“To quote Hart, abso-fucking-lutely not.” There was no way in hell I was going to assume that kind of risk or responsibility. “And neither are you or Henry. If she needs medication, she should be going to a doctor.”
“Do you know how expensive that is? And how poor the quality of health care is on the reservation?” Elliot retorted. He was getting angry, or at least irritated. Well, so was I.
“Do you know how many accidental overdoses I’ve been at?” I snapped back. “And how very much I don’t want to show upat another one and wonder if you’re the reason she’s fucking dead?”
That shut him up for a minute.
“Promise me you aren’t going to giveanybodyany part of that plant,” I said firmly.
I heard him sigh. “Seth, I want to help these people. I just don’t knowhow.”
“Why you?” I asked him.
“Because there isn’t anybody else.” He was getting frustrated. He wasn’t the only one.
“Who was doing it before now?”
“My dad, okay?” There was more emotion than frustration in his voice now. “It was my dad,” he repeated, his voice soft, and despite its roughness I could hear the heartbreak in it.
That shutmeup for a minute.
I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, wanted to provide comfort and support—but he still shouldn’t be doing what he was trying to do.
“Your dad was a homeopath?” I asked, trying to sound gentle. And not like I was asking if his dad had been a walking tragedy waiting to happen. To someone else.
“Yeah,” he rasped.
“Where did he learn?” I asked.
I could almost hear Elliot swallow. “I—it was before I was born,” he said quietly. “But the Wildwood Institute. There’s a certificate on the wall in his office.”
I didn’t know anything about it, but most of what I knew about homeopathic herbalists was based in Virginia. There were reputable programs—and there were online certificates that required a twenty-question multiple choice test. It varied pretty widely.
“But hewastrained in it,” I argued, since the precise nature of his dad’s certification wasn’t the current point of theconversation. “Which goes back to my point that you can’t dose people with potentially deadly chemicalswithouttraining.”
Elliot sighed. “I just… I want to help,” he said softly. “Like Dad did.”
“Well,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “There are potentially not-deadly things you can make for people, right? Headache remedies?”
“Yeah,” he replied, although he still sounded unhappy.
“So do what you can.Safely,” I emphasized. “And if you want to do more—figure out somewhere to get a decent homeopath certification.”
“You’re a biochemist,” he said, sounding a little resentful.
“Yes, I am. With an emphasis on toxicology because I went into forensic science,” I replied. “I did my undergrad research on low levels of fungal neurotoxicity as a potential form of therapy for different forms of psychosis.”
“Which means what?” he asked, frustration creeping back in.
“How semi-toxic mushrooms in low doses can help balance out brain chemistry for particular mental conditions,” I said. “And my masters was on lethal neurotoxic compounds and how to posthumously detect indices of their use.” I took a breath. “Point is, I know a lot more about killing people than I do helping them. So yeah, I could tell you how much digitalis would definitely kill someone, but I can’t tell you how much would help them.”
“Because it’s a flower, not a mushroom,” he said, his voice flat.
“Actually, yes,” I snapped, starting to lose my temper in spite of myself. “Because I understand how mushrooms work and Idon’tunderstand dosage on the fucking flower, Elliot, so while that distinction might seem silly to you, it’s pretty damn important.”
Oops.
I had not meant to go off on him like that.
