Addiction by G. H. Ephron Page A

morning, I couldn’t get Drew off my mind. I’d always thought he and Channing had had a good marriage. Perhaps no fireworks, but a solid partnership. Then I recalled the young, dark-haired woman in the pastel suit at Channing’s party. Surely Channing hadn’t known. She might not have been able to stop the affair, but she’d never have tolerated the woman’s presence at her own birthday party.
    By now, I was approaching the MIT Boathouse. My body felt like a mess of ill-fitting parts, the muscles dragging the bones, the joints complaining. I pulled the headphones down around my neck. My warm breath filled the hollow in my chest. Even without the music, Richard Thompson’s words kept ringing in my ears. “The ghost of you walks right through my head … .”
    I approached the Harvard Bridge and pushed past the ache in my legs, finally feeling the endorphins kicking in and starting to blow the pain away. I put the headphones back on and cranked up the volume, trying to fill my head with sound so my mind could empty. I crossed the bridge, building momentum, and effortlessly whipped around the downward spiral onto the Boston side.
    When I’d asked Drew if Channing had been depressed by the JAMA article, he’d scoffed. “Depressed, bullshit! Pissed. Energized. She was planning to fight back. I told her she was tilting at windmills. She didn’t care. She was going to go after the drug companies and anyone else who challenged her, and she was relishing the fight.” That didn’t sound suicidal to me.

    When I got to work, I checked in with Gloria. “I can’t tell,” she said, when I asked her how Olivia was doing. “In shock. Or else she’s shutting us out.”
    â€œDid she eat anything?”
    â€œNot much.”
    I went to Olivia’s room. The door was ajar. I knocked. “Hello?” I said. Then louder, “Olivia?”
    No answer. I pushed the door open and put my head in. “Good morning.”
    A small suitcase sat on a table, open but not unpacked. The bathroom door was ajar. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
    I checked the common area. Matthew Farrell was sitting at the ebony grand piano, picking out a wooden-sounding version of “The Entertainer.” Mr. Fleegle sat in a chair, tapping his toe and nodding to what little rhythm there was. The television in the far corner delivered its weather report to an otherwise empty room.
    I returned to the nurses’ station and announced, “She’s not there.”
    Gloria gave me a pitying look. “Looked real hard, didn’t you. She’s there. I just checked on her a minute ago.”
    â€œThen she’s invisible.”
    â€œDid you check the closet?”
    â€œOf course. The closet. Now why didn’t I think of that?”
    â€œShe’s been in there since, well, since I got here.”
    I returned to Olivia’s room. In the corner was a tall, narrow wardrobe. I tapped on the door and slowly pulled it open. Olivia was jammed inside, crouched down, hugging her knees to her chest. Her face was turned away from me.
    I squatted beside her. Her forearm was bandaged. Her body was taut, every muscle straining to hold herself in a tight ball. Crumpled tissues were piled on the floor.
    â€œOlivia,” I said gently.
    She didn’t respond.

    â€œI see your father brought you some clothes. Do you want help unpacking?”
    Still nothing.
    I knew ordering her out of the wardrobe would only cause her to shrink further into herself. I thought for a moment. “Does it work?” I asked.
    Her head gave a little jerk.
    â€œDoes it work?” I repeated.
    Slowly she lifted her head and turned her face to me. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Her skin looked white against the black hair. She looked at me as if I had two heads, but gave a dull shrug.
    â€œCan I try it?” I asked.
    A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
    Encouraged, I