Oleander Dreams

"What meds? I didn't..." But I did. I took the meds the government gave me as directed. What were they?

The woman gives me an understanding nod and wipes my face with a damp cloth. "You had quite a cocktail in your system, judging by what we found in your apartment," she says.

"What?"

She tsks and shakes her head. "You had a reaction to something you took. When you're feeling better, you'll need to tell us where you got unauthorized meds. There's also the matter of illegal foodstuffs, but that can wait."

"No! I didn't! I got food from the same commissary I always go to, but they gave me the wrong things, and I didn't eat any of it! My meds were in daily packs like always!"

But I had. I'd eaten the strawberries. Had they been tampered with? Poisoned?

Sighing, she wipes my face again, catching tears I didn't know I'd shed. "We'll discuss it later," the woman says sternly. She pulls a syringe from her pocket and taps it, then injects the contents into a port on an IV line leading into the back of my hand.

"No! Wait, please!" I burst into noisy sobs as warmth fills my veins. My eyes close, despite my struggle to keep them open.

"Later, N. Reynolds. You need your rest."

I fall into drugged sleep, but my rest isn't easy. I see Frère Michel, his wrinkled, knobby hands clutching his banjo. He shakes his head sadly, but doesn't say anything. Tyler St. Francis touches my cheek and tells me I used to be pretty.

D. Webster tells me my subversive activities have cost me the one thing that kept me from sinking into unrelieved malaise and boredom -- my job.

I try to protest, but I can't get the words out. My voice is silenced, my limbs deadened. I let out a silent scream of denial. What have I done to deserve this? Warmth fills my veins yet again, and all thought leaves me, save one burning need.

I have to escape.

Chapter 6

"N. Reynolds, I'm afraid the meds you've been taking have done you no favors."

The doctor wears a white coat, as all such professionals do. He is middle-aged, with a slight paunch. His balding pate gleams in the afternoon sun through frosted glass.

He wears spectacles, old fashioned and ill-fitting.

The restraints on my wrists keep me silent and motionless. I've already explained that I took only what was given to me in my food rations.

Giving me an irritable look, he asks, "Have you nothing to say?"

"I've already said it," I reply softly. "I've written it down, including what I was given by C. Carmichael at the commissary. I can repeat it, if you like, but I have no other information to give you."

Wiping his head with a white cloth, he glares at me. "Natalie, may I call you Natalie? You must understand—"

"No, you may not. You may call me N. Reynolds." I cross my legs under my hospital issued robe, the very picture of calm and ease. "I do understand completely. You believe I've gotten unsanctioned meds and wish to know from whom."

He grins at me, the smile oily and unctuous. I want to slap him for it. "Yes, that's exactly what we want to know!"

"I do agree with you on that. Someone has given me something that wasn't good for me, and that I wouldn't have taken of my own free will." I lean forward, holding his gaze. "I'd like to know what was in them."

We've had this conversation many times, he and I. As usual, he sits back in his chair and pushes a button on his phone to call in the orderlies. "I'm not at liberty to discuss that information, N. Reynolds."

"Then this conversation is over." He stares at me. I don't meet his eyes because it isn't necessary. I'm done talking.

"One more thing, N. Reynolds. I need one answer, and then I will allow you to see your partner." The doctor takes his glasses off, polishing them on the hem of his coat. "What did you see the day you came to this facility?"

I hide my start of surprise. I don't have a partner. He should know that, but maybe he doesn't. In either case, I don't want to tip my hand. I look down into my lap and play with the folds of my robe, the very picture of a woman on the verge of nervous collapse.

He doesn't need to know that my thoughts are as clear as they were when I was twenty-one and my beloved New Orleans went under the wrecking ball in the name of progress. He doesn't need to know that I question every moment of my existence since that horrifying day when the historic riverfront fell.

In the interest of detox, he's given me back myself. But this is a new question. He hasn't asked this before. I'm feeling generous, so I give him a small truth.

"I saw a man playing a banjo on the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip," I say.

He smiles as if I've given him a nugget of gold. I don't like it when he does that, and I think he knows it. "Very good. What was his name?"

"I didn't ask," I reply, which is another truth.

The orderlies escort me back to my room. They are faceless entities, wearing green scrubs that clash with the soothing blue of the walls.

I have one barred window, a bed bolted to the floor, and a single table with one chair, both also secured against movement. There are no curtains to block the sun. I suppose they think I'll hang myself with them. I have a tiny bathroom that isn't monitored, but if I spend more than three minutes, someone comes to check on me.

A camera winks at me from the corner over the door.

They're probably watching me so closely because of the detox. I don't remember much of it, thank goodness. What I do remember is ghastly. I can't even say how long it took, but I've been lucid for three days.

The doctor posed a very good question. Why was I given those tainted meds? I'm pretty sure I know who it was, though I'm in no hurry to share that information until I find out why.

It had to have been L. Martinus. He admitted to having access to my food, and knew a great deal more about me than he ought to have. Yet he told me not to take them. Why would he give me bad meds if he didn't intend for me to use them?

After a tasteless lunch of mushy rice and vegetables, I'm introduced to my partner.

D. Webster, my boss, walks in, his hands crammed into the pockets of his pants. He's wearing a worn jacket with the collar turned up as if he's trying to hide under the fabric. His eyes dart nervously. Maybe he's expecting me to attack him, or some other nonsense.

I hide my surprise at his presence and don't react. One can learn a great deal by behaving rationally. I want to strike a balance between calm and a hint of vacancy in the hopes they won't start dosing me again. It'll be a cold day in hell before I willingly take another pill.

"Hi Danny," I say, using his first name. As his partner, I wouldn't call him D. Webster. The name is strange on my tongue. It tastes bad.

"Natalie," he says, sitting on the edge of the table. "I missed you."

"Me too," I reply. "I'm feeling much better now. I have no idea what happened to me."

"They say you got bad meds from somewhere." He takes my hand, squeezing it tightly enough to hurt. "I hope you've learned your lesson, darling. We can have a happy life together as long as you behave yourself and stop taking those illicit drugs."

"Of course," I murmur. D. Webster looks nervous. His palm is damp in mine, and he doesn't meet my eyes. He's trying to lie to me, but I don't understand the purpose of his behavior.

He stands up and drops my hand. Leaning over, he kisses me. It's all I can do to accept it. It's wrong, sickening wrong. I try not to stiffen, and soon he moves away.

"The doctors say I can take you home in a few days," he says. "I have our apartment all ready, and we can get started on that offspring we applied for."

"When they say I'm better," I counter. My instincts are screaming at me. Too much doesn't make sense. D. Webster has never shown interest in me before.

L. Martinus admitted that he'd filled out the form, hadn't he? I think back on our conversation. It's muddled and I only remember bits and pieces, but I don't think he did. He misdirected me when I asked. I even commented on it.

There's something very wrong here. I need time to make sense of my broken and jumbled thoughts, and I can't do it with doctors and D. Webster hovering over me.

I cover my mouth to hide a yawn. "I'm sorry," I murmur. "I sleep a lot. The doctors say it helps my body purge the meds."

He kisses my cheek and takes a step back, giving me a toothy smile that I don't trust. "I'll let you rest, sweetie. The docs say I can come back tomorrow if you're feeling up to another visit."

"Okay, thank you for coming to see me." I can't think of anything else to say, but he seems satisfied with my answer. He knocks on the door and an orderly lets him out.

I lie down, knowing our conversation had been recorded. I can't pretend tiredness without at least attempting to make it look real. Closing my eyes, I try to parse out what I know compared to what escapes me.

D. Webster says he's my partner, even though we've never shared a single conversation of a personal nature.

Someone gave me drugs that made me sick, and produced some form of psychosis. I don't know who, but it makes me wonder if I still suffer from their effects. Am I hallucinating now? I don't know what's real and what isn't. Not with any certainty anyway.

I don't need to know what was in the drugs. It's less important than finding out who gave them to me.

Another man I don't know but feel like I should, gives me things that don't exist, and one of the best sexual experiences of my life. He warns me against the drugs, and may or may not have tainted my meds. And also who may or may not have filed an application for offspring in my name.

My head aches and I punch my pillow, trying to find a more comfortable position. Too many questions without answers whirl in my head, chasing each other like dervishes.

Chapter 7

"Cher, what you need is a good, strong gris-gris." Agile fingers working a penknife over a small chunk of cypress, Frère Michel grins at me, showing the few teeth he has left. "You give me that ole bourbon you got, and I'll make you one."

I smile and sip my bourbon and branch water, then tip the glass in his direction. "You know you can't have it. The doctors say your liver is on its last legs as it is."

We're sitting close to the bridge leading from Dumaine into Louis Armstrong Park. It's a gorgeous Saturday afternoon a few weeks after Mardi Gras. The trash from the crowds is cleaned up and everyone is as sober as a judge for Lent. I'm drinking for medicinal purposes. That chemistry midterm was brutal.

He gives me a hurt puppy dog look, even though his eyes twinkle. "You is a hard woman, Natalie Delphine Reynolds, meaner than my Matilde, rest her soul."

I laugh and hand him the glass. He sighs happily and tips his battered fedora, then brings the glass to his lips. I expect him to down it, but he lets the barest trace of bourbon wet his mouth.

Shaking his head, he hands it back and looks down at his whittling. "They say I might get a new liver someday."

I lean over and squeeze his shoulder. "That would be a very fine thing."

Laughing, he says, "Non, not for me. A gift like that need to go to a young person with more years than I got left. Too precious to waste on an old street musician."

He's probably right, but I refuse to say the words. Everyone has to make their own choices in life, and Frère Michel has lived a good one, despite his problems with demon rum. He holds up what he's made.

It's an oleander flower barely the size of my thumbnail, incredibly detailed and so delicate I can see dew on the petals. I imagine I can almost smell the sweet perfume. "That's beautiful," I breathe, entranced by the intricate carving.

"One more thing, then it'll be ready to chase away all your demons, cher." He bores a hole in the stem and threads a thin gold chain through it. I don't ask where he got the chain. He wouldn't tell me. It's likely one of his customers dropped it in his banjo case, or he found it on his daily trek down Bourbon for lost items.

"There we go," he says, holding it up. The charm gleams in the sun, outshining the golden chain carrying it. "Lean forward and I'll do the clasp."

I turn and hold up my hair, letting him put the chain around my neck. I hear a click and the charm hits my sternum, just above the upper curves of my breasts. It's warm from his hands, and comforts me. I think I'll carry a piece of Frère Michel with me forever, long after he's gone.

I spin around and try to hug him, but he's already faded. His sad smile is the last to go, and I hear him whisper, "Lord bless and keep you, Natalie Delphine."

I inhale and my eyes fly open. Trying to control my movements, I stop myself before I reach for my throat. I'm almost afraid to touch, but I need to know.

My old friend is dead. His liver finally gave out and he was interred in Holt Cemetery. His resting place is under an exercise center now. I'm almost glad he didn't live to see what became of his beloved city, but it was a glorious funeral, shutting down the whole of Orleans between Bourbon and City Park. He would have loved it.

I roll away from the camera. Frère Michel had whittled on occasion, but I'd never known him to carve a single thing. It was so real, though. I could almost taste the sweetness of good bourbon on my tongue and smell the slightly musty stench of the canal surrounding Louis Armstrong Park.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lay a hand on my neck. A thin chain is draped between my breasts, the oleander charm hidden between the fleshy mounds.

It's real. It's fucking real. On my neck. Has it always been there? Did the drugs make me forget? I wanted to cry for the loss of such a precious thing. I have to know if it's really real, but I don't know how.

All I know is that I have to pretend like nothing is different. Something is very wrong. I don't know who to trust, and I'm not sure I can trust myself.

I lie still, staring out the window and thinking until an orderly brings my supper. It's more rice and vegetables. I glare at the paper tray and plastic spoon, wondering if I should eat it. In the end, I close my eyes and pretend it's a shrimp po'boy with extra hot sauce and pickled watermelon on the side.

There's a tiny squeak at my foot and I look down, nearly jumping out of my skin when I see a gray mouse looking up at me. He's cute, after a fashion, but no city girl ever suffered a rodent to live.

There's not much I can do about it. I don't want to raise a fuss and bring the orderlies. And it's kind of nice to have a little company. "Yeah, I'm definitely losing it," I mutter to myself as I surreptitiously drop a few grains of rice on the floor.

I brush my hand over my neck, pretending to scratch. My little talisman is still in place, and I finish my meal as the mouse disappears with his bounty.

***

Breakfast is overcooked scrambled eggs and soggy toast. I imagine I'm eating a fluffy omelet filled with lobster and drizzled with Hollandaise sauce, and sourdough toast with fig preserves. My mouse friend comes to visit, but he's weaving and off balance. He stumbles several times as he makes his way to my foot.

His little mouth is open and he pants heavily as a trickle of drool falls from his open jaws. It turns pink and I clutch my charm in horror as he collapses and stiffens. Death takes him none too quickly, and I have to close my eyes against it. I blink back tears and stare down at my breakfast, wondering how long it will be before I die the same way.

My chair faces away from the camera. The mouse is concealed by the drape of my robe and well out of view. Gritting my teeth, I stretch out my toes and push the tiny body under my hem.

I take three more bites of the tasteless eggs, but with every spoonful, I wonder if it will be the one that kills me like that poor little mouse. I'd like to think he died from a pesticide, but I know better.

My napkin falls to the floor. I bend down to pick it up, carefully tucking the mouse into the paper. Instead of leaving it on the tray, I go to the bathroom and pray with everything I have that the mouse is small enough to flush. My prayers are answered and he disappears.

I wash my hands, scrubbing as long as I dare. I still don't feel clean. I return to the table and take one more bite, then yawn widely, turning to face the camera.

It's the best I can think of to explain my unwillingness to finish my breakfast. I need to get out, and the only thing that comes to mind is D. Webster.

Am I any safer with him? I don't know. I'm torn between utter terror at staying here, knowing I'm being systematically poisoned, and the unknown motives of my old boss.

But thinking of him jogs something loose. I never told him about any application for offspring. How did he know? He would have been able to file the vacation request, too. Pieces start falling into place, but I'm no closer to escape.

Chapter 8

"The nurses say you haven't been eating."

I'm back in the doctor's office. He wants one more chance to pick my brain, but I've told him everything I'm going to. I can't raise my suspicions about D. Webster. He wouldn't believe me, for one thing, and I'm not willing to give up my ace.

There's an art to telling a good lie. It's two parts truth, and one part falsehood. You have to mix it well enough that your audience swallows it whole. "I'm not exercising. You're giving me the same rations I had when I was going to the fitness center."

"Ah, that's a good point." He writes something on his ever-present notepad. His agreement comes almost too easily, telling me he's going to start in with the questions he really wants answered.

He wants me to incriminate somebody that he can actually go after. Someone who isn't a government employee. The scapegoat in this little fiasco has to be a person who can disappear easily, and who wouldn't make the populace question its food supply.

I truly don't believe C. Carmichael, the woman from the commissary, is culpable. Like most government employees, she most likely did as she was told and wasn't curious enough to ask questions.

I want to ask him why I'm being poisoned. What is he putting in my food? It's coincidental that the mouse died after eating what I'd given him. I have no evidence. The logical part of my brain tells me that, and reminds me that many chemicals safe for humans are poisonous to animals.

It's too many coincidences, though.

He closes his notebook and rests his flabby chin in the cup of one hand. "We believe your system is cleared of the drugs you took, N. Reynolds. I'm prepared to release you to your partner this afternoon, but I must ask you once more to tell me where you got the tainted meds. It's important that we get him or her off the streets before they hurt someone else."

"I agree completely." I nod and twist my hands in my robe to stop myself from clutching my oleander flower. "Unfortunately, I can't tell you any more than I already have."

"That isn't enough," he protests. "There must have been someone else."

"Doctor, you can check the video feeds of my movements. I don't deviate from my routine."

"You did the night before you got sick. You chose a partner at the socialization center, then went to visit him the next day."

"Very true. Except I'd never met him before that."

"I also must ask why you went to a socialization center if you already have a permanent partner. Surely, he meets your physical needs."

I see the light of understanding glimmer in his eyes and he stares at me without saying another word. I'm not sure what he understands though.

He coughs uncomfortably. "Of course. I believe your health is restored, N. Reynolds. You're free to go as soon as your partner arrives. I'm afraid you'll be required to stay under his supervision for the next several days to ensure you don't encounter any other foreign substances."