WALK ON BY

  

When I lied to myself that I was only checking up on him, my cell weighed five hundred pounds. I was just checking to see if he were okay, like a friend would. I hadn't talked to him since that horrible scene two weeks ago. I handled hundreds of calls every day in the pharmacy. I could be cool and professional this one more time with him.

“Yeah, who's this?” He hadn't changed the way he answered the phone. Lady Gaga's “Bad Romance” was pounding hypnotically in the background:

“Ooh, la, la,la, la

Ooh, caught in a bad romance

Rah, Rah, ah ah ahh

Ro ma, ro ma, ma ah ah

Ga gah, ooh la la

Want your bad romance”

“Cris, it's Layla. Look, uh, you doing okay?”

“I don't want to talk. I'm putting your stuff outside in a bag. Don'tcha call me again. I've gotten nothing to say. I really feel like crap today—think maybe I've gotten some bad poison ivy.”

His words were slightly slurred. I imagined him at the phone in his white kitchen, clutching a glass of wine while he sliced an expensive round of cheese. He was a food snob, using the jargon he'd learned in cooking school to lord it over me.

“A full-bodied Merlot, isn't it? Such a fine finish it has, as if it makes any difference to you. God, Layla, don't wrinkle your nose at the Brie. I know it's not the Velveeta you're used to, but couldn't you try to develop taste buds like a grownup?”

I pushed away memories of his sarcastic monologues.

“Chris, I wanted to ask you if you were all right. I really meant what I said about wondering if you're depressed. You're just so angry all the time, and sometimes that is a sign of--”

“Cut that out. You're not a therapist, and don't try that crap on me. You're making my head hurt. I've got a migraine anyway. Look, it's over. Get over it.”

The pharmacy tech was already at my elbow, reminding me that I had only five minutes on my break. I turned away from her, trying to reach beyond Chris' rage to the man I'd fallen in love with. It had been so very good with him, his velvety warm mouth slowly brushing my breasts—my eyes were full as I struggled for words. There had to be something that could bring him back to me.

His short laugh distracted me.

“You can quit worrying about me being depressed. One of the drug reps I play golf with gave me some Lamictal. It's helping me not sweat the small stuff. God, I've got to go, Layla. I've got this frog in my throat and this damn poison ivy is killing me. Have to get after them at the golf course. I feel like dog crap. Don't even try to hook up with me again. I'm putting your stuff in a trash bag.”

My mind was falling into blackness as he spoke, but I was distracted by his casual mention of a dangerous medication.

“Chris, you shouldn't be taking Lamictal. Didn't you tell me that you'd gotten some Dekpakote, too? You can't take those together. Didn't you read the warnings?”

The click of the receiver was my only response. He'd hung up on me. I slowly folded my phone, walked out of the break room, and picked up one of the blinking phone lines. For the next twenty minutes, I filled new prescriptions, poured out the refills, and did patient counseling. I moved on automatic as I replayed the scene.

Chris wasn't feeling well, and thought he was getting poison ivy. He'd also said he had a frog in the throat. I had a terrible feeling that I know what was really happening. Lamictal was a good drug for seizures, and even for depression, but one really bad side effect was a severe rash which could blister the entire body, mouth and eyes. It was also a cause of angioedema which could cause the throat to close rapidly. And chances of both of these side effects were worse if someone was on Depakote. From the way that Chris was talking, he might be at the beginning of a crisis. I should do something, call his doctor, call 911. Or maybe he was just getting more drunk and slurring his words.

I nodded pleasantly to the elderly woman who'd been confused about her medications and who was now thanking me.

“You're such a helper to me. So sweet every time I come in here. You are an angel.”

The chief pharmacist overheard her and chimed in,

“Yes, Layla is our best pharmacist. She works hard, helps out everyone on the team, and never lets the pressure get her down. We could use a dozen of her.” The supervisor beamed in my direction, his round face and mustache cheerful.

But now I was growing faint, and I smiled weakly at him.

“Aiden, could you catch the front for a moment? I have to run to the bathroom.”

In the restroom I pulled out my cellphone and called Chris. No answer. I imagined him fallen on the floor, choking, blisters growing all over him. He was alone in his elegant kitchen, with the marble work station and the copper pans, and all the special spices he'd bought.

When we started dating, I admired him for his expertise with food, the quick way he could take a few leftover ingredients and pull together a special dish. Once he'd taken some leftover chicken, whole grain spaghetti noodles, soy sauce, and some honey roasted peanuts, and created a Thai dinner before my eyes. I had never learned anything about cooking. My family didn't think about anything but getting calories on the table.

He'd mock my efforts, saying,

“You probably think Vienna sausages in biscuits is the height of cuisine. And special sauce is what Mcdonald's puts on the Big Mac. What is this slop, a trailer park special?”

Surely I needed to call 911 to rescue him. I was about to hit my speed dial, when my tech opened the restroom door.

“Layla, you okay? Things are getting a little stacked up now, and Aiden wondered if you could come back.”

I leaned my head against the stall door. If I didn't do anything, who would know? It would be an accident. It wasn't as if I'd deliberately caused it. I'd warned him. Surely that was enough. He was an adult. No one would ever find out.

“Oo, oo, la la la

Rah,rah, ah, ah, ah,

I want your bad romance.”

But I didn't want that anymore. I slowly slipped my cell phone back into my pocket. My own soundtrack was Dionne Warwick:

“Walk on by,

Oh, walk on by, don't stop,

Oh, walk on by, don't stop,

 Baby leave, you'll never see the tears I cry”

In the white kitchen the music played on over the still figure on the floor. After a sudden thrashing fall that upset the cast-iron skillet and spilled olive oil and wine to the floor, there had been some strangled sounds, some jerking, and then no movement at all.