Brain Damage, page 1
part #2 of Prescription: Murder Series
BRAIN DAMAGE
a novel by
Freida McFadden
Brain Damage
© 2016 by Freida McFadden. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are the products of the authors’ imagination, and are not to be construed as real. None of the characters in the book is based on an actual person. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
For my patients
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
To Melanie, the best little writer I know
And to Elizabeth—maybe someday
Prologue
If someone had asked me before this happened if it would hurt to be shot in the head, I almost certainly would’ve answered yes. Of course, yes.
It makes sense. A piece of metal rapidly shooting through flesh and bone… how could it not hurt? During my intern year, I spent time in the emergency room and I saw people who had been recently shot. None in the head, but one in the shoulder, one through the knee, and one unfortunate bullet ripped its way right through a man’s stomach. I didn’t need to ask any of those people if the bullet hurt. I could see it in their faces.
I wasn’t someone who had to worry about being shot though. The patients I treated in the emergency room weren’t upper-middle-class female doctors living in million dollar apartments overlooking Central Park. They all lived in a poor section of the city, where bullets whizzed through the air as commonly as raindrops.
I, on the other hand, was safe, insulated. I wasn’t the sort of person who would be shot in the street while going to buy soda at the local newsstand. When I died, it would be from a stroke or cancer, or if I was lucky, my heart would stop beating one night in my sleep when my hair was as white as my pillow and my face was crisscrossed with deep wrinkles.
Or so I thought.
Back to the initial question of whether it hurt to be shot in the head. Because there is a lot I don’t remember, but this part I remember very well.
I remember staring at the gun, not really believing that it would go off, not believing that this could happen to me. And then I remember the explosion, seconds before the bullet discharged, passed through my skull, shattering it to pieces, soaring through gray matter, white matter, neurons, ventricles, then back through my skull again, and finally lodging itself in the well-insulated wall that kept our neighbors from hearing the noise of the gunshot.
And none of that hurt. The truth is, I didn’t feel it at all.
What hurt is everything that came after.
Chapter 1
Two Years Before
There are times when I truly do hate being a doctor, and one of those times is right now, right this minute, while I’m staring down at the groin of an obese fifty-two-year-old man.
One of our nurses, Jessica, is standing next to me, “assisting me,” although in truth, she’s actually here to protect me from getting groped by this half-naked man. It’s happened before, and I’ve just gotten sick of it.
Yes, the life of a dermatologist is very glamorous. I still like it though.
“It’s a fungal infection,” I say, averting my eyes from Mr. Leroy’s groin and gratefully redirecting them to his round face.
A fungal infection. Which Mr. Leroy’s primary care doctor should have diagnosed himself. What a waste of my time. And dignity.
I try to back away, giving myself a little distance between me and the fungus, but I slam into a wall. Our examining rooms are tiny. Miniscule. Several of my coworkers have complained to Roger, our boss, that we can’t work in such tiny spaces, but tiny spaces means more examining rooms to stuff patients into, which means we can see them faster. It’s all about the bottom line with Roger.
“That’s what Dr. Hanson told me,” Mr. Leroy says. His jaws are working together like he’s chewing something. Did he start eating while I was looking at his groin? Oh God. “And he gave me this tube of spermicide for it.”
I purse my lips together, and glance over at Jessica.
“He gave you what?” I ask.
“Some spermicide,” Mr. Leroy repeats, still chewing vigorously. “And I’ve been putting the spermicide all over the rash for like a week, but it’s not any better. So I figured I should see a skin doctor.”
I can tell that Jessica is struggling not to laugh.
“You mean fungicide?” she asks.
Mr. Leroy shrugs and rubs his chin. “Oh yeah. Maybe.”
I have no idea whether Dr. Hanson gave Mr. Leroy a cream that wasn’t strong enough or else he actually did give the poor man spermicide. Either way, I know fungus when I see it. The moist skin folds of Mr. Leroy’s groin are ripe with it. If I were a fungus, that’s definitely where I would want to live. (Not being a fungus, I live in a very nice apartment by Central Park in New York City. It’s my one indulgence.)
I write Mr. Leroy a prescription for a tube of fungicide and explain to him how to use it. He could probably also use some counseling on weight loss and getting his diabetes under control, but I’m not a miracle worker. Considering he doesn’t know the difference between spermicide and fungicide, I have a feeling any words of wisdom I have to offer will likely be lost on him. Besides, I’ve been told by Roger that I’ve got a ten minute quota for each patient, and I’ve already used up nine of those minutes.
As I hand over the prescription to Mr. Leroy, I suddenly see the beginning of moisture forming in the corners of his eyes. A second later, they’re full on tears. And all I can think is: What the hell?
It’s not like patients don’t cry in here. I’ve had to hand over more than a few cancer diagnoses in my time, and I’ve got a box of tissues in the corner of the room that gets replaced on a regular basis. It’s something they teach you in medical school: How to comfort a crying patient. Except the first time you actually see it, you panic. You don’t know what to do aside from patting their shoulder and saying, “There, there.”
But after several years in practice, I’ve got it down to a science. The compassionate arm rub, the box of tissues, the sympathetic and caring voice. It’s not like I’m going to make anything all better, but if I can make them feel even a little better, I’ll take it. Even if I have to go over my ten minute quota. (Screw you, Roger.)
Still, I have to say, this is the first time I’ve gotten tears over a diagnosis of jock itch. Did he think I said fungating carcinoma instead of fungus?
Damn, I’m definitely going over my stupid quota.
“Sorry,” Mr. Leroy says, dabbing his eyes self-consciously with the back of his hand. “I’m being dumb, sorry.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I reach for our stock of tissues.
Mr. Leroy gratefully swipes a tissue from the box. “It’s just that…” He sighs deeply. “My wife left me last year, and I’ve gained all this weight, and now I have fungus. I mean, what woman is going to want me with fungus growing on my crotch?”
I clear my throat and force a smile. “Mr. Leroy, I’m sure there are plenty of women who—”
“Would you date a guy with crotch fungus?” he interrupts me.
Would I? I visualize Mr. Leroy’s moist, red groin folds and my stomach turns. “Sure,” I say.
Mr. Leroy snorts.
“Look,” I say, holding up my prescription. “You use this cream and the fungus will be gone in two weeks. Lose some weight and I promise it won’t come back.”
Mr. Leroy pulls the piece of paper from my hand and looks at it like it could be a winning lottery ticket. “Yeah?”
“I promise,” I say.
I hold my hand out to Mr. Leroy and he shakes it. His h
“You’re a nice lady, Doc,” Mr. Leroy says to me. “I heard good things about you.”
I feel my cheeks color. “Thank you.”
He smiles again. I glance up at the clock: fifteen minutes spent with Mr. Leroy. I’m already bracing myself for a lecture from Roger as I work through my twenty-minute lunch break.
Jessica has already put my next patient in a room, and the chart is sitting in the rack outside the door. I grab the chart from the rack and scan the details. Clark Douglas. Thirty-eight years old. Here to have a suspicious mole checked out. I’m just relieved that it’s not another teenage acne patient. Not that I mind teenage acne… raging teenage hormones definitely help pay the bills. But when it gets to be August, it seems like that’s all you see. I guess the kids figure they want their skin to be clear before school starts up again.
I knock on the door once then enter without waiting for an answer because the doors are inexplicably soundproof.
Let me just say that I may be a doctor, but I’m only human. And sometimes when a patient strips down in front of me for a mole check, even though I am a complete professional in my behavior, I can’t help but react to a body that is incredibly wrinkled or covered in skin lesions or thick folds of fat.
Or in this case, the most perfect body I’ve ever seen. In my life.
Clark Douglas is gorgeous. I’m not sure I’ve ever used that word before to refer to a man, certainly not in my adult life, but it really does seem appropriate in this case. He is gorgeous. And also, he’s topless. Topless on my examining table, his pecs and deltoids perfectly toned but not ridiculously so. I can make out the bulge of a six pack on his slim abdomen. This is not a man who’s got fungus hidden in the folds of his fat, that’s for sure.
And he’s just as amazing from the neck up as well. I always thought that chestnut was a nice way of saying brown, but this guy has the most gorgeous thick chestnut locks of hair on his head. He has dimples too, not huge ones, but just enough to be sexy—perfect dimples. His eyes lock with mine and they are clear blue, like the untouched waters of the Pacific.
Oh God, I sound like a teenage girl writing terrible poetry.
I’ve got to get myself under control.
“Mr. Douglas?” I ask, consulting his file. I strip my voice of any sort of emotion.
Clark Douglas smiles at me. God, even his teeth are gorgeous. It’s almost disgusting. “Guilty as charged.”
“I’m Dr. McKenna,” I tell him. I hold out my hand to him and he shakes it. His hand is broad and warm, perfectly enveloping my smaller, plumper hand.
“Didn’t Jessica give you a gown?” I ask him. I know very well she did. I see it lying unused next to him on the examining table.
Mr. Douglas shrugs. “Isn’t it easier if I don’t wear it?”
“It’s for modesty,” I explain.
“I’m not much for modesty,” he says with a wink.
I’ll bet. He knows how hot he is. That rat bastard.
The mole in question is on Mr. Douglas’s back. It’s about three millimeters in diameter, light brown, and a perfect regular circle. It’s perhaps the least concerning mole I’ve ever seen in my career. If I were to write a journal article about moles that are completely benign, I might consider including Mr. Douglas’s in the article. Not that I would ever write such a frivolous article, although it would actually be an excuse to get in touch with him. Not that I would ever do anything like that.
This guy is really scrambling my brain. Jesus.
“I think you’re in the clear,” I tell him.
He raises his eyebrows at me. “You don’t even want to biopsy it?”
“There’s no need,” I assure him. “It’s completely benign.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Mr. Douglas says. I notice he doesn’t make any movement to put his shirt back on.
“Do you have any other questions or concerns?”
“Yes,” he says. “Just one. Are you allowed to date patients?”
Ha ha, very funny.
He’s making a joke, obviously. Men who look like him don’t actually want to date women who look like me. Not that there’s anything wrong with me exactly, but I’m just in a different league than Clark Douglas. He’s gorgeous, and I’m just average. Maybe if my blond hair were thick and wavy and luxurious instead of short, practical, fine, and really closer to dirty blond. Maybe if I were six inches taller with long, shapely legs. Maybe if I dropped twenty pounds. Okay, thirty pounds.
Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a fact of life. Like that the sky is blue and groin fungus is disgusting.
“No, I don’t date patients,” I coolly inform Clark Douglas.
“No exceptions?” he asks, turning the full effect of his blue, blue eyes on me. And how does a man end up with such beautiful eyelashes? I would have to empty half a bottle of mascara onto my pale lashes to have that effect.
“No,” I say, hoping to put an end to this ridiculous line of conversation.
I open up his chart to make a note in it. I happen to notice his occupation: attorney. He’s a gorgeous attorney. He probably thinks he’s God’s gift to women, that he’s doing me a huge favor by flirting with me. That I’ll run home and tell all my girlfriends about it. What a thrill.
He hops off the examining table. He thankfully grabs his shirt and swings it over his head. Unfortunately, he’s even more attractive dressed. Well, no. That would be impossible. But he’s equally attractive dressed.
“What if I stopped being your patient?” he asks. “I can find another dermatologist.”
I shake my head. “I’m afraid not.”
He raises his eyebrows at me. “So you would never go out with anyone who was ever a patient of yours? Even if it was ten years ago?”
I sigh. “Fine. Maybe if it were ten years ago.”
“How about five years ago?”
I shake my head again, but I can’t help smiling slightly. I know he’s still just flirting harmlessly, but he’s so freaking charming. It’s hard not to fall under his spell, just a little bit. “Maybe.”
“Now we’re talking…” He nods thoughtfully. “What would you say to… three months ago? What if I ask you out again in three months?”
“Fine,” I say, just to put an end to the whole thing. “You can ask me out in three months.”
Mr. Douglas pumps his fist. “Alright!” He winks at me again. “I guess I’ll see you in three months, Dr. Charlotte McKenna.”
I will never see this man ever again. I’m willing to bet the farm on that.
Chapter 2
Two Years Before
My apartment is my haven.
No matter how long and exhausting and frustrating my day is, I feel comforted when I walk into my apartment. I live near Central Park, and I have a great view, a spacious living room, a beautifully furnished kitchen, and two bedrooms.
Yes, it’s just me living there. Thanks for asking.
The one thing I do wish we had is a doorman. We have a buzzer to enter the building, and it always makes me a little nervous. You know, being a single woman living all alone and all. I mean, everyone just lets everyone in behind them even if they don’t know them… it’s like a free-for-all. Then again, I don’t like the idea of having a doorman that I would have to make small talk with every time I leave or enter the building, and buy him an obligatory Christmas gift. Plus we’ve got Johnny, our burly maintenance guy, who is always somewhere nearby. And I’ve got a padlock on my door that the locksmith assured me that not even the best spy in the CIA would be able to jimmy open.
So anyway, I feel pretty safe.
When I get home, I toss my keys onto the kitchen counter and let out a long, cleansing sigh. Before I’ve taken two steps into the apartment, my cat races over to me and meows loudly, then looks up at me with big, longing green-yellow eyes. Two years ago, I adopted a black cat from an animal shelter, which I named Kitty (I’m a doctor—I’m not creative). She’s like my best friend now.
I’d wanted a cat forever, but I was afraid to get one. Why? Partially because I work long hours and I wasn’t sure if I’d have time to take care of a cat. But also because I was afraid that getting one cat might be a gateway drug to becoming a crazy cat lady—someone who goes to work covered in a layer of cat hair and throws kitties at teenagers playing their rap music too loud.
