Kevin, Tom, same thing. We stack the charts into the metal rolling cart and then Jason pushes it, clattering down the hallway. We pass by gray-blue walls, sometimes more blue than gray, sometimes more gray than blue, depending on the soot. The floor tiles are an atrocious teal blue (the approval committee was either color-blind or on mushrooms), dented and scraped from years of residents and food carts rattling down the hall.
“All right, first victim,” Dr. Grant says, stopping just outside the room. Dr. Grant always calls the patients “victims” when we round. I haven’t taken the time to analyze this, but it does seem peculiar. To his credit, he says it quietly at least, so the already paranoid patients don’t get any ideas. “Mr. Wisnoski. Who’s got this one?”
“This is my patient, sir,” answers Dr. A. He calls everyone “sir.”
“Okay. Go ahead and present.”
“Mr. Wisnoski is a forty-nine-year-old Caucasian gentleman with a long-standing history of depression. He was found unresponsive by his wife after overdosing on Ambien.”
“How many pills?”
“Thirty pills, sir. He took one month’s dose. He was taken by the EMT to the ER, where he underwent gastric lavage and quickly recovered.”
“Meds?” Dr. Grant asks.
“Prozac, forty milligrams qd. He’s been on multiple SSRIs before without success but had reportedly been feeling better on Prozac.”
“So why did he try to kill himself?” Dr. Grant glances around and zeroes in on me, as usual. “Dr. Goldman?”
I’m still not used to the “doctor” thing, telling nurses “Just call me Zoe.” “The problem is,” I answer, “Prozac actually was effective.”
Kevin is chewing a large piece of pink gum, which smells of strawberry. I can tell Dr. Grant is feeling the stress of ignoring this.
“Tell us what you mean by that, Dr. Goldman.”
“Oftentimes a patient is most at risk for suicide when there is some improvement in functionality,” I explain. “They finally have the wherewithal to commit suicide.”
“That’s right,” he admits, though it pains him. We all head into the room, but it is empty, the patient’s disheveled blue blanket crumpled on the bed. The room reeks of charcoal, which stains the sheets from last night’s stomach pump. After some consternation, we discover from a nurse that Mr. Wisnoski is off getting an EEG.
So we move on down the list to the next room. The name is drawn in fat black marker into the doorplate. “Vallano.” This is my add-on, the transfer.
“Dr. Goldman?”
“Okay,” I say, ready to launch. “Ms. Sofia Vallano is a thirty-six-year-old Caucasian female with a history of narcissism and possibly sociopathy on her Axis II. She has been in Upstate Mental Community Hospital since age fourteen for the murder of her mother.”
“Holy shit” escapes from Jason, to a glare from Dr. Grant. Still, you can’t blame him; she did kill her mother.
“Any other family members?” Dr. Grant asks.
“One brother, listed as a lost contact, one sister the same. The brother was reportedly injured in the incident.”
“Go on,” Dr. Grant says.
“After the closure of UMCH, she was transferred here for further treatment and evaluation,” I continue.
“And,” Dr. Grant announces, “possibly for discharge, pending our recommendations.”
“Discharge, really?” I ask.
“Yes, really.”
I slide her chart back into the cart. “Based on what findings? Has her diagnosis changed?”
“Well now, Dr. Goldman, that’s our job to find out. She’s been a ward of the state for over twenty years now. If she’s truly a sociopath, I grant you, we may not be able to release her to society. If she’s narcissistic, however, maybe we can.” He skims through her old discharge summary. “From what I can see, UMCH has been kicking the can down the road on this one for a while now.”
“She never went to prison?” the medical student asks, still chewing gum.
“Not fit to stand trial. Okay, let’s see how she’s doing.” Dr. Grant knocks on the door in a quick series.
And there is Sofia Vallano, perched on the bed, reading a magazine. I’m not sure what I expected. Some baleful creature with blood dripping from her eyeteeth maybe. But this is not what I see. Sofia Vallano is a stunning mix of colors: shiny black hair, royal blue eyes, and opera red lips. Something like Elizabeth Taylor in her middle years, curvaceous and unapologetically sexual. They say the devil comes well dressed.
“Hello,” she says with a smile. A knowing smile, as if she’s laughing at a joke we aren’t in on. She does not put down the magazine.
“Hello,” says Dr. Grant.
“I’m Dr. Goldman,” I say, extending my hand. My skin is damp in hers. “I’ll be the main resident taking care of you, along with Dr. Grant, who’s in charge. Just saying hello for now, but I’ll be back to see you later.”
“Okay,” she answers and looks back down at her magazine. Obviously she’s been through the likes of us before. A cloying scent rises off the magazine perfume ad on her lap. Redolent and musky.
We say our good-byes and all head back to see Mr. Wisnoski, who still isn’t back from EEG.
“Who’s next?” Dr. Grant asks. “Dr. Chang? Do you have anyone?”
“Yes, I have Mrs. Greene,” Jason answers.
“Would you like to present?”
“Fifty-six-year-old African American female with a history of bipolar II. She came in today after a manic episode, now apparently consistent with bipolar I.”
“And how was that determined?”
“Last night, she climbed onstage at Les Misérables to sing during one of the solos.”
“Which one?” I ask, immediately regretting the question, which is not terribly relevant to the diagnosis and also tells me my Adderall hasn’t kicked in yet.
“‘I Dreamed a Dream,’ I think,” he answers.
Dr. Grant surveys us all with incredulity. “Doctors, could you at least pretend to be professional here?” Dr. A drops his gaze shamefully, and Jason twirls his bangs. Kevin chews on. “Meds?” Dr. Grant asks.
“She was on Trileptal,” Jason says. “Three hundred BID but stopped it due to nausea three weeks ago. The history is all from her sister because the patient is not giving a reliable history. Her speech is extremely pressured.”
“Ah yes,” Dr. A says. “In bouts of mania, actually,”—he pronounces this act-tually, with a hard t—“the speech is quite rapid, and one cannot get the word in edgily.”
“He means ‘edgewise,’” Jason explains.
“Ah, edgewise, so it is.” Dr. A pulls the little black notebook out of his lab-coat pocket, where he jots down all his ill-begotten idioms.
Dr. Grant crosses his arms. One summer when I was in high school, my mom enrolled me in ADHD camp (sold to me as a drama camp) to boost the self-esteem of her ever-slouching, moody giant of a daughter. We played this game called Name That Emotion, where one group would act out an emotion and the other group would call out what it was. If I had to name that emotion for Dr. Grant assessing his crop of psychiatry residents, it would be disgust. We head to the next victim, our Broadway hopeful, but alas, she is getting a CAT scan, so we head back to see Mr. Wisnoski, who is still in EEG.
Dr. Grant looks supremely frustrated. “Anyone else to see?”
“I have Tiffany,” I say.
“Oh, Tiffany, I know her. She can wait.” He chews on the inside of his lip, thinking. “All right. I guess we’ll finish rounds this afternoon. Just make sure you see all your patients and write your notes in the meantime.”
So we split up to see our respective patients. The nurses’ station has slowed to a hum now. I settle down to Sofia’s chart, which is massive, not to mention the three bursting manila envelopes from UMCH, but at least I can feel my focus turning on. As I open the chart, the perf
ume card from the magazine falls out, the heady smell of perfume rising up from the page like an olfactory hallucination.
Acknowledgments
Rachel Ekstrom, my super-agent, who is there whenever I need her.
Alex Logan, who gave Zoe and me a two-book chance. I will always be grateful.
Julie Paulauski, who put her heart and soul into spreading the good word about my books.
Wunderkind (Tanya and Elena—wonder-twins activate!—and the whole team), who were both savvy and sweet in promoting Zoe in Little Black Lies and beyond.
All the folks at Grand Central, who made a newbie author feel like a best seller!
All my agent sibs (yes, that’s you Sarah Henning, Amy Reichert, and Sarah [Br and Ju]) and all the other writer-reader-Twitter peeps who supported me.
All my friends (FB, roommate, and other!) who shared their kind words about my book and badgered their bookstores to carry Zoe.
My parents, who traveled in minus-nine-degree weather to my book launch and gave me another warmer one in Florida. Who have my back, always.
Margie Long, for loving my kids and helping us always.
Charlotte and Owen, for being my sun, moon, and stars.
And finally, Pat, for hanging out with me on this crazy and wonderful journey.
About the Author
Sandra Block graduated from college at Harvard, then returned to her native land of Buffalo, New York, for medical training and never left. She is a practicing neurologist and proud Sabres fan and lives at home with her family and Delilah, her impetuous yellow Lab. She has been published in both medical and poetry journals. The Girl Without a Name is her second novel.
Also by Sandra Block
Little Black Lies
PRAISE FOR
LITTLE BLACK LIES
“A psychological suspense story smartly narrated…Zoe has a quick wit that emerges in wickedly unexpected ways.”
—New York Times Book Review
“The suspense keeps building throughout until the shocking ending. This is a riveting debut from a promising new author.”
—Booklist
“Heartbreakingly vulnerable and laugh-out-loud funny…I am a forever-fan of the Zoe Goldman series and will read anything Sandra Block writes. You should too.”
—Lisa Scottoline, New York Times bestselling author
“Little Black Lies is a darkly intriguing mystery with a feisty young doctor as its protagonist. Sandra Block pulls you in deep and doesn’t let go.”
—Meg Gardiner, Edgar Award–winning author
“Little Black Lies is a daring, original debut that explores the dark side of memory. In Zoe, Block has created a character who is complicated, smart, and sympathetic. I can’t wait to see what Block has in store for Zoe next.”
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author
“Taut writing. Great protagonist. Believable plot. As well as an ending you didn’t see coming.”
—BookLoons.com
“Sandra Block’s compelling debut is the epitome of the psychological thriller, as the author delves deep into the inner makeup and subconscious of her heroine while maintaining an exciting plot. [It] also works as a heartfelt story about families and how secrets can both pull people apart or keep them safe.”
—Sun-Sentinel
“Block is a clever writer with an inventive plot.”
—Toronto Star
“Little Black Lies is a real treat for fans of intricate suspense novels with plenty of twists.”
—Mysteriousbookreviews.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Reading Group Guide
Discussion Questions
Please see the next page for an excerpt from Little Black Lies.
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Sandra Block
Praise for Little Black Lies
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Sandra Block
Excerpt from Little Black Lies © 2015 by Sandra Block
Reading Group Guide © 2015 by Sandra Block
Cover design by Elizabeth Connor
Photograph of forest © Silas Manhood
Photograph of woman © StockPhotosArt/Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2015 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: September 2015
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ANTHEM
Written by Leonard Cohen
© 1992 Sony/ATV Songs LLC. All rights administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC., 424 Church Street, Nashville, TN 37219. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
ISBN 978-1-4555-8378-2
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