick signed the digital document. He went back to his wife’s room and kissed her goodnight, then found Manuel where he’d waited for him in the visitor’s lobby.
I hope that was the right thing, he thought in the passenger’s seat of Manuel’s car as the man drove him home.