Stephen King - Under the Dome

“Any call-ins?” Rusty asked.

“One. Mrs. Venziano, out on the Black Ridge Road. Her baby got his head caught between the bars of his playpen. She wanted an ambulance. I… I told her to grease the kid’s head up with olive oil and see if she could get him out that way. It worked.”

Rusty grinned. Maybe there was hope for this kid yet. Gina, looking divinely relieved, grinned back.

“Place is empty, at least,” Rusty said. “Which is great.”

“Not quite. Ms. Grinnell is here—Andrea? I put her in three.” Gina hesitated. “She seemed pretty upset.”

Rusty’s heart, which had begun to rise, sank back down again. Andrea Grinnell. And upset. Which meant she wanted a bump on her OxyContin prescription. Which he, in all good conscience, could not give, even supposing Andy Sanders had enough stock to fill it.

“Okay.” He started down the hall to exam room three, then stopped and looked back. “You didn’t page me.”

Gina flushed. “She asked me specifically not to.”

This puzzled Rusty, but only for a second. Andrea might have a pill problem, but she was no dummy. She’d known that if Rusty was over at the hospital, he was probably with Twitch. And Dougie Twitchell happened to be her baby brother, who even at the age of thirty-nine must be protected from the evil facts of life.

Rusty stood at the door with the black 3decaled on it, trying to gather himself. This was going to be hard. Andrea wasn’t one of the defiant boozers he saw who claimed that alcohol formed absolutely no part of their problems; nor was she one of the meth-heads who had been showing up with increasing frequency over the last year or so. Andrea’s responsibility for her problem was more difficult to pinpoint, and that complicated the treatment. Certainly she’d been in agony after her fall. Oxy had been the best thing for her, allowing her to cope with the pain so she could sleep and begin therapy. It wasn’t her fault that the drug which allowed her to do those things was the one doctors sometimes called hillbilly heroin.

He opened the door and went in, rehearsing his refusal. Kind but firm, he told himself. Kind but firm.

She was sitting in the corner chair under the cholesterol poster, knees together, head bowed over the purse in her lap. She was a big woman who now looked small. Diminished, somehow. When she raised her head to look at him and he saw how haggard her face was—the lines bracketing her mouth deep, the skin under her eyes almost black—he changed his mind and decided to write the scrip on one of Dr. Haskell’s pink pads after all. Maybe after the Dome crisis was over, he’d try to get her into a detox program; threaten to tattle to her brother, if that was what it took. Now, however, he would give her what she needed. Because he had rarely seen need so stark.

“Eric… Rusty… I’m in trouble.”

“I know. I can see it. I’ll write you a—”

“No!” She was looking at him with something like horror. “Not even if I beg! I’m a drug addict and I have to get off! I’m just a darn old junkie !” Her face folded in on itself. She tried to will it straight again and couldn’t. She put her hands over it instead. Big wrenching sobs that were hard to listen to came through her fingers.

Rusty went to her, going down on one knee and putting an arm around her. “Andrea, it’s good that you want to stop—excellent—but this might not be the best time—”

She looked at him with streaming, reddened eyes. “You’re right about that, it’s the worst time, but it has to be now! And you mustn’t tell Dougie or Rose. Can you help me? Can it even be done? Because I haven’t been able to, not on my own. Those hateful pink pills! I put them in the medicine cabinet and say ‘No more today,’ and an hour later I’m taking them down again! I’ve never been in a mess like this, not in my whole life.”

She dropped her voice as if confiding a great secret. “I don’t think it’s my back anymore, I think it’s my brain telling my back to hurt so I can go on taking those damn pills.”

“Why now, Andrea?”

She only shook her head. “Can you help me or not?”

“Yes, but if you’re thinking about going cold turkey, don’t. For one thing, you’re apt to…” For a brief moment he saw Jannie, shaking in her bed, muttering about the Great Pumpkin. “You’re apt to have seizures.”

She either didn’t register that or set it aside. “How long?”

“To get past the physical part? Two weeks. Maybe three.” And that’s putting you on the fast track, he thought but didn’t say.

She gripped his arm. Her hand was very cold. “Too slow.”

An exceedingly unpleasant idea surfaced in Rusty’s mind. Probably just transient paranoia brought on by stress, but persuasive. “Andrea, is someone blackmailing you?”

“Are you kidding? Everyone knows I take those pills, it’s a small town.” Which did not, in Rusty’s opinion, actually answer the question. “What’s the absolute shortest it can take?”

“With B 12shots—plus thiamine and vitamins—you might manage it in ten days. But you’d be miserable. You wouldn’t be able to sleep much, and you’ll have restless leg syndrome. Not mild, either, they don’t call it kicking the habit for nothing. And you’d have to have someone administer the step-down dosage—someone who can hold the pills and won’t give them to you when you ask. Because you will.”

“Ten days?” She looked hopeful. “And this might be over by then anyway, yes? This Dome thing?”

“Maybe this afternoon. That’s what we all hope.”

“Ten days,” she said. “Ten days.”

And, he thought, you’ll want those goddam things for the rest of your life. But this he didn’t say aloud either.

Sweetbriar Rose had been extraordinarily busy for a Monday morning… but of course there had never been a Monday morning like this in the town’s history. Still, the patrons had left willingly enough when Rose announced the grill was closed, and wouldn’t reopen until five that afternoon. “And by then, maybe you can all go over to Moxie’s in Castle Rock and eat there!” she finished. That had brought spontaneous applause, even though Moxie’s was a famously filthy greasepit.

“No lunch?” Ernie Calvert asked.

Rose looked at Barbie, who raised his hands to his shoulders. Don’t ask me.

“Sandwiches,” Rose said. “Until they’re gone.”

This had brought more applause. People seemed surprisingly upbeat this morning; there had been laughter and raillery. Perhaps the best sign of the town’s improved mental health was at the rear of the restaurant, where the bullshit table was back in session.

The TV over the counter—now locked on CNN—was a big part of the reason. The talking heads had little more to broadcast than rumors, but most were hopeful. Several scientists who’d been interviewed said the Cruise had a good chance of smashing through and ending the crisis. One estimated the chances of success as “better than eighty percent.” But of course he’s at MIT in Cambridge, Barbie thought. He can afford optimism.

Now, as he scraped the grill, a knock came at the door. Barbie looked around and saw Julia Shumway, with three children clustered around her. They made her look like a junior high school teacher on a field trip. Barbie went to the door, wiping his hands on his apron.

“If we let everyone in who wants to eat, we’ll be out of food in no time,” Anson said irritably from where he was swabbing down tables. Rose had gone back to Food City to try and purchase more meat.

“I don’t think she wants to eat,” Barbie said, and he was right about that.