My best friend knew something was wrong. Mary told me every day that she needs to see a doctor and every day I asked her the same questions, ‘What hurts you, Mary? How’s your appetite? Do you have a fever?’ After two weeks of the same question, answer game Mary told me she thought she was going crazy. That floored me. I jumped at her. ‘What do you mean you’re going crazy?’ Mary paused so long I believed our phones were disconnected, hung up and dialed again. The line was busy. Of course it was. She was hanging on. I waited five more minutes and tried again. Her first remark to me started my worries. ‘Was I talking to you before or to Karen? I know I was talking to somebody.’
Oh, my, lord rushed thru my mind. Mary must be in the first stages of Alzheimer’s. This is not good. ‘Mary, come to my house for lunch and we’ll discuss what is bothering you. 12 o’clock. O.K.?
I fixed two hefty roast beef sandwiches on fairly fresh rye, opened a bag of chips and put a jar of sweet gherkins on the table and waited and waited. I called her again and was surprised she answered on the first ring. Giving her no time to make excuses, I pounced on her. ‘Why aren’t you here? Our sandwiches are drying out.’ ‘Who is this?’ Mary asked me, her best friend. At 12:45 I decided to walk across the parking area and see what was happening. Mary was just getting in her car but stopped for me. She greeted me with a big smile and a quick hug, blurting out, ‘Brenda, I’ve missed you. Where have you been?’ She had forgotten how many times we spoke just a short while ago. ‘Brenda, help me,’ she begged. I can’t remember anything any more. I need a psychiatrist. Do you know of a good one?’ Her question was totally unexpected. All I could do was tell her that I knew somebody who has been using a psychiatrist for a long time and is sure he is helping her.’
Rose was that somebody and she gave me Dr. Baker’s info, cost per session and phone. I copied it down and gave it to Brenda, insisting she call while I was with her. I listened to her pathetic whine as she convinced Dr. Baker to see her quickly as an emergency patient. Two days later I drove her there. After her fifty minutes were up, she came out of his office, smiling, relaxed and told me how great Dr. Baker was.
At 7 p.m. Mary called me, cussing, cursing the doctor who gave her one pill and overdosed her. ‘My head is falling off. I am going to die tonight,’ she cried to me. How was I going to convince her that one pill can’t be an overdose, that it was medicine not magic and will take time to help her? I did my best but she shut her mind off, said goodbye and hung up on me. Mary answered when I called back to ask if she wanted me to stay with her over night. ‘Yes, come soon, come before I die.’
Of course, I hurried over. Wearing a formal gown and lots of make-up, she opened the door for me. Her lipstick was lopsided and I couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Going some place? You must feel better to look so lovely.’ That set her off into a rage. ‘Let’s go in the kitchen. I’ll make English tea for us. A box of powdered sugar donuts was in her pantry. I fixed them on a cake plate and watched her devour three before I ate one. The sugar made a little moustache on her upper lip. Clearly she told me she felt a lot better and thanked me for everything. ‘I’m going to be okay, you’ll see. I’ll call you in the morning.’ With that she walked me to the door. Heavy trepidations for sure, a strong bear hug and I left.
By 11 a.m. Mary had not called me nor answered the many times I tried her number. The building elevator rose swiftly to 1005. Calling her name, I tried the paneled white door, found it unlocked and went in, going room to room, still calling ‘Brenda, Brenda, where are you?’ As I went into her dressing room, I saw a small brown round prescriptive medicine bottle on the carpet. It was for twelve ten mg. Ambien, no refills. I shook it and felt nothing It was empty. A few steps further, into the master bathroom, I found Brenda, dressed again in her evening gown. Lying in the dry bathtub. Her open eyes stared at me. Her arms were crossed over her belly. A note was in her hand. I hesitated removing the note but had to. The message was scrawled in red ink, looked like a child had done it. ‘I told you Dr. Baker overdosed me, didn’t I?’
My job was not over. I contacted Dr. Baker, went in the kitchen, waited for him to come sign her death certificate and washed the donut plate
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