By Tommy Cheis

Dr. Demi Diaz, Chief of Psychiatry at the University of Miami’s Jackson Behavioral Hospital, loitered by my office door as I exited the elevator, acting like all was fine. But a rigidity of form and a manic bent belied her dark purpose. I greeted her like nothing was amiss, but when I put key to lock my door wouldn’t budge.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Can we talk. Mr. Panther?”

I tried to laugh her off. “Why, boss? And why not call me before I drove in?”

“Drove in?”

“Walked down the hall then. But it’s Dr. Panther. I keep telling you and our colleagues.”

She gave me one of her sad smiles. “I’ve heard. And I’m concerned about you.”

I followed her down the hall like a whipped puppy. In her office, we sat side-by-side on her couch. “Out with it, boss,” I said before she could start her usual chit-chat. “I’m tired.”

“It seems your feelings, thoughts, and behaviors have changed, Mr. Panther.”

“It’s Dr. Panther,” I said. “Class of 2007. Don’t you remember? And I’m on the faculty. You hired me.”

“Oh,” she said, then stared at the floor. “So you’re a physician?”

“Duh. Whatever. And I’m newlywed to a rape survivor, falsely charged with kidnapping, and due to be a father for the third time.” I explained for her benefit.

She seemed unconvinced. Skeptical, even, as if I’d imagined it all. But then she congratulated me before returning to task. “Jimmy, you’re at great risk. You’re sensitive and empathetic, but you have your own trauma nightmare. Not just from the war. Your sense of humor is off. You’re angry. And from observation, it seems you’re struggling with your sense of meaning and identity.”

“Wow, boss. You can tell all that just by looking at me?”

She made a sad face. “And our weekly therapy sessions. Of course. The loss of a child can overcome our coping resources. Even induce transient psychosis.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You and your wife are in enormous pain. She’s expressed her concerns. And your previous combat-related moral injury leaves you especially susceptible to burnout.”

“Better to burnout than fade away,” I offered.

She took my hands. “Do you have any thoughts of harming yourself?”

“Yes, but I have a list of people I need to whack first.”

I could tell Demi wanted to laugh, deep inside. “Mr. Panther, do you have a plan to harm yourself or another person?”

“I keep telling you it’s Dr. Panther. Give me some respect as a colleague at least.”

She scribbled something in a file. “I’ll try to remember.”

“The root of it all is that Ina’s trauma is making me face aspects of my persona I never confronted.”

“Tell me more.”

“To be raped once is horrific. Ina was raped repeatedly over five years with the approval of her mother, ex-husband, and frenemy. That’s mega-trauma.”

Dr. Diaz looked at me blankly, as if this were the first she was hearing of it. “I’m not understand.”

“Good. You don’t. Neither do I. I know all but understand nothing despite my efforts.”

“You seem hypervigilant.”

“Given what I learned about the Evil Ones, I’m appropriately en garde.”

“The Evil Ones?”

“A collective nom de guerre for the individuals who trafficked Ina.”

“OK. Put the Evil Ones aside for a moment. You’re distancing yourself from your wife.”

“I sleep beside her every night.”

“But you can’t enjoy married life. You’re anhedonic. Your sex life is suffering.”

“Ina’s taken me beyond pleasure.”

Demi was a sad clown. “Oh, Jimmy. You’ve been here before. What do you feel?”

“Pissed that Ina didn’t escape the rape camp on her own. Why did I have to help her?”

“Rape camp? As in what occurred in Bosnia?”

“Precisely.”

“Tell me a little about it.” She grabbed a pen as if to make notes to revise a diagnosis.

I told her how Ina had been drugged by her ex-husband, kidnapped, and sold to a pharmacist friend of his for drugs and cash and held captive for five years. “I know, boss, the mere chance to escape doesn’t necessarily make a traumatized person seize it. Ina froze instead of fighting or fleeing, trapped in the terror she knew. My own research supports this conclusion. And, of course, her mother knew and approved.”

Demi looked frightened, maybe sick. Her hands left the surface of her desk and dipped beneath it where her emergency call button lurked. “Did you call the police?”

“No. It’s complicated.”

“I understand, Jimmy. And your present suffering is comorbid with childhood sexual abuse.”

That put me on guard. “What are you saying, boss?”

“Boss?”

“Yeah. Boss. You’re my direct supervisor.”

Dr. Diaz took a breath, then steepled her fingers and stared out the window. “I see,” she said, then turned back to me. “Let’s talk about the loss of Chloe.”

“Who? First things first.” I smacked her desktop. “Why did you mention childhood sexual abuse?”

My boss was so good at remaining calm. “OK. Jimmy, let’s think about something. At whom is your anger really directed?”

“At the Evil Ones.”

“Who else?”

“You tell me.”

“How do I put this? Abused kids are condemned to live in the past. Where else can they go?”

“Nowhere until they get bigger.” My hands clenched of their own volition. “Oh, you bitch.”

Demi pressed her advantage. “When you say that, do you feel anger?”

“Yes.”

“At whom?”

“Various.”

“Show me who you’re protecting.”

I drifted back to the past. “A little boy. Six-and-a-half.”

“What’s happening to him?”

“Foster dad beats him with a belt. He’s apologizing. Whimpering he’ll be a good boy.” It was as clear as if it were happening now.

“How do you feel about that little boy?”

“I hate him. He’s weak.”

“For apologizing?”

“And not fighting back.”

“Will you let that little boy speak?”

Little Jimmy said nothing.

“What can he say to his foster father?” Demi pressed that fucking little kid.

“Nothing,” he said. “Too scared.”

“Then what will you say to his foster father?”

I jumped up and roared. “GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKER! TOUCH THAT BOY AGAIN AND I’LL COME IN THE NIGHT TO HURT YOU!”

“Now can you say anything to that poor little boy?”

“SHAME! SHAME! SHAME!”

“Can you say something kinder?”

“Sorry this was done to you. I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you ever again. Promise.”

“Your foster parents raped you. They beat you so hard you have scars. Nod if I’m right.”

Six-year-old Jimmy nodded and collapsed into himself like a dying star.

“Your entire world was wrong,” Demi said softly, “but if you reported the beatings you’d be punished. You were enraged, defiant, yet helpless. You had to shut down and be compliant. Right?”

Little Jimmy nodded.

“But you were unbearably lonely. No one cared about you. So you went numb. You cultivated denial. And lost track of who you were. What you feel. Knowing whom to trust. And you joined the Army, thinking you’d find safety and structure and make sense of it all.”

Boy Jimmy cried.

“Let me talk to adult Jimmy now.”

“OK.”

“You suffered every adverse childhood experience there is, Jimmy. Most boys brutalized by caregivers are dead by forty. Most of the rest are in prison. A few scrape by with grave moral injuries as unemployed addicts who bounce through violent relationships, hating themselves and the world, often committing suicide.” She stroked my back as she spoke.

“I’m alive, though.”

“But are you living?”

“Is there a difference? Sic semper parentis malis. My birth parents have nothing to do with me or my life unless their bad acts made me a psychiatrist.”

Demi raised her eyebrows as if I’d just claimed to be next-in-line to the British throne. “You’re a psychiatrist?” she asked, as if she’d just lost her mind, or at least her memory.

“Stop toying with me.”

“I’m confused.”

“You know as well as I that but for your tutelage I wouldn’t have specialized in psychiatry and taken up my position as director of the veteran’s clinic here at Jackson. Is trickery one of your therapeutic modalities?”

Flustered, she pushed paper around her desk until she could respond. “Let’s get back to your relationship with Ina, Jimmy. It’s impaired.”

“Keep going,” I said, using the phrase I’d heard other psychiatrists use to keep me speaking.

“You’re relationally stunted because of the trauma your parents inflicted on you. You live in nameless dread. You fear she’ll withdraw as your mother did, with a bottle of vodka, a straight razor, and a jar of pills.”

“And so too my father for a date with the warden and the electric chair for killing five law enforcement officers trying to arrest him for poaching a panther. Leave them out of this.”

“Do you feel unreal?”

“When you play these mind games. Get your fucking hands off me.”

She did as I asked but kept talking. “You’ll be lost until you stop believing the legacy of your birth parents, and your subsequent suffering, defines you.”

“Did you know Tesla and Beethoven were beaten too, whereas serial killers Loeb and Leopold were spoiled rotten?”

“What’s your point?”

“Nothing’s fated. And I know exactly who I am.”

“Really? Veterans often interpret a genetic basis for their MI as proof of irredeemable ruin.”

“I’m no veteran. I’m a physician.”

She read something from my file, then pinned me with her gaze. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t recall. Quit quoting my research. Or have the decency to drop a footnote.”

“Jimmy. Your moral injury symptoms are worse since Ina came into your life.”

“Correlation does not establish causation.”

“You fear she’ll betray you too, and that you’ll prove incapable of protecting her as you couldn’t protect yourself or Chloe. All of this exacerbates the unresolved horror of the war and—”

“Boss, I’m tired of thinking all day and all night. I have too much money and too much peace. Street gangs kill over trivialities like turf and colors. Why is Ina’s husband so civilized? Revenge on the Evil Ones should have no bounds.”

“I’m so sorry, Jimmy. When voices tell someone to kill a person, many people commit suicide to silence them.”

“I hear a radio broadcasting this: ‘If Jimmy’s good enough for Ina, she’s bad or crazy.’”

“Is that why you and she were apart for so long?”

“Maybe. Oops. Weasel word. Yep.”

“Open your heart to the possibility Ina’s not your birth parents. She’s a beautiful person, stuck in the same hell you are. Does she know about your past?”

“What past?”

“Jimmy. Your ordeal in the war.”

“Once I’m sure we’ll make it, I’ll spill every last bean if I can find them.”

“Meanwhile, have compassion for her. Grieve together for everything you never had and still believe you never will. Nothing is as difficult to process as the loss of a child.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Chloe.”

“Who’s that?”

Demi paused. “What are your thoughts about God?”

I laughed. “I think of her and her arbitrary, heartless, capricious colleagues in the same measure they think of me. Am I crazy?”

“We don’t use that word in psychiatry. If you were really a psychiatrist, you’d know that.”

I ignored her attempt to deny my status. “Maybe we’re all crazy as fuck, boss, but your kind of crazy is more socially accepted than mine.”

“Oh, Jimmy.” Demi sighed. “Please promise me you’ll hold on.”

“Don’t be so mawkish,” I reproached her. “How long?”

“Another week.”

“Fantastic.”

She sighed in relief. “Good. You of all people keep your promises.”

“Etch that on my tombstone if I get one, or draw it in sand. In closing, the facile phrase ‘everything will be alright’ is the biggest lie I’ve heard or told. Are we done? I need to buy a gun.”

Something seemed to break in my direct supervisor. “I think we should talk about admitting you,” she said. “Voluntarily, if possible. Otherwise—”

“Not so fast, boss. First Dr. Panther needs to finish treating his current patient load.”

“What patient load, Mr. Panther?”

“It’s Dr. Panther. Ah, Demi. Why are you crying?”

Tommy Cheis is a Chiricahua Apache writer, guide, and Cochise descendant. After traveling extensively through distant lands and meeting interesting people, he now resides in the Sonoran Desert with his horses. His short stories (will) appear in Yellow Medicine Review, Rome Review, Carpe Noctem, Ploughshares, Literary Times, ZiN Daily, Spirits, Red Paint Review, Pictura Journal, Little Fish, Blue Guitar, Florida Review, Exploding Head, Purple Ink, Pine Cone Review, Sufferer’s Digest, Unlikely Stories, Military Experience & the Arts, and other publications. His first novel, RARE EARTH, is in pre-publication; his second, PANTHER & BUTTERFLY, is under submission.

By David Lightfoot

Rusty Rainsford, lead officer in narcotics with the Edmonton Police Service, gathered his team of officers at his house one Saturday in April. Earlier that week, the team had arrested a group of drug-pushing brothers, seizing more than a thousand pounds of marijuana and cocaine each, plus more than $9,000 in drug money. Now, they were preparing another takedown, one that saw them making anti-drug signs, slogans such as “Keep pot illegal” and “You can’t turn illegal drugs into medicine.”

“Nice work,” Rusty said to Detective Tom Whittaker when he showed him the latter sign, encouraging his team to keep working as he spoke. “In three hours, we’re going to descend on the University of Alberta’s lecture hall theatre, and let those advocates know exactly what we think of their attempt to legalize marijuana, the same marijuana we confiscated from the Jakeman boys. No doubt, they’re going to bring up the whole ‘medical’ thing. They need to understand that medical reasons are not and never will be good enough to make it legal. Next thing you know, the dealers will make numerous attempts to target young kids and teenagers and help them gain access. They will use the medical angle to convince the public that marijuana is a good thing, even if they don’t have anything that supposedly requires it.” He looked concerned at his two children in the adjoining living room, ten-year-old Maisie and seven-year-old Aaron. He’d been even more protective of them since his wife, Annie, died almost two years ago.

He heard the telephone ring faintly in the kitchen. As he kept talking, Maisie rose and went to answer it. Moments later, he overheard her say, “Oh, hi, Auntie Brenda.”

Rusty looked up momentarily, distracted by hearing his sister’s name. Brenda Fowles, now there was a preachy bitch if he ever knew one.

He returned to his team. “Uh, we need to head to that event and, uh… protest like hell. We are going to inform them why marijuana should be kept illegal, and the serious consequences of legalizing this for sales and distribution.”

Suddenly, Maisie poked her head in the doorway, the kitchen door open partway. “Daddy,” she said, “Auntie Brenda wants to talk to you.”

Rusty groaned on his way to the phone, thinking not only of Brenda’s advocacy work, but also their ailing oldest sister, Rita, who had multiple sclerosis. Instead of “Hello,” he said, “Brenda, what is it now?”

“Rusty, do you think you and your kids can come out here to Manitoba?” Brenda asked. He sensed sorrow and pleading in her voice, not reprimand. “Casey and I just brought Rita back from the hospital. Her condition has taken a turn for the worst, and the pills she was given have made her sick.”

“Did they say how long she has left to live?” Rusty asked.

“They said she might be dead before September,” Brenda answered. “I think I told you that. Now I need your help caring for her. This is going to be more work than I anticipated, and I can’t afford to quit my job totally.”

“Have you called Rita’s girls? School should be already over for Leigha; doesn’t she graduate soon? What about Abbie? Can’t she help you?” But he knew Leigha was in Toronto, Abilene lived in Vancouver, and Casey only came home on weekends.

He heard Brenda sigh deeply. “Leigha has to look for summer work soon. She’s said she wants to start her career, although she did assure me that she’s thinking about her mother. Thankfully, she’s sending some money from each of her paycheques. Abilene’s work is very demanding; she’s said she can’t get any time off. I’m afraid you’re the only one I can turn to. Tell your police chief you’re taking several months leave of absence, and make arrangements with Maisie and Aaron’s school.” 

Rusty sighed just as deep, inwardly praying that Brenda wouldn’t lecture him about medical marijuana. “Fine, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try to come out in two weeks.”

He hung up and stood there in the kitchen, feeling stunned. He wasn’t thinking about pro-drug protests anymore, or his latest bust, or the impending court trial, but the fact that Rita was dying… and that medical marijuana could’ve helped her? He shook his head, no, it couldn’t be possible. “That medical crap is just a lie made up by the media to ease its bad reputation, Brenda, and you bloody well know it,” he said to himself.

Suddenly, another member of his team, Constable Peter Guest, stepped into the kitchen. “Boss!” he called, and Rusty jumped. “We still have things to do here. We leave in two-and-a-half hours.”

Rusty smacked his head a bit, now forcing himself to focus on the day’s event. “Go look for the speech I’ve written, and my flashdrive,” he said. “Maybe we can do some last-minute revisions on the computer.”

*****

Almost two weeks later, Rusty, Maisie and Aaron flew to Winnipeg. When they arrived, Rusty scanned the small crowd and saw a familiar hand waving. A young man, his nephew Casey Mulvaney, called out his name.

He got off the escalator feeling thankful, each of them hugging Casey hello. “So glad it’s you picking me up, Casey, and not your Aunt Brenda,” Rusty said.

“Even if I did come here straight from my work?” Casey said.

“I just can’t bear listening to any of her bitching about ‘her important cause’ the whole way home,” Rusty admitted.

“I think she’s saving that for dinner tonight,” Casey joked. “So, Aunt Brenda told me you and your team staged a protest a couple of weeks ago. Tell me all about it.”

“You mean the event itself, or what I wrote in my speech?” Rusty told him everything he remembered. “Well, the Edmonton Police Service was there, along with some staff from the local DARE Canada. They were facing off against this really arrogant… well, I can’t use those certain terms in front of your cousins.”

Casey laughed a bit and said, “Really, Uncle Rusty, I don’t think ‘doctor’ or ‘medical expert’ is a curse word.”

“Right,” Rusty said. “Well, these doctors’ fancy white robes did little to impress us. Anyway, the lead debater was going on and on about how marijuana can cure stuff like hepatitis, multiple sclerosis, various cancers, whatever. And yet, they only had testimonials from several patients who claimed marijuana use made them cancer-free. Their charts and diagrams made it look like shoddy research and liberal junk science. Even the kids had trouble understanding the terms they used. It was all a show to make them look smart.”

As he was retrieving their bags, Maisie told her cousin, “I had to raise my hand, and I asked them, ‘If you want us to believe this, why not make it look like a science fair project?’”

“You mean like visual aids?” Casey asked.

“Yeah, I think it would take more than just a bunch of drawings,” Maisie said. “Show us some real lungs that got cleared up because of medical marijuana use, or the effects of the medicine killing a group of cancer cells.”

Rusty’s head perked when he heard the word cancer, and he hurried to get his children’s bags. When he collected them all, he said, “Exactly, Maisie. Think about it, Casey: if medical marijuana did such a good job curing cancer, then why are so many people still raising money for research? Why can’t Brenda understand that, if anything, it only controls the symptoms all the while altering brain functioning, and causing psychotic and manic behaviours, blackouts and addictions?”

“It does help Mom reduce and ease her pain,” Casey told them. “But yeah, I do think they have some work to do to make it a ‘cure’ tactic. It’s just too bad Mom won’t be around to see it. That’s why Aunt Brenda keeps fighting for her.”

They didn’t talk about it anymore on the way out of Winnipeg, Casey driving to Portage la Prairie. Instead, he talked about his advertising arts courses at the University of Manitoba, the pitch-writing assignments he’d gotten high marks on. Rusty wasn’t paying attention; he was thinking about Rita instead. He interrupted by saying, “You know, Casey, before we left Edmonton, I talked with my own doctor about your mother. He gave me a list of alternate treatments. He recommended Zanaflex to help with her leg and arm spasms, and if that didn’t work, then Ativan or Xanax would also help. I don’t know what might help with walking speed, but there are medications that will help with bowel issues. Now, I’m saving this for your Aunt Brenda, but Dr. Stafford told me these were completely safe, won’t mess with her system, and non-addictive.”

“I just hope you have a good speech prepared,” Casey said. “You know how passionate Aunt Brenda is about her advocacy work.”

Almost an hour later, Casey arrived at his mother’s home. When he stepped inside, he called, “Mom! Aunt Brenda! I’ve got Uncle Rusty and the cousins with me.”

No answer, but they heard the television on in the den. They walked towards it to the back of Rita’s head, her fixated on the screen, a lover’s quarrel scene in Days of Our Lives. Casey called for his mother again, but Rusty whispered to him, “Let me handle this.”

He approached his sister and opened his arms for a hug. “Rita!” he called, and she jolted with a thrust of neck pain. “Sorry about that, but it’s your baby brother, Rusty.”

“Rusty,” she said with a half-smile, then gave him a light whack with her cane. “You know better than to interrupt me during my shows. This could’ve waited until commercial.”

He offered to help her up but she declined. She slowly got up to hug him hello, but Rusty knew his hug had to be light.

A strong aroma emerged from the kitchen, an aroma that was suspiciously familiar to Rusty. But the first thing Aaron said was, “It smells funny.”

“Oh, that’s just your Aunt Brenda baking some brownies for me,” Rita said. “She just doubled the amount of that medical marijuana in the batter. Doctor’s orders.”

They heard Brenda emerge to give the children a warning instead of a hello. “That means these particular brownies are not for you or Maisie, is that understood?”

Rusty gave them a look telling them not to respond. He gave Brenda a disapproving look, the same disapproval she got from their other siblings over her advocating for medical marijuana. But he could tell she wasn’t really in the mood to discuss it. Save it for after dinner, he decided. He joined her in the kitchen and said, “I did a lot since you called me out here. I called Kathy and Doug and Stan and updated them on Rita’s condition. I asked if they could come out and help us, but they all refused. They said they were tied up and too busy.”

“‘Tied up’ and ‘too busy’ are parental code talk for ‘I refuse,’” Brenda said bluntly. “As long as I’m fighting to legalize pot for wellness, they won’t talk to me, and their kids aren’t even allowed to say my name.”

Rusty presented her with his doctor’s list. “I also talked to my own doctor about this, and he gave me this list of medications that’s supposed to help Rita. You can consider this instead of something illegal. You really ought to get her a prescription.”

Brenda read over the list and started laughing. “This is supposed to help Rita recover? All these pills will do is control the symptoms. This is all bullshit, and you know it.”

“Language, Brenda!” Rusty looked back to see his children watching television with Rita, looking bored. He wondered if they were listening. He glared icily at his sister, but she spoke again before he could.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “How do I know that any of these prescriptions won’t harm Rita or make her sick? I think it was the Ativan that made her vomit. You think I’m going to chance it with the others?”

“Well, you know what’s going to happen if they do legalize it for medical reasons?” Rusty asked. “The drug dealers and recreational hemp growers are going to be falling all over themselves and demanding that it also be legal for recreational use. After all, what’s good for the goose, right? This is going to lead to drug abuse and cases of driving while high, and God knows what else. You think I’m going to let this happen as a narcotics officer?”

“Keep talking,” Brenda said, daring him to do so.

He repeated his claim about drug dealers using the medical angle to target children and teenagers. “They’ll tell them it’ll help prevent hepatitis and cancer and whatever else. They’ll come up with anything.”

Brenda laughed again and said, “That’s not bullshit, that’s horse shit.”

“Language!” Rusty repeated. “May I remind you that I have young children in the next room?”

She gave him a scowl, but he remained firm. “Brenda, I don’t think you understand the risks and consequences of this,” he said. “Think about what this may do to Rita’s memory and concentration. She may have trouble remembering things and focusing on tasks. If she was cooking something while high, she could very well burn the house down.”

Brenda thought about this, recalling anything. “The most I’ve seen her do was talk to the television,” she said, “especially when she watches her soaps, telling the characters to do this or that, and yelling if she thinks they’re getting into danger. I’ve had to point out to her that it’s not real. She usually gets her dosage during or after lunch, so that she’s not cooking or using the stove while high.”

“Okay, so what if I told you that it’s not any different from cigarettes?” Rusty asked. “You’ve always claimed it’s moderate, but even moderate smoking can cause lung damage. What’ll happen if Rita has a stroke because of this? Is that what you want?”

“Oh, stop it, Rusty.”

“I’m serious, Brenda. Dr. Stafford told me this back in Edmonton, plus he stressed that it could also lead to heart and blood vessel disease.”

Brenda made a tsk sound. “Rita mostly smokes it in Dr. Harwich’s office, and he makes the joints for her. Here, she’ll only smoke if I ask if she wants a marijuana cigarette… and she likes to be outside when the weather’s nice, on the patio. Inside, she’s afraid of burning the carpets and furniture.” She had another thought as if she could read his mind. “And before you say anything, I’ll have you know that she already doesn’t drive anymore with her condition. You think I’d be stupid enough to let her drive while she’s – ahem – overcoming her pain?”

She excused herself and opened the oven. “These brownies should be about done.” She took her batch out, attracted to the mixture of fudge and marijuana medicine. In a large pan, she divided it into a dozen medium-sized squares and put two on a plate, then went into the den to serve Rita. With Maisie and Aaron on either side of her, Brenda warned the children again, “This snack is exclusively for Auntie Rita. It contains a drug that she needs.”

“I don’t think I want those brownies,” Aaron commented. “They smell terrible.”

“Thank you, Brenda,” Rita said. “Mmm, smells like you put the right amount into each one.”

Meanwhile, Rusty leaned in to smell the brownies still in the pan. He backed away; the marijuana was too strong for him. Just as he was about to throw them all away, Brenda got out a Tupperware container, put them inside, then went to the garage for some masking tape. She taped the lid and labelled it: RITA’S BROWNIES.

Rusty sighed in defeat. He realized that no police jargon would help her see his point. But he did have a thought he wanted to share tomorrow.

*****

Rusty awoke late the next morning, wondering if he should wake Rita. Something told him to ask Brenda how late she could sleep in. He went to her bedroom and opened the door slowly. There she was, sleeping on her back, likely at the doctor’s advice. He went to the kitchen to find Brenda and Casey cooking breakfast.

“Morning, Brenda,” he said. “Um, I’d like to try and get Rita up if you don’t mind.”

Brenda looked at him with a thoughtful smile, thinking maybe this would help him see her point. “Sure thing, Rusty,” she said. “Her joints tend to stiffen overnight, so get her up slowly, and be gentle getting her out of bed.”

He went back to her bedroom, knocked loudly, then went inside to put one hand under Rita’s back, the other on her right shoulder. He rose her up slowly as Brenda instructed, thinking, “She’s fifty-two years old, how is this possible?” He asked her, “This isn’t hurting, is it?”

“It is, but I don’t think we should have Brenda sailing in here,” Rita said. “Lord, but I need a back brace. I could really use some of those brownies she made.”

He presented her cane before putting her legs over the bed, then took both her hands. She walked with her upper body at a forty-five-degree angle, taking tiny steps to keep comfortable.

“Right, walking normally will hurt her legs until she gets her medicine,” he thought. He sprinted out ahead of her, thinking she’d take ten minutes to get to the kitchen.

In the den, Maisie and Aaron were watching cartoons when they turned to see Rita. They moved off the loveseat to give it to her, Aaron sitting on the floor while Maisie headed for the kitchen.

“Auntie Rita, do you want a couple of your brownies?” she asked.

“No, get her a bowl of cereal, and see if you can put that stuff in the milk!” her brother called.

Rusty rolled his eyes and groaned, “Great, now my children are being influenced.”

Rita turned, writhing from the pain in her neck. “I beg your pardon, Rusty?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, but glared towards the kitchen, certain Brenda was at work. Then he called, “Casey, maybe you or Aunt Brenda should put that medical marijuana in your mother’s breakfast cereal if she really needs it.” He looked at Maisie and Aaron with concern and wonder.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Maisie said as she sat next to her brother. “Cousin Casey already gave us breakfast.”

He met Casey at the doorway, eyeing green flaky substance on the Shredded Wheat and in the milk. “Uh, Casey,” he said, “maybe you should take your cousins to the library for a couple of hours after lunch, while your Aunt Brenda and I have a talk.”

Brenda sealed the lid on a jar of marijuana flakes, looking peeved at Rusty. “I think maybe we should!” she declared.

After they did the lunch dishes, Casey gathered up Maisie and Aaron and left the house. Rita got up slowly and said, “Perhaps I’ll change into my swimsuit and go out into the hot tub for an hour. Time for my joint relaxation therapy.”

“No, Rita, stay,” Brenda insisted. “I want you to hear this.”

Rita silently sat back down, suspecting what they were going to talk about. She gave Rusty a knowing look that said, “You better learn something from this.”

But Rusty insisted on speaking first. “You do know why Doug, Stan, and Kathy quit talking to you.”

Brenda gave a half-moan and lamented, “Oh, please, Rusty. I don’t put my medical marijuana advocacy work before my family.” She swept her hand in Rita’s direction. “Look at what this woman is going through. She’s the reason why I’m fighting to legalize this. I know you’re all a bunch of serious parents trying to look out for your children, and you need to eradicate illegal synthetic drugs for their benefit.”

“I seem to remember you and Kathy were fighting about your work as usual,” Rusty pointed out.

“That was four years ago,” Brenda said. “She stopped talking to me because I called her a bitch in front of her two teenage daughters. But let me tell you, she was.”

“I know what you told her; Kathy called me complaining. And what happened to David? That fellow narcotics officer I was glad to call my brother? What happened to your boys? There isn’t a judge in the world who’ll give custody to a mother who advocates for illegal drugs when society is fighting this.”

“I still believe that medical marijuana can cure the things it was intended to. Think about it: if Annie had cancer, it would’ve helped her if it weren’t for you interfering!” Brenda pounded on the table and stood up quickly. “Dammit, Rusty, why do you have to be so dismissive?!”

Rusty thought about what he’d heard about the benefits of medical marijuana, the developments he saw on the news, the new ailments it cured. He remembered all the letters he and his team wrote to the government, pressuring them to reject these findings. All the pro-drug protests they organized, and anti-drug lectures he spoke at. All the pharmacists and doctors they busted for prescribing and selling hemp-filled pills to customers. If Brenda was bringing all this up, he wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly, he heard a louder pounding and Brenda yelling, “Rusty, goddammit, are you listeningto me?!”

Rita took her hand to calm her down. “No need to blow a gasket,” she said.

Brenda took a deep breath and continued, “Rita’s been battling MS for ten years now. I’ve been researching the benefits of medical marijuana this whole time, and even sent you all copies of articles and studies. And what did you do? Dismiss it all as rebellious nonsense, that’s what!”

Rita held her sister’s hand tighter so she wouldn’t cry. Brenda took more deep breaths so she could speak again. “I’ve been the one taking care of Rita since Edmund died. Me! Because I didn’t want their kids to be burdened!” She almost started to cry, so she quickly left the table. “Never mind, I’ve got to go to work. Maybe it’ll help me forget we ever had this talk!”

She slammed the door so loud, both Rusty and Rita jumped. Rita finished Brenda’s story. “And she told me I shouldn’t marry again just so my husband can be my caretaker. We’ll just skip that part about moving her family in with me. I like to think that David and the boys moved out because this house was too small for a family so large.”

“Right,” Rusty said quietly. “Um, when do you have your doctor’s appointments?”

“Brenda takes me to Dr. Harwich every Tuesday afternoon,” Rita said. “Now that you’re here, you’ll be able to take me. Just ask Brenda for the address and driving directions. I’m sure the kids won’t mind. But I trust you will listen to whatever he has to tell you.”

He didn’t speak anymore about it, but got Rita up from the table. “Come on, Rita,” he said. “I’ll go start up the hot tub for your therapy.”

“You can join me if you like,” she offered. “There should be some old swimsuits of Edmund’s that will fit you.”

*****

He had a new routine to get used to – homeschooling his children along with caring for Rita. He had the curriculum for Maisie and Aaron for the next eight weeks, thankful this would be temporary. Fortunately, Maisie always woke early, ready to learn. Rusty was also thankful Brenda started carpooling, leaving her car for him every Tuesday. That first Tuesday, Rusty managed to drive with full concentration; Rita’s clinic was on Saskatchewan Avenue, almost on the outskirts of Portage la Prairie.

“Wouldn’t it be better if the clinic was closer to the hospital?” Maisie wondered.

“I think they moved to make room for seniors’ condos,” Rusty suggested.

In the waiting room, Rita watched over Maisie and Aaron while Rusty checked her in. They waited just a few moments before Dr. Harwich greeted her. Rusty looked the doctor over. His hair was almost all grey, so he guessed he was approaching sixty-five. Probably has been working on people with MS and other such conditions for twenty-five years. Rita never said how long he’d been practicing, only that she’d had him for the past ten years. Before Rusty could respond, though, she took his hand and said, “Dr. Harwich is very versed on ailment cures. I think you can trust him.”

Rusty and the children looked around the office. Jars of green substance and cannabis oil on the counter with other medical supplies, so this was another advocate. He watched as Dr. Harwich filled four syringe needles with oil, jabbing one into each of Rita’s arms and legs.

“That’s supposed to keep her joints from stiffening and flaring up?” Rusty asked. “What does it do, just flow into her body?”

“Her bloodstream, actually,” Dr. Harwich said as he made a marijuana cigarette, helping Rita smoke it. When he finished, he wrote down two long words on a white board: cannabidiol and tetrahydrocannabinol. “These ingredients are found in medical marijuana, both of which enhance positive effects of the body’s endocannabinoids.”

Rusty folded his arms and tried to look impressed. “Brenda usually has it baked in treats, and it wears off after awhile.”

“That’s why patients like Rita have to have regular doses of this.” Dr. Harwich eyed Rusty as if he knew something about him. “Just so you know, Officer Rainsford, both Rita and Brenda have told me about your campaigns to keep this illegal. You really ought to know that prescription pills such as Tylenol and Bayer tend to be less effective, as they only keep the symptoms in control for up to twelve hours, and it is possible to become dependent on them. Painkiller dependency tends to kill more people than marijuana dependency.”

“And how will marijuana help, exactly?” Rusty didn’t want to sound angry, he just wanted evidence he could accept. But Dr. Harwich kept his patience as he answered.

“There’s been evidence published that it helps lessen symptoms of neuropathic and chronic pain, pain like Rita has. It can also be helpful in conditions like arthritis, muscle spasms, muscular dystrophy, Parkinson’s, spinal injuries, and even those affecting organ and sexual functions, and many more.” Dr. Harwich handed him a brochure with a list of conditions that might benefit from medical marijuana.

“Brenda said that you’re helping her care for Rita,” Dr Harwich told him. “While you’re here, I want you to look up and research the benefits of medical marijuana on each condition, and do it without dismissal. You can do this in between homeschooling your kids and caring for Rita.”

“I think what Daddy’s looking for are laws and rules that will keep criminals away,” Maisie said to the doctor. She repeated everything Rusty had ever told her and Aaron about drug dealers using medical benefits as an angle, and Dr. Harwich started laughing.

He turned to Rusty and smiled confidently. “I’m sure that once the evidence starts coming to light,” he said, “the scientists and medical teams will work with law enforcement to make sure drug addiction isn’t a problem. If we stress that moderation is key, it will help reduce the risks. But do check out all the books about this, talk to some pharmacists when you pick up Rita’s prescriptions, and educate yourself. You and all those drug enforcement people just might be surprised at how wrong you’ve been.”

Maisie and Aaron took Rita’s hands and helped her off the examination table before skipping out of the office. Rusty noticed she was walking faster and freer, but he still walked her to the car, silent as he drove home.

*****

“So, are you learning something from those books, Rusty?”

It was three weeks later, a Wednesday night. Brenda was reading over him, a book entitled Marijuana: The Forbidden Medicine. She saw a small stack beside him on the loveseat, Therapeutic Uses of Cannabis on top.

She looked at his expression, a mixture of curiosity mixed with regret… or was it scepticism? “So many large-ass terms here,” he said. “It makes me wish I never dozed off in science.”

“Nah, I can’t see you curing cancer,” Brenda replied.

She put the books on the floor and sat next to her brother. Rusty started, “Look, Brenda–”

“Before you apologize,” she said, “I just want you to know that, yes, I do admire you getting dangerous drugs off the street. We all have kids to protect, don’t we? But there’s going to be a time when we’ll need marijuana to help cure us. The doctors are doing a good job showing you, don’t you think?”

Rusty tried to get his thoughts in order, but Brenda kept speaking, her voice sounding concerned for his children. “What if Maisie or Aaron was diagnosed with leukemia? You don’t think cancer can happen to children? What if the doctor recommends you giving this stuff to them? I think I’d laugh at any doctor who’d recommend Children’s Tylenol.”

Rusty laughed. “Brenda, I think they’d have to be nuts to give marijuana to children,” he replied. “You mean there’s no line you would draw?”

“I think the point is,” she said, “you should stop with all these attacks on medical marijuana and really see what benefits it can have, and what great work it can do when it’s applied. Didn’t you see how quickly Rita walked around all evening after three pot-laced cookies?”

“You still had to help her get changed for bed.”

She decided to ignore it. “I’m giving a presentation on current developments of medical marijuana next week Saturday. Wait until you hear the speech I’ve prepared. But you need to promise that you and the kids will start lending me support.”

“I’ll clear my calendar,” he said. “Your speech had better be good.”

The phone rang, and Brenda got up to answer it. “Of course, Officer Rainsford is here,” she said, and handed it to Rusty.

He heard the police chief on the other end. “Rusty, we need you back here, my man. When are you and the kiddos coming home?”

“I think Brenda’s going to need me around until… the inevitable happens,” he replied, thinking how close Rita’s death would be and updated him regarding her condition. “I’ll wait to see if and when the funeral happens, then get tickets home after that.” He paused for about a minute as he thought about Brenda, her cause, the things she said. “But when I do come home, we’re going to have a little chat about how the Edmonton Police and the vice squad can lend support to this whole ‘medical marijuana’ thing. I think the medical and science people may be right.”

David Lightfoot identifies as a writer with a disability (Cerebral Palsy,) and chose a writing career while still in middle school. He studied creative writing through correspondence from writing institutions in both Canada and the United States. In addition to self-publishing a novel on disability human rights, “Broken Family Portrait,” he has also been published in Agape Review, Men Matters Online Journal, October Hill Magazine, Books & Pieces and elsewhere, along with fiction in the 2022 Stella Samuel Annual Anthology. An advocate for educational literacy, David lives in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada.

By Tuhina Raman 

The first thing he recalled on that fateful day that changed his life is the blinding white. The walls, the lights, the ventilator even the doctor’s coats. The memories came thick and fast. His parent’s face looming over the bed, the hands of the staff that wiped him down and changed his gown, the hum of the ventilator circuits, the poking and prodding of catheters and tubes, the alarms of the monitors and the doors of ICU bed 15 opening and closing with the myriad of staff walking in and out at all hours of the day and night. He remembered the inability to speak on the ventilator, the coughing, the endless fatigue and bleary sleep. He also remembered leaving the hospital eventually with his family in tow and a big box of gift-wrapped cookies and a bunch of cards. He was told that an innocuous viral infection had sparked a rip-roaring pneumonia and landed him in the hospital. Go figure. He had missed a full month of school. He had missed his birthday. He had missed the football camp qualifier – that’s what hurt the most.

“There went that career,” he thought wryly. “Look at where I find myself these days” he says to nobody in particular. It’s the middle of the day and quiet. Visiting hours are over. He can take his time. He pauses meditatively as he always does outside ICU room 15 collecting his thoughts. He enters to hook the IV bag on the metal stand. Methodically he cleans the catheter at the patients neck with an alcohol wipe and connects the IV bag. He squeezes it and watches it drip for a few seconds. Good flow. The boy is sedated and doesn’t budge. He looks comfortable and his vital signs are stable. He smiles down at him and involuntarily brushes the hair off his forehead. Sighing, he turns towards the computer in the corner of the room. He types quickly.  The screen flickers on bright and white “Welcome Nurse Donovan”.

Tuhina Raman, M.D., is a pulmonary critical care physician in Delaware. She has her fiction published previously in Hektoen international, Intima and other online publications. She lives in Media Pennsylvania with her two children and a loving chocolate Labrador puppy. She enjoys traveling and reading in her spare time .