Tony Scott - Along Came COVID - Love and Loss in the 2020 Pandemic

Marianne hugged Faith and then Josh.

“Thanks so much for helping,” Josh said. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought. She didn’t have all that much stuff.”

“No problem,” Jim replied. “Come see us in Lubbock soon.”

“We’ll try, Jim. We’re only off together one night in three. Makes it tough.”

The Pernitelli family hopped back in the pickup truck, loaded with Faith’s bed, dishes, and coffee table, headed for Lubbock.

Brian laid the sheet on Peggy’s desk and went away. He would come back when she was in.

A few hours later, Brian saw Peggy at a distance in the hall and followed her to the fellows’ closet. He paused for a moment in front of the door, wondering if confiding in Peggy was a good idea. So far, the old girl had been a reliable sounding board, secrets apparently unable to escape her mouth. Not true of Emily Beacham, Michelle Scroggins, or the Pain Management folks. He opened the door and entered.

Peggy looked up from the report Brian had left with a face that showed disbelief. “What’s this?” Peggy asked.

“It’s the final report on the drug screen they did on me a while back. They analyzed the opiates and found oxycodone, which is in Percocet, and fentanyl.”

“I see that. Where is the fentanyl coming from?”

“Around.” The old wooden rolling chair groaned as Brian sat.

“Cripes, Brian, that’s not good. This will make your detoxification a lot harder.” Peggy stared hard in Brian’s face. “No tiny pupils today. Who tested you, anyway? The lab report says JDT. Who is that?”

“JD Thompson is the Dean of Faculty. Emily and Michelle made me meet with them and him, and they tested me. They recommended — more like forced — me to see Pain Management and make a plan.”

“So how is that going?”

Brian squirmed. “I have only had two appointments, one with the psychiatrist and one with the counselor. I am supposed to go to NA meetings starting next week.”

“You don’t have small pupils today. Are you still using fentanyl?”

“No. I haven’t had fentanyl for several days. I might have to have some tonight, though. It was hard to sleep last night.”

Peggy didn’t respond. After sitting for a period of silence, she finally asked, “What did the Pain Management people say?”

“They didn’t say anything, but they know. This came today.”

“Maybe that doesn’t change the plan.” Peggy said.

“Maybe.”

“What do you think?”

Brian said, “I knew about the fentanyl—”

“You think?”

“— but I can manage it fine.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No.”

“Why did you come to share this with me? I would have had no way to find out, otherwise. And I don’t make management decisions — actually I wouldn’t make management decisions about detoxification since I know nothing about it.”

“I figured you would be all over UpToDate about it and have some pearls.”

“I don’t. I didn’t. But why are you revealing this to me?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t reveal it directly to Pain Management, but they have the report. I guess I just thought you should know.”

“How do you administer your fentanyl?”

“A patch.”

“You can buy patches?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you get them?”

“Around.”

“Are they expensive?”

“Yes.”

“From the questions I just asked you, you know I don’t know much about this. I don’t have any advice to give you. Except maybe stay away from the people that sell fentanyl since they tend to be dangerous.”

“Pain Management doesn’t seem to have any advice either.”

“You always say Pain Management,” Peggy said, “don’t you see the same person every time?”

“My counseling sessions, yes. My psychiatrist, no.”

“What did they tell you the plan was?” Peggy asked.

“Gradually decrease the opiates. Start suboxone later.”

“To help with temptations.”

“I guess.” Brian got up and left the room, closing the door very gently. The frosted glass window didn’t notice. He felt good about the exchange as he strolled down the hallway, but empty about it in the elevator. Where was this going? Why did he feel so compelled to tell Peggy?

An idea blinked in Brian’s brain. He had not lived in the apartment with Faith two months he had paid for. Recovering that would help a little. Fentanyl was expensive, Percocet wasn’t cheap, and good weed was hard to find. The computer revealed the call schedule. She was off tonight, and Josh was on call, making the perfect opportunity.

Brian drove to her — Josh’s — apartment. The windows were dark. Several knocks on the door went unanswered. For a time, he sat in the car, listening to the radio, which only increased the ire he felt. Finally, he ascended the steps and knocked again. No answer. He sat and leaned back against the door, closing his eyes to think. He was awakened by a scream as she approached the landing in the dark. “What are you doing here Brian?”

“Did you move in with him?”

“What business is that of yours?”

“We were together for seven years, married for four years, and in less than two months you move in with someone else?”

She pushed by him and put her key in the lock. “What do you want, Brian?”

“I think you owe me money.”

“No.”

“Yes. I didn’t live in our apartment last month or the month before, but I paid the rent.”

“That’s because at the beginning of the month before you did live there. I paid for two months. You should really have to pay for the rest of the lease. It’s only because I helped the landlord find another tenant that you don’t have to pay until June!”

“You owe me for your half of the last two months,” he insisted.

“No.”

He seized her right arm. Almost simultaneously, she kicked him where it counts, catching him completely off guard, and paralyzing his breathing. He buckled over and crumpled to the floor as she pushed by him, opened the door, slipped in, and closed the door. He heard the knob turn, the dead bold click, and the chain slide into place.

For a few seconds there was nothing he could do. Clambering just to take a breath, a wave of nausea washed over his head leaving prickly moisture in his hairline. Breathing for a few minutes, in which he analyzed the event, he stood like an arthritic old man, mustered strength, and pounded three times on the door. “Open the flipping door, Faith!” The deep throbbing pain continued.

“No. I’m not opening the door. I’m not paying you any money. You signed papers stating that you would have no subsequent claims. Remember? Forget about it.”

He beat the door harder this time.

“No, Brian. You’re not coming in, and you’re not getting money. If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police.”

“You don’t have the guts for that.” He beat on the door again, ignoring the threat he knew was idle. He heard the start of a conversation with nine-one-one, stating her name, her problem, her address, and then answering yes to several questions. Had Josh taught her this, too?

“Did you call the police? You weasel!” How could she do that?

“Yes.”

“I can’t believe this,” he said, then took a breath. “Why don’t you open the door and talk to me civil-like about this?”

“Because something might start hurting you really bad again. Do you want that twice in one night?”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Where had this come from? Was Josh brainwashing her, putting ideas in her mind, alienating her from him?

“Why don’t you stay out there for five more minutes? Then you can tell someone in blue why you are pounding on my door and why you got kicked in the nuts.”