Happy Sugar
an excerpt

Bill filed the last of the papers before Phillise entered the room. He tried to hide his tears as he closed the folder into the drawer. He doubted he'd open it again for a long time.
“Phillise, so nice to see you,” he said, making an effort to smile.
“Bill.” She looked at him, saw the pain in the pinched space between his brows.
He turned away.
“It's okay. Anyone would feel the way you do.”
“Oh, really? And how is that? How do I feel?”
“Well, I can only imagine. And the point is, I do imagine, but that's all I can do. Bill, I didn't lose my child.”
“Much less to the American pharmaceutical capitalist machinery!” he spat.
“What are you talking about?” Phillise asked.
“I'm talking about Paul. He was overdosed.”
“On what? What do you mean, 'He was overdosed?' I thought he rammed his car into a wall.”
“He had just started taking Traniol,” Bill said.
“Whoa, slow down. What is Traniol?”
“It's the antimalarial, the preventitive medication the US military doctors, all the docs recommend it. But I swear to you and on everything I believe that the stuff is evil.”
Phillise shook her head and sat down. Her incredulity only made Bill more insistent.
“Listen, Paul was excited to go overseas. His girlfriend had just decided to go, too, and they were both thrilled, like they were finally finding their callings, and together. His diary entries were all full of love, hope...” Bill couldn't speak when he thought of his son never writing another word, his son who'd had so much potential.
“And when did he start taking the drug?”
“That's it: They wanted him, his doctor who cleared him medically for the Peace Corps, told him to take it for two weeks, once a week, before he left, so he would never get malaria. He took it the first time and he was sick, so sick. And he started having all these doubts, doubts he'd never had.”
“About what?”
“Everything. The trip, being away from us, fearing he would never see us again. Even about Sandra, and they were so in love. We were just waiting for them to say when they were getting married. They belonged together.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he didn't want to leave because he thought it would be the last time he saw us. And he wondered whether he really loved Sandra the way she loved him. He had never said that before, just all the gooey stuff.
“I know. I've heard him say it, too: 'I've never felt this way about anyone in my whole life.' All that stuff, the stuff the rest of us only wish we could say.”
“And this was the first day. I went back and figured it out. And I looked the stuff up online. The soldiers in the Gulf War and in Iraq even have this name for the day they take the meds: 'Manic Mondays.' People say it makes them crazy. Phillise, they see the dark side. And some of them can never come back from that.”
“Oh, god, that's so military, isn't it? 'Manic Mondays.'”
“Paul's doctor told him there were some side effects in a few of the people who take this, like 'disturbing dreams.' Paul asked all the right questions. I was there. He said, 'Are there any other side effects we should look out for?'
“The doc told him, 'It's pretty rare, but people are starting to wonder whether it can cause some adverse psychological events in some people. But there's no proof yet.'”
“And what did you find when you looked it up?”
“A completely different story.”

* * *

Damini Choudhury strode across the room, trying to ignore the glares of her coworkers. It would just take some practice, some concentration, she knew; she'd get used to it because she was in for the long haul now.
“Good morning, Mr. Chabon,” she said, in a sprightly voice and donning a faked smile.
The FDA's chief pharmacologist glared at her and turned away.
Just yesterday, after everyone else had gone home, she had dropped her bombshell. Now she was wearing the big red letter: W for whistleblower. And she was finding out just how deeply conservative people truly were.
People at her more junior level were more friendly, but chillier than they'd ever been toward her. Except for Fred. The guy with the most ordinary name turned out to have the heart a rebel pounding underneath his conformist exterior. So far she'd thought he was very young but been nonetheless impressed that his favorite artist was Prince, and that he had dated people of both sexes. In their shared world, which she saw as the Clark Kent portion of his existence, Fred was now treating her as if he had discovered a rock star in his midst.
“What are you doing for lunch?” he asked Damini, having seen her at the water cooler and popped up out of his cubicle.
“Same thing I always do, Fred,” Damini smiled, relieved to have someone talking to her, even if it was Fred. “I'm eating my lunch at my desk, with its beautiful view of mauve tweed." The décor in their office had not kept up with current trends. Being government employees, they had cheap rolling chairs ordered en masse from some company in Oklahoma instead of Herman Miller chairs.
It was eleven and Damini realized she had not had a real conversation all day. Any talk she had heard had muted as soon as someone noticed she was within earshot.
“Okay. Give me a time and I'll have lunch with you.”
Damini wondered if it was smart to invite his attentions for a moment, but brushed her own skepticism aside; she was sure it was an effect of his being the only person who would talk to her today, a version of “if it's free it can't be worth much.”
She agreed to meet him at her desk, and he was so pleased she even felt a little flush, like she'd just been asked for her autograph.