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7
Seeing your first love after thirty-five years should be comic, I thought, not traumatic. After all, even when the years are kind, how can any of us live up to the memories and retouched photos in our minds? But again, I identified with the poet Yeats who knew the folly of being comforted. And I, too, wasn't finding it easy to be wise, because the years had only intensified the impact of Michael's vibrant personality.
I reminded myself I knew nothing about this Michael or the kind of person he was now. What was his relationship to Betsy and why was he so concerned about her? And most of all, if Michael walked into Food Go, would I tell him what he wanted to know? I resolved to look at the patient profile for Harry Stokes the first thing next morning, so that I'd know what prescription drugs he was getting before Michael asked for the information.
I had no opportunity to call up the record on the computer. Food Go, like many supermarket chains out here, is open twenty-four hours a day, although the pharmacy has shorter hours. When I got there on Tuesday morning, Michael was waiting for me. He was inside the store, pacing in front of the pharmacy window.
"I didn't know your schedule, so I thought I'd just come in." He looked toward the coffee shop. "I'll jump out of the way while you open up. See you in a few minutes."
I unlocked the door, flipped on the lights, stepped onto the raised floor of the pharmacy, and started my opening procedure. Nowadays, we depend on the computer just like other businesses do. I turned on the monitor and keyed in my password. Then, I quickly initialized today's disk and was ready to begin.
The main office had relayed two messages overnight, and I printed them. One warned about someone forging Rx's for Vicodin, a painkiller with hydrocodone. The forger had a clever modus operandus—he first asked for a generic drug to allay suspicion and then for Vicodin. I smiled at the description—between 5 feet, 7 inches and 6 feet, 1 inch with either light hair or dark hair—and wondered how we were supposed to recognize him.
The other message reminded us that inventory was scheduled in three weeks and asked that we cut down our orders as much as possible. I put both messages on the small bulletin board for Tim and Joey to see and looked up to find Michael watching me through the glass windows. When I slid them open, he handed me a cup of coffee and a pastry from the coffee shop.
"I hope you haven't lost your craving for cheese danish," he said.
"No, but they still call them breakfast rolls out here."
"So they do." Michael leaned over the counter and put his own coffee cup down.
"Share?" I asked, moving the pastry back toward him. Then I wanted to pull the word in because it brought the past reeling back.
"Share," Michael agreed and grinned so warmly at me that I had to grip my side of the counter for support.
Any minute now the phone will ring or customers will come to the window and rescue me, I thought. You can hold on long enough, Ruthie. Don't be a fool.
"Does it sound odd to say the last few days have had some of the saddest and happiest moments," Michael said. "When I woke up Friday morning, I never dreamed we'd meet again before the day was over."
"It was a shock for me, too." I had meant to say "surprise," but the word "shock" escaped before I realized it.
"We didn't get to talk much yesterday. Do you have to be home right away or can we meet after you finish here?"
"Five o'clock," I said and excused myself to help a customer at the window.
Unlike some of my friends who hang around and talk while I try to work, Michael quickly stood aside and waited for me to be free again. When I was, he returned to the window.
"Ruthie, I need to know what prescription drugs Harry Stokes was taking."
I hedged. "You know I haven't had a chance to look up his record."
"Could you do it now?"
"Why?"
Michael sounded impatient. "It's important. I told you all about it yesterday."
It was my turn to be brusque. "You didn't tell me anything, Michael. Anything that would justify my breaching patient confidentiality."
"Patient confidentiality! The patient is dead."
"As far as I'm concerned, that doesn't make any difference," I flared. "Haven't you ever done any continuing education in pharmacy ethics?"
Michael's eyes flickered, but I could see he was trying hard to control himself. "This is not idle curiosity. I need to know what Harry was taking."
"After you talked to me yesterday, I thought about it all evening. I don't see how I can give you that information. But I'll be glad to give it to the police."
"The police," Michael exploded. "All they want to do is railroad Betsy. They can't believe that a young woman could marry an older man for anything but his money."
"I'm sure you want to believe it was love," I said and then was ashamed at my sarcastic tone.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said."
He stared at me for a few seconds. "You certainly have changed," he said and walked away. I could see the doors leading into the parking lot from the pharmacy window and, after a moment, Michael's tall figure hurrying out of the store.
My face felt flushed, and I was so shaken that I had to sit down. I couldn't believe Michael and I, meeting again after so many years, had quarreled. It's a matter of principle this time, too, I insisted aloud, but there was no one to hear. I asked myself whether I was being self-righteous to mask jealousy. If Michael hadn't been spending his time with the young widow, would I have given him the prescription printout? I didn't know the answer.
From time to time during that long day, I had to choke back tears. My identity as a professional helped as it had during Bob's long illness and death. I was here for people who needed their medication, not to indulge in self-pity. So I concentrated on filling prescription after prescription.
When Joey came in at ten o'clock, he looked solemn as he told me his brother-in-law was going out to the Stokes house again to talk to Betsy.
"Why?"
"I only know what Frank said. They have some questions for her."
Maybe Betsy did drive her husband to suicide, I thought. After all, she had Michael waiting in the wings. I wanted to ask whether the police thought it was suicide or murder, but that seemed too melodramatic. Anyhow, it wasn't right to pump Joey when he shouldn't have had the information in the first place.
The day dragged along. Even Joey was quieter than usual, as though he'd sensed my mood, and for once I was looking forward to Tim's arrival. One hour after he comes in, I'll be able to go home, I thought. Then I can let go. But I found I no longer wanted to cry; I wanted only to search my heart and see what meeting Michael again really meant to me.
A few times, Joey started to talk to me and seemed to change his mind. I really must lighten up, I thought. It's not fair to him to make his workday miserable, too.
"Joey, I know I've been a bear today, but it's not anything you did. You don't have to tiptoe around me."
"It's not that," he said. "I need some advice, but I didn't want to bother you."
The telephone rang before I could reassure him. Simultaneously, two customers appeared at the window, and I went to help them while Joey grabbed the phone. As soon as we're both free again, I promised myself, I'll find out what's on his mind.
Just before four o'clock, we had some breathing space. Joey left the computer and walked over to the counter where I was working on the reorder list. Usually when he wanted advice, it was about his plans to go to medical school. I waited, noticing how drawn the young face looked. I saw shadows under the dark eyes and blamed myself for not talking him out of summer courses at ASU. It was hard enough to work and go to school full time during the rest of the year.
"About two weeks ago," Joey began, but was interrupted by Tim, who walked into the pharmacy and muttered a hello to me. For Joey, his only greeting was a raised eyebrow and nod toward the ringing phone, uncalled for because Joey already had his hand on the receiver.
"For Mrs. McCullough? Her hydrochlor ... what? Do you mean HCTZ?"
I listened approvingly while I did some paperwork that was due before I could leave for the day. Joey was a good technician, and I could trust him to handle refills.
"What strength, twenty-five milligrams or fifty? Did she give you the prescription number? That's okay; we'll find it." Joey hung up the phone and said, "I hope the original really was filled at this store." He started toward the computer to look it up, but Tim pushed him away.
"I'll take care of it. You go and unpack the order."
I suppose I should have put a stop long ago to Tim bullying our technicians, but Joey and I both try to ignore it rather than turn the place into a battlefield. Luckily, Joey doesn't seem to hold a grudge; any other technician would have quit after one week.
"Saw you at the funeral," he said to Tim. "We didn't know you were going to be there."
"I knew the family in Tucson."
Before I had a chance to ask Tim about that, two people appeared at the window to pick up their prescriptions, and both phones began to ring. We were too rushed for conversation during the next hour, and my shift ended before I had time to clock watch. In fact, we were so busy that I clocked out twenty minutes late.
I walked into the parking lot, relieved that my work day was over, and I no longer had to put up a professional front to hide my personal turmoil. Now I could relax and consider what to do about Michael. In immediate contradiction to this thought, I saw him approach from the tree-shaded part of the lot. As Michael walked toward me, the sunlight accentuated the blond strands in his graying hair and, from the distance, he looked exactly the way I remembered him. "Your well-belovPd's hair has threads of grey," as a friend had told Yeats. When I saw Michael approach that afternoon, I realized how sorry I was that I'd sent him away again. I knew once more that time had not made me any wiser than the poet.
I didn't move until Michael reached me. Even though I was still up on the sidewalk and he was in the parking lot, he was a head taller than me. Michael took my hand, and the gesture was so natural that I stepped down and followed him without a word. He unlocked the door on the passenger side of his car, a silver-and-gray Lexus, and held it open for me, then went around and took down the sun shield. It must have been 140 degrees in the parked car, so I kept my door open until he started the air conditioning.
"I found an interesting Mexican restaurant not too far from here. Is that all right with you?"
In Scottsdale, it's easy to find any kind of restaurant you want, so I was curious to see his choice. We pulled in front of Marilyn's First Mexican Restaurant, a place I'd never tried. Michael always had a knack for discovering restaurants with good food, even when we were students with limited funds. But I wondered whether he'd lost his touch. This place was too pretty; it seemed like part of the tourist scene rather than a restaurant serving authentic Mexican food.
We went through the brick patio with its chairs and tables covered in bright primary colors. As we waited to be seated, I watched a young woman in Mexican dress rolling out tortillas at a counter just inside the entryway.
The restaurant, with it high-backed booths upholstered in blue and its red and yellow seats, had a relaxed atmosphere. When we were seated and had ordered our beverages, Michael smiled at me. "How little you've changed."
And how different that statement was from his angry words in the pharmacy. "I was thinking the same about you," I said aloud. My reading glasses were on now as I scanned the menu. "Maybe that's why nature dims our sight as we grow older."
"You know, Ruthie, I've thought about the past all day today. And I made up my mind that I wasn't going to give up so easily this time."
I didn't know if he meant our relationship or his demand for Harry Stokes's prescription record. The waiter approached, so I could avoid a reply while we scanned the menus. Like many Arizona restaurants during the off-season, Marilyn's offered a "sunset menu" with considerable savings. I was careful to choose spinchada from the specials, but Michael ordered beef chimichangas, which were on the regular menu. Spinchada was a dish I'd never heard of, but it was vegetarian and the description intrigued me. A spinach enchilada in a white sauce, topped with almond slivers.
"I blame myself for not fighting for you," Michael said as soon as the waiter walked away.
Had he been that unhappy? My own misery was overwhelming at first, but when I met Bob Morris about two years later, I was ready to fall in love again. Once in a while, I wondered about Michael, but Bob and I were happy and those thoughts were fleeting.
Now, I looked across the table at Michael. Despite the heat, he was wearing a white shirt with thin burgundy stripes, a burgundy tie with a navy and white pattern, and navy slacks. I couldn't remember if he'd been dressed more casually that morning, so I didn't know whether he'd changed for dinner with me.
My own gold and white print dress, polyester and cotton today, was a compromise between the demands of my long workday and the expectation of seeing Michael again. I searched my mind for a more comfortable topic than our breakup and realized we hadn't yet talked about our lives since pharmacy college. He must have been thinking along the same lines.
"Tell me about yourself, Ruthie. All I know is that you're Mrs. Morris now."
I took a deep breath and told him about Bob, not my first love—but my love just the same. I didn't say that, of course. When I got to Bob's death, he reached across the table and lightly touched my hand for a moment. The shock of his touch was so intense, I dropped my eyes like a nineteenth-century heroine to hide my reaction. But I think he felt it, anyhow.
"There's something I want you to know," he said. "I'm not wining and dining you to get the Rx printout."
I pointed to my iced tea. "Hardly wining."
The waiter brought our tortilla chips and salsa. By the time we'd each helped ourselves, I'd decided how to ask the main question on my mind. "Why are you so anxious to help Betsy?"
"I thought I should be here for her for as long as she needs me," Michael said.
His words struck with such force, I had to work to keep my teeth unclenched. I felt like chewing my nails, something I hadn't done since childhood. More than that, I wanted to rage at the unfairness of it when we had just met again after so many years apart. Luckily, Michael didn't seem to expect a reply because I had none to give.
"She has no one else," he continued.
"What about her stepchildren?"
"Unfortunately, they haven't tried to know Betsy as a person. She needs friends now, but they haven't given her a chance." Michael's voice rose slightly. "She's too decent to complain, but I know how badly they've treated her."
I bit my lips, willing myself to silence.
"That's why I'm trying to spend as much time as possible with her," he said. He was holding a tortilla chip in midair, obviously too agitated to eat it.
He certainly can rationalize, I thought cynically. It's not her long blonde hair or her green eyes; he's just helping her out.
"You see," Michael continued, "her mother remarried and moved to London after our divorce. I'm the only one she has now."
"Oh," I said, drawing out each word, ashamed of my thoughts but relieved at the same time. "Betsy is your—your daughter."
"That's why I want the police to stop bothering her. I know they always suspect the spouse when they can't explain a death, so I've got to unearth what really happened. Before it's too late," he added.
"But how will the prescription record accomplish that? What was the cause of Harry's death?"
"He went into a diabetic coma and his heart failed."
"That shouldn't have happened. His diabetes was under control."
Michael put the chip down uneaten and added more salsa to it. "I'm convinced he took something that caused a reaction. But what could have interacted with his other prescriptions?"
"How can you be sure it was a fatal interaction?"
"Listen, Ruthie, we know he didn't commit suicide. He and Betsy were happy. Very happy," he emphasized.
He didn't meet my eyes when he said that, and I wondered briefly about his insistence. Was he holding something back?
"If Harry was taking two drugs that were contraindicated, we would have known it when we filled the second script. Didn't you find the vials?"
"We found Micronase, Lopressor, Viagra, and Rogaine."
I ran them over in my mind. Micronase for his diabetes and Lopressor to control his blood pressure. I remembered he'd been on those for quite a while. He'd been taking Viagra since his marriage. The same was true of Rogaine to grow back hair. No interactions there at all. "Maybe he had something filled elsewhere," I said.
The waiter materialized with two large platters. One taste of spinchada and that was the end of my reverse snobbery about upscale Mexican restaurants. This was gourmet cooking, which didn't stop me from pouring the rest of the salsa over everything on the plate.
"It's possible, of course, that he went to more than one doctor and more than one pharmacy, but we haven't found anything else except OTCs."
I doubted whether anyone could commit suicide with over-the-counter drugs, but even aspirins can be fatal if you take enough of them. We were both silent for a while as we worked at our dinners, but it was a comfortable silence this time.
"I'm sorry about the way I behaved this morning, Ruthie. I don't want you to compromise your ideals."
A quick glance at Michael's face showed me that he was not being sarcastic. "And I'm sorry I lost my temper," I said.
"No, you were right. I realize now you didn't even know Betsy is my daughter."
I hoped we weren't going back to the sticky topic of patient confidentiality. Was a father-in-law entitled to the records of his deceased son-in-law? And how much privacy was left to Harry Stokes? His wife and Michael now knew what he may have carefully hidden from them: he was using Rogaine to suppress baldness and Viagra to restore potency. I was sure from what I had seen of Harry and his careful grooming that he would have guarded this information while he was alive. On the other hand, I doubted that he could have concealed his diabetes and high blood pressure.
"Here's what I've been thinking," Michael continued. "I won't ask you to give me a printout since you consider that unethical. But could you scan the record and tell me whether you see anything that we didn't find, anything that would interact fatally." He stopped me before I could speak. "Don't answer now. Think it over and I'll be in the store tomorrow afternoon."
We talked about Michael's job; he was the pharmacy director at one of the Tucson hospitals. We talked about the differences between Tucson and Scottsdale. We talked about everything except whether we were going to pick up where we had left off so many years ago. But the conversation flowed as if we had known each other forever and, in a way, we had.
Just before we finished our dinners, Michael asked how I liked my spinchada. He seemed hesitant, and I couldn't understand why. After a pause, he went on, "I was wondering if you ordered a vegetarian meal because you still observe the dietary laws?"
I remembered how curious he'd always been about Jewish traditions. "Bob's family weren't observant Jews," I explained, "so I gradually became less religious after we were married."
Michael looked surprised. "I thought it meant so much to you."
"It did. I suppose if we'd had children, I would have continued my own family's ways."
"Only for your children, not for yourself?" His eyes held mine. "It's rather ironic, Ruthie. I would have encouraged you to keep your traditions."
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