14
A few days after the Boomer swap, I was at the clinic, doing computer work. As Gloria had said, most of our cases were really basic stuff—I’d seen a girl for a sprained ankle, a teenager who’d been stung four times by bees and was hysterical (though not allergic) and now an elderly woman with severe stomach pains due to constipation.
“I haven’t pooped for eleven days,” she growled. I suppressed a wince. It wasn’t uncommon in elderly people, but jeezum crow! No wonder she was snarling.
“I’ll let you handle this, Dr. Stuart,” Dr. Ames said, beaming at the patient. Gloria and I strongly suspected her coffee was laced with alcohol, though I had to give it to her. Her lipstick was perfect. “I once had a patient with such severe impaction, she was seven pounds lighter when we discharged her! I have never seen so much stool in my life!” She smiled, pleased with the memory.
“Thanks for sharing,” I said.
“You’re welcome!” She raised her voice. “Mrs. Constantine, Nora is excellent at disimpaction. Aren’t you, darling? Very gentle hands! Well, I have calls to make. Let me know if you need me, Nora, dear!” She wobbled off to her office.
“Why is she yelling at me?” the patient asked.
“She’s a unique personality,” I said. “But she’s right, I’m good at this.”
“Good,” she said. “The last time I had this done, it felt like the doctor used an elephant tusk.”
“We got rid of all our tusks last year,” I said, smiling.
I’ll spare you the details, but one gently administered enema later, and armed with some glycerine suppositories, Mrs. Constantine left, a happier woman.
“Busy day,” Gloria commented as I finished the report and sent it to the insurance company. “Are you dying of boredom?”
“Not at all. It’s kind of fun, seeing all different types of cases.”
“Do you miss Boston?”
“A little. Do you?”
“Well, I’m not from the city proper, you know?” she said.
“What brought you out here, anyway? Aside from the lobsterman fantasy, that is?”
“I wanted a change. I like the slower pace on the island, and I like running this place. No offense.” She smiled. “My family’s pretty intense. Like every other day, someone’s having a first Communion or a christening or a baby. My mother calls me four times a day just to ‘catch up.’ I have to pretend the cell service sucks out here just to get some peace and quiet. I love them, but too much of a good thing, you know?”
“Not really. Maybe we could trade families.”
“You’re not close with yours, I take it?”
I shrugged. “You’ve met my mom.”
“She’s an impressive woman.”
I felt an unexpected flash of pride. “She is. Not warm and cuddly, though.”
The bell buzzed, letting us know we had another patient. “Four in one day,” Gloria said, pulling a face. “Grand Central Station here. I’ll go see what’s up.”
A few minutes later, Gloria called me to the exam room. It was Mr. Carver, the man who’d occasionally given my father work. First name Henry, according to his chart. “Hi, Mr. Carver,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”
“Oh, Nora,” he said, blushing. “Ah...I didn’t expect you.”
“BP is normal, heart rate’s perfect, O2 sat 98 percent,” Gloria said. “Call if you need me.” She left the room.
“What can I do for you today?” I asked.
“Well... Is there another doctor I can see?” he asked. “A man?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He sighed.
“Everything you say will be confidential, Mr. Carver.”
“You don’t seem old enough to be a doctor.”
I always loved that comment. “Well, I’m thirty-five. Tufts undergrad, Tufts Medical School, fellowship at Boston City, partner at Boston Gastroenterology Associates, board certified in family practice and gastroenterology... Shall I go on?”
“It’s just...personal.”
“I assure you, I’ve heard everything.”
He blushed.
“Erectile dysfunction?” I guessed.
He looked away, his face getting redder. “Bingo.”
He’d been put on blood pressure medication, a classic cause of ED. I asked him some questions and did an exam. He was basically the guy for whom Viagra had been invented. I wrote him a prescription, went over the side effects and warning signs and recommended a pharmacy in Portland if he didn’t want it filled here.
“This is great,” he said, clearly relieved. “Thanks, Nora. I mean Dr. Stuart.”
“Nora’s just fine,” I said.
“Your mom must be very proud of you.”
“I hope so. Hey, I was wondering...do you know anyone who might be interested in...well, in dating my mother? I worry about her being too lonely.”
His face colored again. “She’s... Well, I, ah, I’d have to give that some thought.”
“I know, I know, I’m matchmaking, but what can I say?” I smiled. “Everyone deserves love, right? Let me know if you have any questions about the medication.”
He left, still blushing. Too bad he was married. I wouldn’t have minded him for a stepfather.
I hadn’t seen my mom for a few days, though I’d left a message on her landline; she didn’t have a cell. Poe had come over for supper on hug therapy night and made a few grunts as I tried to ask her questions. Progress.
I stuck my head in Gloria’s office. “I’m off to see my mom,” I told her. “Want me to bring you any lunch?”
“I’m eating a salad,” she said, pulling a face. “Kale.”
“Your digestive track will thank you. Okay, see you in a bit.”
The Excelsior Pines, where Mom had long worked, was a beautiful white, three-story hotel on the water with unrivaled views. It was a popular place for weddings in the summer and ran special fall and winter packages in the off-seasons to lure the mainlanders here.
Mrs. Krazinski worked at the front desk—mother of Lizzy Krizzy. “Hi, Mrs. K,” I said as I came in. Her name tag said “Donna.” Funny, how when you’re a kid, you never know the names of the adults.
“Hello there, Nora,” she said. “Your mother told me you were back for the summer! How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you? How’s Lizzy?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Lives in Connecticut now, works on Wall Street. Her husband stays home with their kids. Three of them now.” She whipped out her phone and flashed a picture of a smiling family at me. Lizzy looked just the same.
“Aw, that’s great. Tell her I said hi, will you?” Nice to hear she was doing well.
I remembered that their house has been listed as a rental. “So where are you and Mr. K living these days?” I asked. “I saw your house listed as a rental.”
“Well, we got a divorce about five years ago.”
“Shoot. I’m sorry. You know my mom. She’s not one to gossip.”
“Ayuh. I’ve got a little place here in town just around the corner from the Clam Shack. You here to see your mom, I’m guessing?”
“I am. Is she free?”
“Well, you know her. Always working. Go on in, honey.”
Mrs. K. She’d always been nice. I paused. “Mrs. Krazinski,” I said in a low voice, “I hope this doesn’t put you in an uncomfortable spot, since you work with Mom, but I was wondering if you ever heard anything about my father. Where he went after he left the island.”
Her brows drew together. “No, honey, I’m sorry. I never did. I used to ask your mom about it way back when, but she didn’t know much, either, and after a while, I just stopped asking. Figured if she wanted me to know, she’d have told me.”
Sounded like Mom, all right. “Well, I sure would love to know what happened, so if you think of anyone I could talk to...”
“Sure, honey. Now, go see your mom.”
I obeyed. My mother was sitting at her desk, a container of yogurt next to her on top of a pile of folders.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, Nora. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to say hello.”
“Oh. Well. Hello.”
My two burning questions—You getting any these days? and Whatever happened to Dad?—were too freaky to include in the same conversation. I decided to go with Operation Find Mom a Honey.
“I was wondering if you might want to come by the houseboat for dinner on Friday,” I said. “I’m having a little dinner party.” Not that I’d planned on it, but why not? Time to show off my new digs.
“I’m not much for parties, Nora.”
“Please come, Mother.” I stared at her.
“Well, what about Poe?”
“Poe can come, or she can stay by herself. She’s almost sixteen.”
“I have work to do.” She turned back to her computer.
“You always have work to do.”
“That’s right. So thanks all the same.”
“Mom. Come to my house for dinner. Please. For me.”
She sighed.
“Otherwise, I’ll be forced to show up at hug therapy and—”
“Fine, fine. I’ll come. What time? Don’t make it too late. I like to be in bed before nine-thirty.”
Victory. “Seven?”
“Are we in France or somethin’? Fine.”
Yoga breath, yoga breath. “Thanks, Mom. It’ll be nice.”
“Who else is coming?”
“Just a few friends.” Every unmarried man under the age of eighty I could find. I’d ask Mr. Dobbins (Bawb), our hug-hungry first selectman, and, uh...well, I’d find one or two more. I could think of three. I’d ask Xiaowen to come, and Gloria, too. My place could fit ten, I thought—Collier Rhodes hadn’t skimped on size.
A party would be fun. I did like to cook, and let’s face it, without Boomer, I was lonely.
Mission accomplished for the moment, I left the hotel and walked back to the clinic. The dogwoods along Main Street were blooming, their flowers seeming to float on the air in a way that never failed to charm me. I stopped in The Cracked Spine, bought the latest Stephen King novel (against my will, but the man had a hold on me). I added a few postcards of scenic Scupper Island to send to my Boston buddies.
“Where are you from?” the woman behind the desk asked as she rang me up. She looked familiar. Penny, that was her name. Penny Walters. She’d gone to the same church as we did. No kids, if I recalled.
“I’m from here, actually,” I said. “I’m Sharon Stuart’s daughter.”
“Oh, sure! I just love your daughter,” she said. “So nice to see a teenager who reads.”
“Poe is my niece,” I said. “I’m Nora, the other daughter.” At her blank stare, I added, “The doctor who lives in Boston. My mother has two daughters.”
“No, I remember. It’s just that you look very...young.”
“Thank you.”
It wasn’t that I looked young, I knew. It was that I wasn’t a fat kid with acne and bad hair anymore.
And I hadn’t been back in fifteen years. And my mother didn’t talk about me much, apparently.
Penny busied herself behind the counter.
The door opened, and in came Xiaowen. “Hey!” I said, brightening.
“Hey yourself. What did you buy? Oh, Stephen King. I hate that man.”
“I know. He’s crack. What are you looking for?”
“I made the sad mistake of loaning out Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my nephew, and guess who dropped it in the bathtub? He’s out of the will, let me tell you.”
“You loan out your Harry Potters?” I asked in horror.
“Not anymore. The little bastard owes me twenty-five bucks. Do you have it in stock?” she asked Penny. “Hardcover, of course.”
“I’ll order it for you,” Penny said.
Xiaowen sighed. “Well, there goes my weekend.”
“Listen,” I said, “just this once, I’ll loan you mine. But I expect you to treat it like the Book of Kells, okay?”
“I’ll wear gloves when reading it.”
“No food, water or fire near it.”
“I understand.” She smiled.
“What are you doing Friday night?” I asked. “I’m having a dinner party.”
“Like a real grown-up?”
“Exactly. Want to come?”
“Shit, yes! What time? And are you inviting men? Because I do have to warn you, I am not on the market, but they’ll all make a pass. My cross to bear—all straight men and half the gays want me.”
“Who can blame them?” I said, smiling.
“Are you girl-crushing on me? Who can blame you? I’d love to come! Any old classmates we can torture with how well we’ve aged?”
“Do you have anyone specific in mind?”
“Georgie Frank. God, I had the worst crush on him in high school. He still lives here, right?”
I grimaced. “Um...I don’t know. I can’t say I remember him.”
“You’re kidding! He was so hot. Receding hairline? Those big teeth? Come on! He was basically Neville Longbottom! Wouldn’t give me the time of day back then.”
“Oh, him! Yes, of course. I’ll give him a call.”
“Maybe the Fletcher boys, too. Who was the hot one? He was my lab partner. Mike?”
“Luke. I probably won’t ask him.” Nope, one doesn’t invite an asshole to one’s home.
“Oh, wait. You beat him out for something... What was it? A scholarship! You were the Perez Scholar! I forgot about that!”
“You did? I mean, weren’t you up for it, too?”
She snorted. “I’m sorry to say I didn’t have a tiger mom, Nora. She’s more like a kitten. My GPA was nowhere near yours. I was only good in math and science. I barely passed English and social studies, and not because I’m from China. Because I hated reading until J.K. Rowling showed me the light.”
“I’m closing for lunch,” Penny said. “If you ladies are finished...?”
“Fine, we’re leaving. Order me that book, okay? I’ll come get it next week.” She gave me a quick hug. “The oyster beds await. I’ll see you Friday. Want me to come early and lie around and drink wine and watch you do all the work?”
“I do!” I said. “I’m so glad you can come. This party just got much better.”
“It really did.” She grinned.
We left the shop, and Xiaowen got into her car, a sporty little silver Porsche, and pulled away from the curb.
My phone buzzed. Bobby, texting me a few pictures—Boomer lying in the middle of what was once our bed, his head on the pillow; Boomer at the Commons, sniffing a Chihuahua and looking very handsome. We miss you, read the text. Hope you’re having a good day.
I did not want to get back together with Bobby Byrne, I reminded myself.
Except we’d only had three normal months. If we could go back to how things had been...
But we couldn’t. He’d gotten tired of my woes after the home invasion. He’d fondled Jabrielle’s hair and flirted with her as I lay unconscious and bruised. He wasn’t worthy of me.
Still, it was disturbingly fantastic to know he wanted me back.
* * *
That night, I lay on the couch, nursing a glass of red wine for health, smugly satisfied with my dinner party plans. Guess who wasn’t married, even though he still wore a ring? Mr. Carver, he of the Viagra prescription (may Mrs. Carver rest in peace, but clearly he was ready to get back in the game, so...). And yes, he was free on Friday, if a little confused by my invitation.
Bob Dobbins said yes the second the words my mother left my lips. Also coming was Jake the grumpy ferryman, because he was also single (twice divorced, but I wasn’t judging). Hopefully, he would shower first, because based on the smell of him, it wasn’t a daily (or weekly) habit. So three eligible-ish men for my mother, plus Gloria, Xiaowen and myself.
Georgie Frank owned the hotel where my mother worked. Who knew? And according to his LinkedIn profile, he had grown into his looks, just like the actor who’d played Neville Longbottom. Unfortunately, he had another commitment that night, so I told him we’d have to get together with Xiaowen and catch up on old times. He sounded so nice.
It was funny how my memories were shifting now that I was back home. In high school, I’d felt like the loneliest girl in the world. But Georgie had sounded so happy to hear from me, I wondered if maybe I’d missed out on potential friends, too busy being miserable.
The birds were singing; Lily used to call them their pajama songs. How cute was that? On impulse, I got up and found one of the postcards I’d bought today. It was the gratuitous-sunset-over-the-harbor shot, the sailboats (all belonging to summer folk) reflected in the calm waters, the golden rocks and pine trees of the island behind them like a distant fortress.
Dear Lily,
The birds are singing their pajama songs, and the bats are out. The other day, I brought Poe to Eastman Hill. It was steeper than I remembered. You used to hold your arms out like you were flying, but you never fell. Dad never let you.
Love,
Nora
So what if she hadn’t written back? Or told Poe to say hi to me? Or contacted me in any way in the last five years? My sister was going to hear from me, damn it. I scrawled on the prison’s address, peeled off a stamp and shoved it in my purse so I could mail it tomorrow at Teeny Fletcher’s stupid little post office. I took a defiant sip of my wine. No one puts Nora in the corner.
Then, all of a sudden, the lights went out. I jumped and felt wine slosh on my shirt. Shit.
When I say it was dark, it was more than just the absence of light. It was as if the darkness had a texture and a sinister presence.
Also, I’d had a glass and a half of wine, started a Stephen King book and was slightly buzzed.
Without the hum of the fridge and water heater, without the little lights I took for granted—the laptop charger, the microwave clock, the smoke detector—I felt completely lost. I felt the houseboat move on the water in a way it didn’t seem to when I could see.
There was a thump on the dock. But that was normal, right? The dock and houseboat made noise all the time, thunking, squeaking, creaking. Maybe once in a while, thumping, too.
If only Boomer was here, I’d feel much, much safer.
My heart stuttered and sped. Not quite V-fib, but close.
The power is out, Nora. Get a grip. The electricity went out on a little island like this all the time. Sure it did. Practically everyone had a generator for storms—hurricanes and nor’easters in the fall, blizzards in the winter.
Except there was no storm now.
Had someone cut my power?
Luke Fletcher. Or...or him. Voldemort, he who could not be caught, thanks for nothing, Boston Police Department.
Could he have found me?
It was possible. He could’ve followed me here. If he was really obsessed with me, he could’ve figured it out. This time, there had been something public: the Scupper Island Weekly, which had an online version, had a snippet about me two weeks ago. Dr. Nora Stuart, a graduate of Scupper High, will be practicing medicine at the Ames Medical Clinic four days a week.
I whirled to look for my phone—it had a flashlight feature, God bless Apple—and slammed into the table, which was bolted to the floor. My breath hissed out of me. That’d leave a bruise for sure, but I couldn’t yelp, because if someone was out there, I didn’t want him to know where I was.
Crawl. Yes. That was a great idea. I wasn’t sure why, but everyone crawled in the movies, right? And maybe I wouldn’t crash into the table if I was on the floor.
I dropped to my knees and groped around. Where the hell had I left my phone? Table? Nope. Uh...couch? I crawled, my knee burning with pain. Right, right, I’d dislocated that sucker, hadn’t I? This made me try to crawl without using that knee, kind of humped up but still technically crawling, which made me feel like a werewolf in the throes of changing.
I groped. Groped some more. Nothing.
Shit! I banged my head on the coffee table. Must all the furniture be bolted to the floor? I mean, yes, I guess it did, since this was a houseboat, but it sure was inconvenient when crawling from a potential killer, wasn’t it?
I couldn’t find my phone.
But I knew exactly where my Smith & Wesson was, yessiree.
I crawl-hobbled to the hallway, hit my head on the wall—just call me Audrey Hepburn—and groped my way toward my bedroom, feeling for the door frame.
He dragged me by the legs down the hall. I grabbed onto the bathroom door frame, but my fingers weren’t strong enough.
Shit. Now was not the time for a flashback.
“You’re in Maine,” I whispered. “You’re okay. Get your gun and find your phone.”
There was another thump on the dock. Oh, God, oh, God. Now I was in my room, my knee on fire. I groped for the night table drawer, found it.
I stood up. I knew where I was now; my eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Like a ninja (with a bad knee and an intense case of the shakes and smelling of a plummy merlot with tobacco overtones), I shuffled back down the hall and crouched behind the kitchen counter. You’re a very brave, strong woman, Nora, I told myself. Myself didn’t believe me.
A man was coming down the dock, flashlight aimed at his feet.
Could I shoot a person? Someone who might be trying to kill me? What was the law in Maine about killing trespassers? Was it okay? Probably not. I mean, there were laws about killing moose. People were probably protected, too.
Also, there was that “first, do no harm” thing I’d sworn to. Shooting someone with a gun seemed like harm.
Calm down, Nora. Take a breath.
Before I let myself become Dirty Harry, I should probably know who was there.
“Nora?”
He knew my name, whoever he was. Luke knew my name.
So did the man who tried to kill me.
“Nora? It’s Sullivan Fletcher.”
“Oh, Jesus,” I said, slumping to the floor and letting the gun slide from my limp fingers.
“Nora, you home?” he called.
I hauled myself up and hobbled to the door. “Hi,” I said. He was silhouetted against the starry sky, but it was Sullivan, all right.
“Thought I’d check on you. I was at the boatyard.” Just then, the lights came back on, and I blinked. Sully frowned. “You okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
His gaze went to the kitchen floor. “That’s a very impressive gun there.”
“Yes. Yep.”
“You sure you’re okay? You look...out of sorts.”
Did I? I glanced at the mirror that hung to the left of the door. Oh, shit, yes, out of sorts was accurate. And generous. My hair had taken on the proportions of an unchecked tumbleweed, and my mascara was smeared under my eyes. My shirt had a splotch of red wine right over the boob. “I’m fine!” I said. “Just a little... Hi! How are you? Come in.”
He did, a bit warily.
“Can you give me a second? I, uh, I have to change.”
“Sure.”
I reached for the gun.
“Why don’t I get that?” he said, neatly intercepting me. He picked it up, took out the magazine, opened the chamber and removed that bullet, too. “I wasn’t planning on being shot today.”
“No. Me, neither.” I drew in a shuddering breath. “Right. Back in a flash.”
I went back into the bedroom and closed the door. Pulled off my clothes and hastily tugged on some yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, then grabbed my hair and gathered it into a ponytail. Ran some moisturizer under my eyes and wiped them clean with a tissue. My hands were still shaking a little.
Sully was sitting on the couch when I came out. Mr. Smith & Wesson was on the counter.
“So,” he said.
“Want a drink, Sully?”
“Sure.”
I grabbed him a beer—he seemed like a beer kind of guy—and got myself a glass of water and sat down in the chair opposite him.
We eyed each other for a minute. He took a sip of beer, then set it on the coffee table where I’d whacked my head. “You always answer the door with a gun?”
“Not always.”
“That thing would do some damage.”
“That’s why I have it.”
He was looking at me intently; right, he had hearing loss, so he probably needed to watch my mouth when I talked.
It was a little unsettling.
“How are your ears?” I asked, then closed my eyes. “I mean your hearing. How is it?” I looked at him, feeling my cheeks blaze.
He didn’t answer. I hoped he hadn’t heard me, then felt guilty for hoping that.
“How’s Audrey? I mean, is she alone? With the power out?”
“She’s with her mother.”
“Oh, good! That’s great, I mean, because you said they didn’t spend a lot of...well! That’s nice! That they’re hanging out.” I took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly.
There was no threat to me. I could relax. I was fun. I was brave and smart.
“How are you, Sully?”
His eyes crinkled the slightest bit. “I’m fine.”
“Good.”
His smile grew. Not by much, but by enough. That was a good face, especially with the smile. A calm face. A nice face.
“Do you want to have dinner here on Friday?” I asked on impulse. “I’m having a little party.”
“Sure.”
“You don’t have to come, but—oh. Great. Um, seven o’clock.” He said yes. That was... That was really nice.
He looked at me steadily. I guess he had to, what with the hearing loss. I took a breath, trying for normal. “Can I ask you some questions, Sully?”
“Go for it.”
“What’s it like? Not hearing?”
He looked at his beer. “Well, I can hear, obviously. Just...not that well. Not at all on the right. It’s getting worse on the left.” He took a pull of beer. “Some words cut out or get fuzzy. I have to string things together. Sometimes I get it wrong, especially when I’m tired.”
So he had auditory processing disorder in addition to true deafness on the right. Very common for a traumatic brain injury. “Do you lip-read?”
“Ayuh.”
“What about sign language?”
“I’m starting that. Audrey, too.”
The picture of them learning sign language together made my heart swell painfully. “Sullivan, I’m so sorry about that accident.”
“Already told you it wasn’t your fault.”
“But I was...involved.”
“No, you weren’t.”
Again, he was being generous. “Well. It feels like I was.”
“Can I ask you something now?” he said.
“Sure.”
“Why are you afraid of the dark? Power goes out all the time here. You know that.”
I hesitated. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?” He nodded and I trusted him. Audrey’s dad, after all. Good old Sullivan, the quiet one. “I, uh...I had an experience last year. A bad one.”
“What kind of experience?”
“The not-good kind.” I pulled a face, trying to make light of it. The less said, the better as far as I was concerned.
He didn’t say anything for a second, and I wondered if he’d heard me.
“Were you hurt?” he asked.
A memory of my face, purple and blue, the cut on my jaw, my left eye swollen shut, came back to me. Those days when only my schizophrenic hair made me believe it was me in the mirror. “A little bit.”
He didn’t ask any more, and I loved him for that. “But here you are,” he said.
It wasn’t a lot, those words, but somehow, they steadied me.
Bobby used to hold me close and murmur that he was here, I was safe, he’d never let anyone hurt me. At the time I’d been so, so grateful to have him there, feeling like a broken bird, needing him to a degree that made me feel weak.
Sully and his calm brown eyes...they said something different. I wasn’t sure what, but it was something better.
“You all set here?” he asked rather abruptly. “Now that the lights are back on?”
“Yes. Thank you. Thank you so much, Sullivan. For checking on me.”
He pulled out his wallet and took out a card. “That’s my landline and the boatyard phone. You have my cell,” he said. “If you ever need anything, call me.” He put the card on the counter, then looked at me again. “Good night.”
With that he left, his work boots thunking on the dock. After a second, I heard his truck start up. The sound faded into the distance, and all was quiet again.
A half an hour before, I’d been so scared I’d almost shot my old classmate. Now, however, I was just fine.