Mary Jane, Jessica Blau [diy ebook reader TXT] 📗

of orange soda. I was allowed orange soda on weekends, andonly at lunchtime. My mother said that sugary drinks were less harmful if they were consumed before the dinner hour. In theCone house there wasn’t even an option of soda. Just clotted milk.

We drove into Hampden, a little neighborhood of narrow row houses with marble stoops and dogs chained in front yards thatwere either dirt or cement. Dr. Cone parked the car at Little Tavern, and Izzy and I followed him in.

Dr. Cone ordered two bagfuls of burgers and four boxes of large fries. “What do you want to drink?” he asked Izzy.

“Orange soda,” Izzy said.

“Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked.

“Orange soda,” I repeated, and then I glanced behind me to see if my mother was somehow there.

Once we had the food, we returned to the station wagon. Izzy ran ahead of me and Dr. Cone. She opened the passenger-side door and climbed into the front seat.

“We’ll eat in the car,” Dr. Cone said. “It’s more fun that way and we can all fit up front!” He placed the burger bags andhis soda on the roof of the car, opened his door, and then pulled out all the papers and the folder and moved them to theback seat. Then he waved his arm at me to slide in.

We handed the bag of burgers back and forth. The burger was oily and salty, and sweet, too, from the ketchup. It was one ofthe best things I’d ever eaten.

“So, we’ve got some big stuff coming up. . . .” Dr. Cone chewed down his burger and swallowed. Izzy had emptied her orangesoda and was sucking out the last bits with a bubbling sound.

“Do you want the rest of mine?” I asked, and she kissed me on the cheek and took it.

“One of my patients and his wife are going to move into the house this weekend.” Dr. Cone unwrapped another burger and loppedoff half in one bite.

I nodded. I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this and if I was allowed to ask questions.

“Can I trust you, Mary Jane?” Dr. Cone asked.

I nodded again.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality is very serious in psychiatry. No one can know who I’m treating or why or even where.”

“I understand.” I was no longer hungry, but I was nervous, so I reached into the bag and removed another burger. If Dr. Conewas treating someone, didn’t that mean that someone was crazy? So would a crazy man and his wife be in the house where I was working all summer? And did I have to turn my face away and not look at the crazy man to preserve doctor-patient confidentiality? The whole thing felt big and scary and as much as I enjoyed Izzy Cone, the barefoot and sideburn nature of Dr. and Mrs. Cone, and the cluttered kaleidoscope of the Cone home, I wondered if maybe this wasn’t the job for me.

“So, this patient, well, he’s an addict—even the press knows by now, which is why I’m telling you.” Dr. Cone tossed the otherhalf of his burger into his mouth and took a big swill of his orange soda. Izzy handed my orange soda back to me and I tooka sip and then returned it to her. “And the wife needs lots of support too. You know, it’s hard when your spouse, or anyonein your family, is addicted.”

Why would the press know this man was an addict? Did the Baltimore Sun print lists of local addicts? I swallowed hard and said, “Will it be safe for me and Izzy to be in the house if an addictis there?”

Dr. Cone burst out laughing, releasing a small spray of food. “It’s entirely safe! He’s a smart, interesting, creative man.His wife is too. Neither of them would ever harm anyone. No one chooses to be an addict, and my job is to help out those whoare unfortunate enough to be struck with it. I treat drug addicts, alcoholics, sex addicts . . . the whole shebang.”

My face burned. I shoved two fries into my mouth. Izzy didn’t seem to notice that Dr. Cone has used the word sex. With the word addict! I didn’t even know you could be a sex addict. A slideshow started in my brain: images of people kissing, naked, pushingthemselves against each other hour after hour. Would the sex addicts ever get hungry? Would they eat while doing sex things?

“In this situation,” Dr. Cone continued, “it seemed better that the patient and his wife just move in and stay with us until everything’s more under control. They live in New York City and he’s been taking the train down for twice-weekly visits with me. He’s actually detoxed now; we’re just working on ways he can stay sober.”

“Oh okay.” I took the drink back from Izzy, swallowed another strawful, and then handed it to her again.

“The thing that’s tricky here,” Dr. Cone said, “is that they’re both very, very famous.”

“Movie stars?!” Izzy asked.

“Yes. The wife’s a movie star. He’s a rock star.”

“A rock star!” Izzy shouted. “I want to be a rock star!” She held the drink in front of her face as if it were a microphone,and started singing a song I’d heard a couple of times but didn’t really know. Izzy had it down word for word, so I assumedthe Cones had the record.

“A movie star and a rock star from New York City are going to move into your house?” I asked, just to be sure I was understandingthis correctly.

“Who who who who who who who?” Izzy asked. “Is it the Partridge Family?”

“You’ll see when they get here.” Dr. Cone reached out and mussed up Izzy’s hair.

I had many more questions but didn’t dare ask. What was the rock star addicted to? Would I ever see him or his movie starwife, or would they be in Dr. Cone’s office all day? Were they bringing maids with them? Did they have a limousine and a driver?

If Izzy didn’t know who they were, I doubted I would. I barely knew Little Tavern burgers! The