The Stamford neurologist to whom Harry Landau immediately sent them examined Lissie in private and then told Jamie that she had undoubtedly taken a massive dose of some kind of drug, most likely a barbiturate, which was causing the sluggishness and lethargy. There were laboratory tests that could isolate barbiturates, but he rather suspected the effects of the drug would wear off in a day or so, and that Lissie would most likely come through the episode relatively unaffected by it.
“What do you mean by ‘most likely’?” Jamie asked.
“Well, I don’t know how much of the drug she’s ingested,” the doctor said. “I’m fairly sure it wasn’t injected by syringe, I could find no puncture marks on her arms or legs. But she may have swallowed more than one tablet, perhaps even more than several tablets, in which case... does your daughter have a history of drug abuse?”
“No,” Jamie said, offended by the words “drug abuse.” His daughter was not a goddamn addict. She had, in fact, told him on many occasions that she would never stick a needle in her body.
“Perhaps she decided to experiment,” the doctor said, “like so many other kids these days. And...” He spread his hands wide, and shrugged. “She may just have been unlucky. Whatever she took, it’s had a serious effect on her. Just how serious remains to be seen.”
“What do we do now?” Jamie asked.
“Take her home and put her to bed. Sleep is the best possible thing for her right now. That shouldn’t be difficult, she’s almost out on her feet as it is. My guess is she’ll sleep all day today, and through the night, and part of the morning as well. When she wakes up, you’ll most likely be able to tell.”
“Tell what?” Jamie said.
“Why... how well she’s cerebrating.”
“And if she... if she still sounds the same and... and moves the same?”
“You’d better call me.”
He was embarrassed as he walked her out of the waiting room and down to the car, leading her like one of the handicapped children Connie worked with, Lissie mumbling over and over again “I’m sorr-ee, Dad, I’m sorr-ee, Dad” in that same moronic voice, helping her into the car where she sat still and silent, her hands folded in her lap, all the way back to the inn. He was further embarrassed when he led her into the lobby and asked the desk clerk if they could find a room for her, she was his daughter, and she wasn’t feeling too well, she needed a room for the night. The desk clerk, a pimply-faced kid in his early twenties, took one look at Lissie, and sized the situation up for exactly what it was: the chick was on some kind of bad trip. But he found a room for her, nonetheless, just across the hall from Jamie’s and Joanna’s. It was Joanna who undressed her and washed her hands and face, and then got her into bed, and pulled the covers to her throat.
“Good night, Mom,” Lissie said, and the words caused a new wave of despair in Jamie.
As the neurologist had promised, Lissie slept all that day, and through the night, and most of the next morning. She was stirring when he went into her room again at 11:00 A.M. He raised the shade. June sunlight spilled onto the shag rug. Lissie opened her eyes. He went to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
“Good morning,” he said. “How do you feel?”
He waited.
Lissie smiled.
“Are you feeling any better, darling?”
She nodded.
“Good,” he said. “Would you like some breakfast?”
“Has, Sant-a, come, yet?” she asked, and his heart sank.
He was forced to call Connie in New York.
“Connie, it’s me,” he said. “Jamie.”
“What is it, Jamie?” she said curtly.
“Connie, please,” he said. “We’ve had enough yelling and screaming to last us a long time, don’t you think?”
“I wasn’t aware that anyone was yelling or screaming,” she said in her V.S. and D.M. voice. “What is it you want, Jamie?”
“Lissie is sick,” he said.
“Sick? What do you mean, sick?”
“She’s taken something,” he said. “Some drug. She’s not... not quite out of it yet.”
“Out of it? What do you mean, Jamie?”
“Well, she’s not behaving quite like herself, Connie. Her... her speech is... is... you know... hesitant and... and... she... she sounds retarded, Connie, that’s the way she sounds. She slept all day yesterday, and she’s sleeping again now, she sat up for a little while this morning, and had some orange juice, but her eyes are still glazed, Connie, and when I called the doctor, he... he said... it may... well, we’ll have to wait a bit longer, to... to see what happens.”
“What did he say may happen?”
“He didn’t know. He doubts if the damage will be permanent, but he simply can’t say yet.”
“Where is she?” Connie asked.
“Here at the inn.”
“What inn? The Rutledge Inn, do you mean?”
“Yes. We’ve taken a room for her. The doctor advised...”
“What doctor? Harry?”
“No, a neurologist Harry sent us to.”
“What’s his name, I want to call him.”
“It’s Steven Loesch, he’s on Strawberry Hill in Stamford, I have the number here if you want it.”
“Yes, please.”
He read off the number to her, and then said, “I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.”
“Do you think I should come up there?” Connie asked.
“Well, that’s up to you.”
“I could open the house and...”
“She’s comfortable here, Connie,” he said.
“Still. She might want to be home.”
The words hung there.
“I think it might be best not to move her,” he said.
There was a long pause on the line.
“How was your wedding?” Connie asked.
“Fine, thank you,” Jamie said.
“Congratulations,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said. He hesitated, and then said, “I’ll call you as soon as there’s any change.”
“Call me anyway,” Connie said. “Even if nothing...”
“Yes, I will.”
“What drug was it?” she asked.
“I don’t know, hon...” He cut himself short. He had almost called her “honey” through force of habit. Graciously, she did not comment on the slip.
“Thank you for letting me know,” she said, and hung up.
By noon the next day, Jamie was convinced she would never recover. Last year, when she’d disappeared from the face of the earth, he was forced to believe at last that she was dead. Now, he believed again that she was dead, the Lissie he’d known and loved was dead, and in her place there was a paler image, a blurred one, an imperfect casting from the Lissie mold. He had looked in on her at nine, and again at ten and eleven, and as he opened the door now, he realized he was hoping she would be sitting at the dressing table combing her hair, or else singing at the top of her lungs in the shower, or brushing her teeth and spitting foam into the sink — anything to indicate life, anything to indicate his daughter was back.
She was still in bed.
As he closed the door behind him, her eyes opened wide. She turned her head toward him.
“Lissie?” he said, tentatively, cautiously. “How do you feel?”
“I’ve got a very bad headache,” she said.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and listened to her telling him — in her normal speaking voice, and at a somewhat breathless pace — that she really hadn’t taken anything at the wedding although there was all kinds of shit to be had, uppers and downers and speed and green flats and white Owsley and even some smack, but really she hadn’t done anything but smoke a little pot.