Chapter Twelve Nomi
CHAPTER TWELVE
NOMI
Why can’t I sell cannabis at the farm stand anymore?
” I clutch the cell phone hard to my face, keeping my voice low since the zoning detective’s back and currently poking around my inventory room.
As if empty stash boxes and humidifier packs have anything to do with whether my dispensary qualifies as a “pharmacy,” or an “amoral weed bordello,” as Julian’s complaint alleges.
“I’m sorry, Nomi,” the city council clerk says through the receiver, sounding genuinely distressed.
“A Council-friend saw you and asked whether it was legal, so I had to call the State Cannabis Regulatory Commission. They said you’d need a different license for that.
She gave me a link to the paperwork; I can send it to you if you like. ”
Council-friend, my ass. This smacks of Julian’s doing. “How fast is the approval turnaround, did she say?”
“Three months.”
Fuck, I mouth silently at the wall.
I thank the clerk for the information and disconnect the call.
Another three months of no income from cannabis, and we’ll officially be destitute.
The rent is too high to cover with no profits coming in, and judging by the detective’s sour demeanor, I’m not acing this investigation, either.
I rest my head on the counter, and I’m still lying here when Eve comes in twenty minutes later, high as a kite and carrying a box of hand-stamped shopping bags we spent all weekend making.
For nothing.
“Hmm,” Eve says after I fill her in on the latest blow to our livelihood, then sits on a red vinyl stool at the counter. “We could set up an OnlyFans.”
“Angle?” I ask, face still smushed against the glass.
“I could braid your hair while you pop bubble wrap.” Eve revolves on her stool like Bella in that overly cinematic moment in Twilight. “Or you could show off your big flap. People like scars.”
“Eve.”
“It’ll be like Tiny Tim, but vulvas.” Eve’s eyes get big. “We could make it a little crutch and everything!”
“Eve! I’m not getting into flap content.”
Eve frowns, which usually makes me laugh because it wrinkles her entire face like a bulldog. But even Eve’s bulldog face does nothing for me now.
“We could sell coffee…” Eve begins. “For real.”
“Our dream is to open an Amsterdam-style coffeehouse. Not an actual American one.”
“How hard can it be? I’ve dated enough baristas. Some of it probably rubbed off on me.” A wicked smile perks up Eve’s mouth. “Other stuff did.”
“Dammit, Eve! Now’s not the time for double entendres!”
“Come on, just for a little while until we figure out what to do. I’ll call Uncle Dimitri, see if he’s got an espresso machine he can bring over.” Eve begins idly scooping up her hair with a pair of bakery tongs and placing it over her shoulder. “Still think the crutch idea’s gold, though.”
I arch an eyebrow. Maybe I should get high, too.
The detective exits the inventory room, and we both sit up straighter. “My investigation inside the premises is complete.” He’s holding a long-poled object with a wheel at the bottom.
“What’s that?” Eve asks, starry eyed. She loves toys.
“It’s a measuring wheel,” the detective says, pleased by her attention despite himself. “I’ll use it to count the feet between this building and establishments that serve children.” His eyes cut to mine. “Like family clinics. Afternoon, ladies.”
My stomach cramps ominously as the door closes behind him.
“Fuck.” I press my forearm against my middle, hunching over, as another surge of pain grips my insides.
Eve’s brow knits together. “Are you—”
“No!” I belt out, sliding from my chair behind the counter. “I’m not okay. Nothing’s okay! Everything I have is riding on this dispensary, which that detective’s about to ruin!”
“Then we’ll appeal the decision and keep fighting.”
“With what money, Eve?” Sweat collects under my hair, on my neck, in the curve of my lower back. I have to get out of here. “I’ll be wiped out before we get a hearing date, and we’ll lose everything. All our hard work. All my savings. It’ll have been for nothing.”
“Hey. You’re not alone in this, Nomi. We’re going to figure this out.” Eve walks around the counter and wraps her arms around me, which my stomach can tolerate for about one second before I have to shake her off. Her face is hurt when I pull away, and another wave of pain crests inside me.
“I’m—sorry. I have to go.” I push through the glass doors, praying I’ll make it home in time, and knowing, no matter what Eve says, that I am alone.
JULIAN
Eight showers later, I still smell the scum of New Jersey’s waterways. Somewhere on my body is a phantom patch of something mossy and unnatural, and it’s driving me insane. Or maybe it’s the memory of Nomi’s threats sliding out of her lush mouth that’s making me lose touch with reality.
She doesn’t own this town.
I’m not in any danger.
I flick open my office blinds to glance out at the street.
No Kia Souls in sight. That doesn’t mean I’m not being watched, though.
I haven’t been physically harassed since the river park, but Nomi’s lackeys are still messing with me.
First, it was the flyers stapled around downtown, then the nonstop prank calls.
Even the Ohs descended upon me one night at Mom’s house in a cloud of competing cologne.
“Julie, seriously.” Marco’d gripped me by the shoulders. “Withdraw the complaint.”
“I’m a medical professional. Maybe that means nothing to you meatheads, but I took the Hippocratic oath and specifically swore to administer no poison when asked to do so, and guess what? Weed’s poison!”
“That’s a weird oath, man.” Aldo frowned. “They really make doctors say that?”
“If weed is poison, why’d it make you such a decent guy that night? Huh?” Marco crossed his arms over his chest. “That was the first time you’ve been nice to us since we were kids, Julie.”
“What?” I’d sputtered, feeling caught and entirely unprepared to handle their interrogation when I still smelled the river on me, still burned with anger at Lil Dom eyeing Nomi like she was a stuffed prize to win down the Shore. “That’s not true—”
“It’s true, bro,” Ellio said. “You’re a stone-cold dick when you’re sober. Pretty decent when you’re high, though.”
“Yeah, pretty decent,” Aldo agreed. “Everybody liked you stoned.”
And the thing is, I’d thought the same thing.
At the Pot Luck I felt… I don’t know. Connected to everyone, somehow.
My cousins. The townies who never left home, or who came back on purpose.
Even the folks like me, who ended up back in Sparrow Nook through every fault of their own, but unlike me, were making the best of it.
I felt included. Accepted. I made my cousins laugh, and for once, it wasn’t at obnoxious Julie’s expense.Or…
maybe it was. Maybe they only liked me when they could laugh at me, when I was stoned and pretending to smoke beer bottles and stuffing my face with pizza.
Maybe they had to see me transformed into an idiot to forget how much they resented me the rest of the time.
I learned early on in life that people don’t like reminders of their own shortcomings.
They transmute your success into their shame.
They blame you for how they feel instead of facing the real source of their discomfort—their decisions not to try.
Not to work hard. Not to grab hold of this one life we have and shake it for everything it’s worth.
Well, that’s not my fault. And I shouldn’t have to debase myself so people like me.
I kicked my cousins out then, or tried to, at least. Mom busted in right as the door was swinging shut and dragged them all back inside for popsicles, and when they didn’t want those, beers.
Worse, Mom forced me to join them on the front porch while they visited.
They hogged all the rocking chairs, laughing and chatting with Mom while I sat sullenly on the stoop holding a melting blue pop.
Humiliating.
I sink down in the office chair. I’m taking regular appointments today during the clinic’s daytime hours.
Dr. Srinivasan isn’t convinced I’m “ready” for this type of patient interaction, but he needs coverage while he does errands, so here I am.
I roll my eyes and bring up my next appointment’s information.
Does he think I can’t handle annual exams and listening to people prattle on about symptoms that can be explained, nine times out of ten, by their sedentary, vice-filled lifestyles?
I take three long breaths. It’s only mid-June. I have four and a half more months before I can prove to Dr. Riveras that I deserve to return to Philly Gen where I belong. To do that, I need Dr. Srinivasan’s full support, which means playing nice and doing whatever the old country doctor requires.
I briefly review the next patient’s records, a Mr. Franco Gutierrez.
Sixty-two years old, with advanced Parkinson’s Disease.
Currently prescribed the standard course of treatment—levodopa to increase dopamine, as well as a dopamine agonist to prevent his brain from breaking it down too quickly.
I squint at the last line in Dr. Srinivasan’s notes: Patient supplements with high CBD, low THC strains of cannabis to treat break-through tremors, as needed.
Consult with Nomi Wyeth for cannabis treatment planning.
My jaw drops. Consult with Nomi Wyeth? Getting the town giggly and stoned isn’t bad enough, now she’s “treating” people with serious neurological diseases? The buzzer on my desk sounds, followed by the dull, lifeless voice of our teen reception clerk. Mr. Gutierrez is waiting in Room Four.
I march toward the room. Who does she think she is, Doctor Weed?! I swing the door open without knocking, startling Mr. Gutierrez where he sits so badly he drops his cane and makes a small oof! sound.
“Good afternoon,” I bark out. “I’m Dr. D’Angelo. You’re Franco Gutierrez, correct?”