The Syndrome

Or so she thought. She’d never actually been there. At least, she didn’t think she had. But she’d seen the pictures and brochures. And the place was beautiful. Longboat Key—the Florida that old money dreamed of.

Seeing a sign for La Resort, Nico turned into a boulevard of palm trees, which took her to the front door of a low-slung villa with apricot walls. Killing the engine, she unfolded her long legs, and climbed out into the rapt gaze of the bellboy.

“Checking in?”

“Hope so,” she said and, tossing him the keys, bounded up the steps to the office.

Inside, a big “Hi there!” from the clerk behind the desk, who, unlike Nico, was dressed for air-conditioning: white shirt and tie, khakis, and a blazer.

“Brrrr,” she replied, with a wince of a smile.

The clerk laughed, and pushed a registration card across the desk. Like the bellboy, he was a nice-looking young man with closely cropped blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. Over the pocket on the left breast of his blazer was La Resort’s logo, a pink-and-cream orchid flanked by palm fronds.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“Unh-huh,” she said. “It’s Nico Sullivan. Nicole.”

“If you’ll fill that out,” he told her, “I’ll take an imprint of your credit card—and we’ll get Travis to help you with your luggage.” Taking a brochure from a Lucite display stand, he turned it upside down, and sketched a line in ballpoint from You Are Here to a building marked Flagler Tower. Then he typed something on his computer, reached under the desk, and produced a white plastic card with Nico’s name embossed upon the resort’s logo.

“This is your key,” he said. “It’s a charge card, too. So you can use it for anything at the resort—drinks, clothes, golf lessons—you name it! Just show the key, and it’s yours.”

“Thanks!” Nico replied, reaching for the card with a bright smile. But the clerk held onto it for just a second too long, flirting with her.

“Any questions?” he asked.

Nico laughed, a musical giggle. She gave the card a little tug, and he let go. “If I think of anything,” she said, “I’ll give you a call.”

“I’d like that,” he replied.

She ran her fingers over the embossment of her name, and looked up. “This looks out over the beach, right?”

“Absolutely.”

“So it faces west… ?”

The clerk nodded.

“Oh, good,” she said, “because I’m really looking forward to the sunsets.”

“Well, you won’t be disappointed,” he told her.

A moment later, she emerged from the office to find the bellboy waiting with her luggage on a trolley. Nearby, the BMW sat in the shade under an arbor of bougainvillea.

“Nice ride,” the kid remarked.

“Thanks.”

Together, they followed the sidewalk to the Flagler Building, making small talk about real estate and the weather. When they got to the elevator, they had to wait and, as they did, Nico’s wristwatch began to chime, an insistent electronic flutter that reminded her to take her medication. The bellhop smiled. “Throw it away,” he suggested.

“I wish I could!”

“Hey, this is Florida! We don’t have appointments here! You just… go with the flow.”

She laughed politely, but the truth was, she did have appointments. There was the appointment with her laptop every afternoon at four, and the appointment with her meds, twice a day. The meds were a lithium compound prescribed by the Clinic. Duran said they were used to treat “bipolar disorder,” or manic-depression, which meant that she had a problem with her moods. Like everyone else, she had her highs and lows except, in her case, the highs were in orbit and the lows could give you black lung. The lithium kept her on an even keel—which was good, if you liked even keels.

But she didn’t, really. She was a girl who liked to fly. And, as a matter of fact, she was feeling pretty good right now, standing next to good’ole Travis, waiting for the elevator.

Which raised the question: why not do as the natives do, and just… go with the flow? Like the bellboy said. Accentuate the positive—eliminate the negative. And only the negative. It wouldn’t be the first time…

She touched the little button on her wristwatch, killing the alarm. A moment later, the doors slid open with a clatter, and the two of them got in. Slowly, the elevator began to rise until it came to a shuddering stop on the eighth floor. A couple of turns down the open-air corridor brought them to a door marked 806-E. The bellboy inserted the key-card in the lock, and waited for the diode to flash green. When it did, he pushed the door open and held it for her.

“Oh, wow!” she gushed, sweeping into the living room, and doing a little turn. “It’s great!”

And so it was. The suite was large and airy, a choir of pale blues and soft pinks, with a long balcony, lots of rattan and a high-rise view across the water toward Mexico. Nico unlocked the French doors to the balcony, pushed them open and stepped into the sunshine.

“You want me to show you around?” the bellboy asked, placing her baggage on a luggage rack, just inside the door.

“That’s okay,” she said, returning inside. “I’ll figure it out.”

The bellboy shrugged, and flashed a boyish grin that had a little too much practice in it. “Whatever.” The question had been rhetorical, a way of keeping the conversation going. He knew the kinds of guests that enjoyed a tour of the amenities, and this one, cool as a popsicle in her sherbert-green sundress, was definitely not the type.

Nico smiled, pushed a fiver into his hand and walked him to the door. “Thanks for the help,” she said, as she closed the door behind him. Then she turned on her heel, and went to the computer carrying case in which she kept her meds.

Opening it, she rummaged through its interior until she found what she was looking for—sort of. There were two little orange bottles made of plastic. The first, which held a month’s supply of lithium, was almost empty, although she had three more bottles at home in her medicine cabinet.

The second bottle held a drug she called “Placebo #1.” A joke—she’d even written it on the label right below the printed information, which read: 326 NICOLE SULLIVAN: TAKE AS DIRECTED. Because the drug was experimental and wasn’t even manufactured in the States, the stuff didn’t have a name, just a number. You couldn’t look it up in the Merck Index or buy it at the pharmacy. You had to get it abroad, or through the mail, and so she did—three or four times a year, depending…

It had a way of putting her at a distance from herself, as if her body were an actor in a play she’d come to watch. Supposedly, it was therapeutic—a way of letting her see herself as others saw her. And not only that: Placebo #1 enabled her to do some remarkable things. Without affect, her body and emotions were entirely within her own control. Every reaction was appropriate and measured (or seemed to be) so that, if she’d wanted to, she could have walked an I-beam between the suite she was in and the building across the way. And she’d have enjoyed it, too, because when she was like this, she was free in a way that “normal people” almost never were. It was a strange and interesting way to be.

And unlike the lithium (which could make you fat, if you weren’t careful), the side effects were minor. Although it could mess with your memory. Oh, she was okay minute-to-minute and hour-to-hour, but day-to-day could be a problem. Though whether that was a bug or a feature, she couldn’t say.

Opening the minibar, Nico took out a bottle of Evian water, and unscrewed the cap. Shaking a pill from each bottle into the palm of her hand, she washed them down with a sip of water, and had a look around the suite.

And it was fine: big, clean, crisp, and stylish. She approved of everything: the welcome basket, filled with fruit; the heavy white bathrobe and translucent soap; the little sewing kit, and the split of champagne that lay on its side in the refrigerator. It was California champagne, but even so—it was the good stuff. Domaine Carneros. A nice wine.