Page 106 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“It was that damn TikTok video,” I said.

He had no idea what I was talking about. Neither did I, but at least I was one step ahead of him. “What TikTok video?” he said.

“Oh God,” I said, scrambling for time as I crafted the lie. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Whatever it is,” he said, “I’ve heard worse.”

“I watched this video on TikTok that said heavy doses of vitamin D will revitalize your skin.”

“That’s insane,” he said.

“They said it’s supposed to be like Botox working from the inside.”

“It’s more like arsenic working from the inside. Do you know how close you came to killing yourself?”

“I should have done more research, but, you know... vanity.”

“Just promise me you will cut them out entirely. Your levels should be back to normal in eight to twelve weeks.”

“I promise,” I said.

We talked for another few minutes. I thanked him and spent the next two hours in bed trying to process the facts.

Like most people I get my vitamin D from sunshine or food sources. I had never taken a single supplement. And yet there were lethal levels of vitamin D in my body.

By the time Johnny arrived there was only one logical conclusion. Someone wanted me dead, and somehow they were slowly poisoning me.

SIXTY-FIVE

A few hours later Johnny arrived at the hospital to drive me back to Heartstone. I waited until we were on the Major Deegan Expressway before I gave him the good news.

“According to the experts at New York Presbyterian, I don’t have a deadly blood disease.”

He let out a hoot and banged on the steering wheel with the heels of his hands. “What made you go into remission?”

“I’m not in remission. I never had it.”

“You never... how the hell could you be misdiagnosed? What kind of doctor would tell you you’re dying without being a million percent positive? Are you gonna sue, or at least get Alex to fire this guy?”

“Don’t ask any more questions,” I said. “Just listen. There’s a lot to take in.”

I unraveled the details as best as I could, telling him what I knew and what I suspected, but I was still putting the puzzle pieces together, and my thinking was riddled with holes.

“I need alcohol,” I said when I was done.

“I’ve been clean and sober for fifteen years,” he said. “You’ll have to settle for coffee.”

He got off the highway at the next exit and pulled into a Dunkin’ Donuts less than half a mile away. He went inside, and five minutes later returned to the car with two large coffees, which he put in the cup holders, and a box of donuts, which he set between us.

“Nothing makes sense,” he said, turning in his seat and squaring off with me. “Why fake a terminal illness?”

“That’s the one thing that makes total sense,” I said. “At my age, if I were to suddenly drop dead out of the blue, what would happen?”

“An autopsy, an inquiry, a police investigation.”

“Exactly. But what if it’s been established for months that I’m slowly dying of hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis?”

“They would know what killed you, but they would still do an autopsy, and they’d find out you were poisoned.”