Moonlight on Butternut Lake (27 page)

G
oddamned waste of time,
Brandon thought, as he dropped some quarters in the vending machine slot and pushed the “coffee” button. This was the third time in the last ten days that he'd been at the bus station, showing Mila's picture around to ticket agents, bus drivers, maintenance people, and even, as it turned out, the occasional homeless person and vagrant. And so far . . . nothing. Not a single hit. So either Mila had never been to this dump before, or all the morons who worked here, and all the losers who hung out here, had lousy memories. As he heard the plunk of the paper cup landing and the hiss of the coffee filling it up, he remembered what Ed Tuck had said about knowing when to quit.

That smug bastard,
he fumed. There was no way he was taking his advice. No way in hell. Because while the nine weeks that Mila had been gone might feel like a long time, it wasn't long enough for her trail to be completely cold. It wasn't enough time for her to completely disappear. There was still somebody out there, somewhere, who knew where she'd gone and how she'd gotten there. He reached down and picked up the cup of coffee and took a
tentative sip. He grimaced. It was awful. He tossed it angrily in a nearby garbage can and then shoved the whole can over, littering the floor with empty soda cans and crumpled chip bags.

“Whoa, what do you think you're doing?” a cop said, materializing out of nowhere. “Pick that up now and put the garbage back in it.”

So he took a deep breath and waited while his vision cleared. “Officer, I'm sorry,” he said. “I lost my temper. I'm having a bad day.”

“Well, go have a bad day somewhere else,” the cop said.

“Yes, sir,” Brandon said, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He must have succeeded, because the cop didn't say anything else. He just waited while Brandon picked up the garbage can and put whatever had spilled out of it back into it.

The cop, satisfied, nodded toward the exit. “Now, get lost,” he growled. And Brandon, in a cold sweat, headed toward the exit.
That was close,
he told himself. He'd had a thing about cops since he'd gotten arrested a few years ago, before he'd met Mila. An ex-girlfriend of his had stupidly called the cops, and because it was a Friday night he'd spent the weekend in jail. He hadn't known then he was claustrophobic. He knew it now. Just the thought of being in a jail cell again made his skin crawl.

He pushed through the bus station door, but once outside, he took a quick look over at the bus bay and saw, almost immediately, a bus driver, a white-haired old guy, he'd never seen before. He was helping passengers unload their baggage. Brandon waited until he was done, glanced around to make sure the cop wasn't around, and then walked over to him.

“Excuse me, um, Bob,” he said, reading the man's name tag, and smiling the smile he reserved for those occasions when he wanted something from someone. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“You can ask,” the man said mildly. “But I'm going off duty soon.”

“This'll just take a minute,” Brandon said, keeping the smile fixed in place as he reached into his blue jeans back pocket and took out the photo of Mila. It was one he'd taken of her soon after they'd met. He'd surprised her that day with a picnic in the country, and in the picture she was sitting on a blanket, smiling into the camera. He couldn't look at it now without feeling a wave of fury. Blind, hot fury. They'd been so happy together. Both of them. But her especially. All you needed to do was look at her to see how happy she'd been then. So why had she gone and wrecked everything by leaving him?

But as he held the photograph up for the driver to see now, he was careful not to look at it himself. He needed to stay focused on the task at hand. “Have you seen this woman before?” he asked. “She might have taken a bus from this station several weeks ago. Probably around the first week of June.”

Bob considered the picture. “May I?” he asked, reaching for it.

“Of course,” Brandon said, letting him take it. Inwardly, he seethed, He hated old people. They were so slow. This guy, for instance, was acting as if he had all the time in the world. Whereas Brandon needed to get back to work. Either that, or get fired for taking too much time off.

“Why are you trying to find her?” Bob asked now, glancing up from the picture. “I mean, if you don't mind my asking.”

“I don't mind,” Brandon lied.
You nosy bastard.
“I'm looking for her because she's sick. She's very sick.”

“She looks okay to me,” Bob said.

“Mentally, I mean. Mentally, she's very sick,” Brandon said quickly. “She's had some kind of a psychotic break. She could be a danger to others, and she's definitely a danger to herself. We
need to bring her back home so she can get the treatment she needs.” He tried out his concerned expression on Bob.

“I see,” Bob said. “And you are?”

“Me? I'm her brother.”

Bob took one last look at the picture and shook his head. “I've never seen her before. And if I
had
seen her, I'd remember her. I have an excellent memory for faces.”

“Well, aren't you lucky, Bob,” Brandon muttered, not bothering to be polite anymore. And as he stuck the photo back into his pocket he thought about how good it would feel right now to punch Bob. A hard, clean punch, right to the jaw. Or no, on second thought, a one-two punch, right into that doughy stomach of his. But he remembered the cop and turned away from Bob.

He'd had enough of the bus station for one day, he decided. In the meantime, he'd go back to the apartment tonight and ransack the place again. There must be something, however small, that he'd missed the first two times he'd done it.

“It ain't over till it's over, Mila,” he muttered, heading back down the block. “And it ain't over yet. Not by a long shot.”

A
nd the dreams? What about the dreams? Are they becoming less frequent?” Dr. Immerman asked, leaning back in his swivel chair.

“The dreams . . . the dreams are definitely getting better,” Reid said, after a moment's hesitation. He hadn't really been listening to what Dr. Immerman was saying. He'd been thinking about Mila, who was sitting in the waiting room, on the other side of the office door. But now, with a conscious effort, he turned his mind back to the therapy session. “It's been at least a couple of days since I had one of the dream,” he said. “And it was different from the others.”

“Different how?” Dr. Immerman asked. He was already familiar with the content of Reid's dreams. Reid had described each one of them to him, several times over, in what had sometimes felt, to Reid, like excruciating detail.

“Different because even as I was having it, I knew, somehow, it wasn't real. I knew that I would wake up from it eventually.”

Dr. Immerman nodded. “That's good. That's very good, Reid.”

“It
is
good,” Reid said, though there was also a downside to
it he wouldn't be discussing with Dr. Immerman. Now that the dreams were less violent and less prolonged, Mila had stopped sleeping in his room at night. The last time she'd slept there, in fact, had been a week ago, the night the cabin's alarm had gone off. Since then he'd been careful to give her the space and the time he sensed she needed. It hadn't been easy, though. There were times when he wanted her so badly that he experienced it almost as a kind of pain. A
different
kind of pain, it was true. A
new
kind of pain. But a pain just the same.

He sensed now that Dr. Immerman was waiting for him to say something more, and, as it turned out, he did have something more to say, he just didn't know how to say it. “There's, uh, something else I wanted to tell you,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in the armchair he was sitting in. He wasn't very good at apologizing. He never had been, and he probably never would be. But there were times like now when it couldn't be avoided. “I wanted to say that I was sorry for not being fair to you. At least not during our first few appointments.”

“How so?” Dr. Immerman asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, for one thing, I was pretty cynical about this whole process. And I didn't try to hide it either.”

“You were entitled to your cynicism,” Dr. Immerman said mildly.

“Maybe. But I was also here under false pretenses.”

Now Dr. Immerman cocked an eyebrow.

“I . . . I wasn't here because I thought I had a problem,” Reid admitted. “I was here because . . .” He smiled, remembering the first night he and Mila had spent together. “I was here because I was bribed.”

Dr. Immerman eyebrows came together to form a V, something they did when they were waiting for more information. It
was amazing how expressive the man's eyebrows could be, Reid thought. Because of them, he was able to speak whole sentences without saying a single word.

“Mila told me I needed to come here,” Reid explained. “
Had
to come here, actually,” he added, glancing in the direction of the waiting room. “So when I agreed to come here that first time, and when I agreed to come back after that, and to come twice a week after
that
. . .” He shrugged. “I did it, at first, to make Mila happy.”

“Mila is the woman who brings you to your appointments?” Dr. Immerman clarified.

Reid nodded.

Dr. Immerman's eyebrows came together now. “Well, I think we can both agree that the reason why you initially came here is less important than the fact that you did.”

Reid nodded. That sounded sensible. Despite his previous skepticism about therapists and therapy, Reid had to admit that almost everything Dr. Immerman
said sounded sensible.

“We only have a few more minutes left of your session, Reid,” he said now, glancing at the clock on the wall, “but I wanted to talk to you about something new today. Something we haven't talked about before. There may not be time to cover it all now, in which case, we can pick up wherever we left off at our next session.”

“Okay,” Reid said, his old wariness returning. For some reason he didn't like the sound of this.

But Dr. Immerman pressed on. “I wanted to talk about the night of the accident.”

“Is there anything left to talk about?” Reid asked. “I mean, we've already been over it so many times.”

“I don't want to talk about the accident itself,” Dr. Immerman said. “Or the aftermath of it. Not right now. I want to talk about what happened
before
the accident.”

“Before the accident?”

“Yes. About the events leading up to it.”

“I don't know what you mean by ‘events,'” Reid said, focusing not on Dr. Immerman but on the wall above him and slightly to the right of him.

“I mean, what you were doing before you drove off the road that night. Before you got in your car, even.”

“I wasn't drinking, if that's what you're thinking.”

“That's not what I'm thinking.”

“And I wasn't texting, either. That's everybody's second guess.”

“Well, it wasn't mine. You mentioned to me once that you may have fallen asleep at the wheel. Is that really what you think happened?”

“No,” Reid said, a dull, almost numb feeling settling over him. “No, that's what I tell people. But that's not what happened.”

“What did happen?” Dr. Immerman asked gently, his eyebrows knitting themselves into a totally new formation.

But now it was Reid's turn to check the time. “Aren't we done here?”

“Not quite.”

“So we still have enough time left for me to have a major psychological breakthrough?” he joked.

“We might,” Dr. Immerman said. But he wasn't smiling. He, and his eyebrows, looked completely serious.

S
everal days later, on a sultry August afternoon, Reid sat at his desk in the study trying to concentrate on a financial statement Walker had e-mailed him. Lonnie had already left, and Mila was at Allie and Walker's cabin for a swimming lesson. It
had been threatening to storm since morning, but Allie had still wanted Mila to come over. She felt guilty about only having had time to teach her one stroke so far, and she was hoping, because Mila was such a quick learner, that she could teach her another one before the end of summer.

The end of summer . . . that was one subject that Reid and Mila had never discussed. She hadn't brought it up, and he'd sensed that she hadn't wanted him to bring it up either. Still, it was already the second week in August. They couldn't keep pretending that summer wouldn't be ending soon, could they? Then again, he thought, maybe they could. And he remembered, for some reason, the adorable little freckles he'd noticed on her shoulder the last time he'd seen her in her nightgown. But just as he was making a mental note to kiss each one of those freckles the next time he got the chance, there was a tap on the study door.
Walker,
he thought. He'd asked him to come by on his way home from work.

“Come on in,” Reid called, and his brother came in, looking for all the world like the kid Reid had grown up with. He'd been working on his own restoration project at the boatyard, apparently, because he was wearing a ratty T-shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, and he looked happy. The way he looked when he was with his family or working on a boat. And Reid felt a sudden protectiveness over his brother, and a sudden regret at what he had to tell him now. Was it really necessary? he wondered. But he knew it was. Reid needed to tell him this, and Walker needed to hear it. Right now, though, it was hard for Reid to know what would be worse. The telling or the hearing.

“Hey, Reid,” Walker said, dragging a chair over to the desk. “What's up?” And when Reid didn't answer him right away, he asked. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Yeah, um, about that,” Reid said, struggling with how to begin.

“Does this have anything to do with what happened between you and Mila after the swimming demonstration?” Walker asked, sitting down.

“Yes and no,” Reid said.

“Because we still haven't talked about that,” Walker reminded him.

Reid nodded, but he couldn't, for the life of him, think how to begin.

Walker shifted around in his chair. “Are you going to tell me what this is about or not?”

“I'll get to it,” Reid said, marveling at the fact that he and Walker seemed to have changed places over the course of the summer. Before the accident, Reid had been the one who was always impatient, always in a hurry, always rushing from one place to another, and Walker was the one who was always counseling patience. And now? Well, there was nothing like spending time in a wheelchair to teach someone the true meaning of patience.

Now Reid took a deep breath. He'd start at the beginning, he decided. The beginning of that night. The night that ended with him trapped in the wreckage of his car at the bottom of a ravine. “The night of the accident,” he said, “I was at a bar and I saw—”

But Walker cut him off. “You were at a bar? You told me you weren't drinking that night.”

Reid shook his head. “I wasn't. I mean, I ordered a drink, but I left before I could drink it.”

“So no drunk driving?”

“No.”

“Good, Because I can't tell you how many people have asked me
if you'd been drinking that night. And I've told them all no. So you better not have been lying to me.”

“No, I wasn't lying about that. But I was lying when I told you I may have fallen asleep at the wheel.”

Walker raised his eyebrows. “So . . . what happened?”

“Me. I happened. I was . . . I was in a bad place when I got into my car that night. A very dark place, I guess you'd say.”

Walker looked alarmed. “You're not saying that you did it on purpose, are you?”

“That I was suicidal? No, of course not.”

“Good,” Walker said, relieved. “Because that's the other question people have asked me.”

Reid sighed. He'd tried to go back to the beginning, but he realized now he hadn't gone back far enough. “Okay, look,” he said, starting again. “I'd gone to a bar that night, not to drink, but to meet a woman, a woman I'd met at my gym. I'd said we should go out sometime, and she'd suggested this bar. Anyway, I was running late that night, so she was waiting when I got there. She'd already ordered a drink, so as soon as I sat down with her I ordered a whiskey and . . .” He stopped, wishing he had a whiskey now. He was as nervous as hell . . .

“Christ, Reid,” Walker grumbled. “Can you just get this story over with already?”

“Yeah, all right,” he said, determined to keep going this time. “Anyway, the bar we were in wasn't just a bar, it was a restaurant, too. A nice one. A little fancier than I'm used to, than I
prefer,
actually, but like I said, I didn't choose it. So we're sitting there, my date and I, and the hostess brings this party of three in and seats them at one of the tables in the bar area. They have a dinner reservation, but their table isn't ready yet, so they're going to have a drink there while they wait, and . . .”

“And?”

“And one of them . . . one of the members of the party of three was dad.”

“Oh,” Walker said, his face falling.

“Yeah. ‘Oh.' That was about my reaction too.”

“What was he doing there?”

“He was there with his wife, Crystal, and their daughter. Our half sister. You know, the one dad never introduced us to?”

“I know,” Walker said tensely. And then, “And you recognized him? After all this time?”

“Yeah, I did. He didn't look that different, actually. A little thicker around the middle, maybe. A little balder. And the hair that was left, a little grayer. But, yeah, basically, he looked the same.” He leaned back in the swivel chair and tried to find a more comfortable position for his leg. “So they're sitting there, at this little table, the three of them, and I realized it's a special occasion. Crystal has a cake box with her, and she asks the hostess if she'll take it to the kitchen. Then, when the cocktail waitress comes over to ask if they want anything to drink, Dad makes a big deal about ordering a bottle of champagne. He says it's to celebrate his daughter Chloe's graduation from college.”

“Chloe,” Walker repeated, softly, almost to himself.

Reid nodded. “You knew that was her name, didn't you?”

Walker nodded. “I remember when she was born. I remember because after that, Dad stopped seeing us. Or
trying
to see us, anyway, since he and Mom were always fighting about it. And then after that, they moved to a different suburb,” he said, with a little shrug, “and that was it. Well, except for that time I saw Dad at that Minnesota Twins game. But he didn't have Chloe with him then . . .” His voice trailed off, and then he said, with renewed interest, “What does she look like, Reid?”

“Chloe? She looks a lot like you, actually.”

“She does?” Walker said, fascinated.

“She does. A feminine version of you, of course. She's very pretty. But back to the story. So Dad orders a bottle of champagne, and the waitress asks him what kind of champagne he wants. And Dad says—I swear to God, he says this—‘Just bring us the most expensive bottle you have.' I almost fell out of my chair. ‘The most expensive bottle you have'? This from the man who had to be taken to court to make him pay a couple of hundred dollars a month in child support? That bottle probably cost more than a whole
month
of child support.”

“Probably,” Walker muttered. And then, “Did he see you, Reid?”

“No. Not then. Not later, either. I mean, I was staring at them the whole time. And I wasn't more than fifteen feet away from them. And not once did any of the three of them even notice me. They were so absorbed in each other. So happy, Walk. It was like they were in their own little world. And the whole time, Dad was just beaming at her. At Chloe. He was so proud of her. You could tell. And when the champagne came, he asked the waitress to let him open the bottle and fill the glasses, and then he made this toast about her. About what a great kid she'd always been, and what a great adult she was going to be. Stuff like that. And Crystal keeps reaching over and patting his hand. And then I realize that Chloe's tearing up. She's so touched by this display of fatherly devotion that she's actually crying. And I'm sitting there, staring at him, and thinking. ‘What about us, Dad? What about me and Walker? Where were you when we graduated from high school? Or college? Where were you for our Little League games? Or birthday parties? Or sports banquets? And where the hell were you for every other goddamn thing that happened to
us after you left? And what was it that Chloe had that we didn't have?'”