CHAPTER 14

After signing A.J.'s discharge papers, Monica returned her page. Alan said "hello" and was disappointed to hear Monica's voice.

"I was hoping to see you," he said.

"I'm busy, Alan. You're lucky I called," she said, still angry from their earlier confrontation.

"Can you make some time to see me?" he asked, trying to sound as sincere as he thought Monica would believe.

"Am I going to hear the truth?" she asked, weary from the game playing.

"Yes. That's why I want to see you." He tried to sound reassuring.

She decided to give him one more chance. "I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Thank you," Alan said, more relieved than he could say that she had agreed to see him.

When Monica arrived at Alan's office, he greeted her cheerfully and tried to give her a kiss, but she kept her distance.

"What's the story with the pills, Alan?" she asked, getting right to the point. "And I want the truth."

Alan sat down on his couch and motioned for Monica to join him. She did, but she maintained her distance.

"About the pills," he began. "Dorman prescribed them for me after he did my hand surgery. I took them as part of my recovery whenever I was in immense pain. Since Dorman is no longer around, I asked Tony for his assessment of my hand, even though I know it's not his area of expertise, and he agreed that it had not yet completely healed, so he graciously offered to authorize a refill. End of story."

"Not quite. You neglected a couple of major points. One, why are there so few pills left when the prescription is less than a week old, and two, were you under the influence of these pills the night you examined A.J.?"

"Maybe I have taken more than what the prescription calls for the last few days, but you have to admit, this has been a very stressful time. My hand and my body reacted to that stress. My hand has been almost intolerable, and I've had more than one headache and neck ache since this whole ordeal with A.J. began. So, maybe I have taken more than the allotted amount, but it's only been in these past few days."

Monica observed Alan closely. She didn't doubt that the last few days had been stressful for him, and she could believe, almost, that his hand and his body were reacting negatively to that stress, but his mood swings and his attitude towards A.J. had begun far earlier than he claimed. She could not dismiss everything he had done with that one explanation.

"You still haven't answered the most important question, Alan," she said, letting him know he had not convinced her of his innocence.

Alan feared Monica would not relent.

"I was *not* strung out on drugs the night I examined A.J. Is that what you want to hear?"

"I want to hear the truth, Alan. That's what I want to hear. Had you taken any pills that day?"

"I don't remember," he lied. Pausing, he then added, "If I did, I'm sure it was one or two at the most."

"But you can't say for sure?"

"No, Monica," Alan said and sighed in frustration. "I can't say for sure."

"Can you say for sure what medication you pulled out of your medical bag and gave to A.J. that almost killed him?!" Monica shouted. She wanted to shake him into admitting the truth.

"No," Alan admitted quietly, looking away from Monica. "I can't."

"And yet, you want to sit here and tell me that you don't have a problem."

"I know I made a mistake. A serious mistake. But I didn't mean to do it."

Alan's voice broke, and Monica thought he would make a breakthrough if he kept talking. But he quickly rose from the couch and poured himself a glass of water. She realized that he knew his resolve was starting to slip and that she was aware of it, too. She noticed that he was trying to compose himself before he faced her again.

Alan brought the glass to his cheek to try to cool himself and took a few deep breaths to try to calm his racing pulse. He discreetly wiped his brow, took another gulp of water, and turned to face his wife.

"Do we have anything further to discuss?" she asked, realizing the moment had passed when he might have admitted something.

"You tell me. Do you believe anything I've told you?"

Now it was Monica's turn to reign in her emotions.

"No," she said softly, sadly. "I don't. I believe you are struggling very heavily with something. Whether that's guilt, remorse, or something else, I can't say. But whatever it is, I believe the pills are playing a major part. So, until you're ready to admit you have a problem, we have nothing further to discuss."

Monica stood to leave. Alan reached for her with his good hand.

"Don't do this to us," he said somberly. "We can work through this."

"How?" Monica asked, defeat in her eyes and in her voice.

"Time," Alan said, trying to appear unruffled. "With time, I can prove to you that I'm okay. That I don't have a problem the way you think I do."

Monica shook her head. ""Do you hear yourself, Alan? You sound just like A.J. when he tries to convince us that he doesn't have a drinking problem. Can't you see the similarities?"

"Don't you compare me to that alcoholic, Monica," Alan said, incensed. "I am nothing like him. I'll show you that I'm not."

"Fine," Monica said and sighed. "You do that."

"I will."

Alan paused before asking for his pills one more time.

"There's just one problem."

"Oh?" Monica said, sounding cynical. "And what would that be?"

"This would be so much easier if I weren't in such pain. Could I maybe have one or two of my pills to relieve the pain in my hand?"

Alan tried to sound reasonable and not like the desperate man he was becoming. Monica scrutinized him and determined that Alan did need his pills but for entirely different reasons.

"From looking at the state you're in right now, Alan, I believe you do need your pills. But it has *nothing* to do with the pain in your hand. I can't listen to any more of this. Let me know if you figure out how you're going to prove to me that you don't have a problem."

"I will, Monica. You'll see!" Alan yelled as she left.

He let go with a string of curses and took out his anger and frustration by slamming shut his office door.


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