The Missing Year (7 page)

Guy was right.

Ross re-reviewed Lila’s chart and found that she had never been carbon monoxide toxic. Despite her well-researched attempt—the right car, no catalytic converter—she had been found quickly and treated immediately.

DNS would have been an easy solution, something treatable, or at the very least recognizable, but Lila’s condition wasn’t black and white. Every possible diagnosis Ross could think of had already been ruled out, leaving him with a series of dead ends and the likelihood that whatever was wrong with Lila couldn’t be gleaned from reading her medical records.

Ross peeled the sticky note off the back of the monitor and powered up his laptop, entering “password” on the main login screen. Updates applied and the machine restarted. Ross unpacked the bonsai kit and potted the tiny Juniper tree while he waited. However Guy meant the gift, which had so far gone unacknowledged between them, Ross planted the tree as a declaration that he was up for the challenge. He brushed his hands off and clicked the icon to open an internet browser before typing in: “Blake Wheeler shooting Edinburgh.”

The search string returned both local and national news coverage, most of the headlines referring to Blake as not only a victim, but as a hero. A local bit from the Edinburgh Times elaborated:

“Tragedy strikes our local community as thirty-four-year-old Dr. Blake Wheeler fights for his life following a shooting that occurred in rural Edinburgh earlier this morning. Eyewitness accounts indicate that Dr. Blake Wheeler attempted to subdue the alleged shooter when a young family, passing through town during a cross-country move, entered the convenience store during an attempted robbery.

‘Our four-year-old daughter had to go to the bathroom,’ the mother exclaimed when asked what prompted the late night stop. ‘We were headed to the back of the store when the shooter stopped us, holding us at gunpoint. If it hadn’t been for one man’s intervention, we might have died that night. My heart goes out to the victim’s family. For what he did for us and our daughter, we owe him our lives.’

Eighteen-year-old Garrett Wade, a once prominent high school athlete, is alleged to have held up the Express Mart on Connecticut Avenue following a two day drug-fueled crime spree. Several local residences had been burglarized and authorities speculate that the attempted robbery may have been drug-related. The alleged shooter has been moved to the Saratoga County Correctional Facility pending trial.

Dr. Blake Wheeler remains at Merrick Memorial hospital, listed in critical condition.”

A black and white police photo of an acne-scarred teen with a mop of messy curls and the face of a scared child had Ross feeling worse about the circumstances. The young man reminded him of Arlene Pope and the lives ruined by her poor decision. Ross clicked the back arrow and returned to the search results, skimming the subsequent articles for variations on the same story. There were few details other than that Blake had been listed in critical condition.

Ross typed in a second search string: “Blake Wheeler Obituary.”

Far fewer results returned. Blake’s obituary appeared in only a couple of local papers. The larger news outlets that had reported the initial shooting didn’t bother following up on Blake’s death. Ross printed a copy of the obituary for his records.

“Blake C. Wheeler, M.D. left this earth to be with his lord and savior on September 14, 2013 at the age of thirty-four. Born on October 18, 1979 to Ruth and Charles Wheeler, Blake was a lifelong Edinburgh resident.

A graduate of New York Medical College, Blake continued his surgical residency training at New York University, specializing in General Surgery.

Blake is preceded in death by his father, Charles Wheeler, and is survived by his loving wife, Lila, and his mother, Mrs. Ruth Wheeler.”

Wake, funeral, interment, and reception details followed, the last line of which caught Ross’s attention:

“In lieu of customary remembrances, donations may be made to the Huntington’s Disease Society of America.”

Huntington’s—a terminal neurodegenerative disorder—seemed an unusual choice of charities for a general surgeon. Ross prepared to go see Lila, wondering if there was a story behind that.

It wasn’t a question he intended to lead with.

Psychologists call it the “Benjamin Franklin Effect,” asking someone for a favor in order to gain their trust. Benjamin Franklin had once asked to borrow a rare book from a man he didn’t get along with. The man, feeling that he had something of value, obliged, dissolving the tension between them. People see being asked a favor as a sign of admiration or respect. They have something someone else wants. They justify doing the favor because they need to believe they like the person asking.

In Lila’s case, Ross wanted her to talk to him, to open up, and to eat something before she starved to death. He called for Eddie to meet him outside her room with a lunch tray and was pleased to find the bespectacled redhead waiting for him when he arrived.

“Lunch is served,” Eddie said, handing off the tray with a smile. “Good luck getting her to eat it.”

“Thanks.” Ross balanced the uneven weight and knocked on Lila’s partially closed door.

The rooms at Lakeside were single occupancy. The stark white paint job and pale bedding were similar to the hospital rooms Ross was used to, but the atmosphere was more homelike. Built in furniture lined the left hand wall. Bookshelves, a dresser, and desk were all fixed in place without handles as a safety precaution. A neatly made platform bed sat in the center of the room, Lila’s crocheted blanket folded at the foot of it.

“Hello,” Ross said.

Lila faced out the window with the familiar distant gaze. Her dark hair had been brushed back from her face and tied into a loose braid that emphasized the hollowness in her cheeks. Fine lines worked their way from the outside corners of her blue eyes and her stare fixed on something in the distance.

“Lila, do you remember me? We met this morning. My name’s Dr. Ross Reeves, but you can call me Ross if you’d like.” He set the tray on the table next to her and lifted the plastic lid off lunch, a pallid turkey and cheese on white bread and some chips. He poured out a foil-sealed apple juice into a Styrofoam cup. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?”

Nothing about her expression said he was welcome or otherwise.

Ross sat in a chair facing her. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Lila blinked.

“Fall has always been my favorite season. What’s yours?”

If their meeting was a cartoon, the soundtrack would be crickets.

Ross looked out the window. “You have a nice view from here, huh?”

Lila pushed the tray of food away and went to sit on her bed. She picked up a book off her nightstand and began reading.

Ross sighed.

It was time to employ the Ben Franklin.

Ross moved the food tray to within Lila’s reach, dragged his chair to her bedside, and threw himself at her mercy.

“Lila, I need to ask you a favor.”

She glanced over the top of her book and returned to her reading.

“Since I’m new here,” Ross spoke softly, “on a probationary period, so to speak, it would look good for me if I got you to eat. Not a lot if you don’t want to, but something. You’d really be helping me out.”

Lila’s eyes moved back and forth across the page, offering no indication that she planned to do as he asked or not.

“A bite or two? Maybe? It would prove to Dr. Oliver that he made the right decision bringing me here.”

Nothing.

“I understand. You don’t owe me anything. I’ll leave you to your reading.” Ross stood to leave, only looking back when he was about to enter the hallway.

Lila turned the page of her book, glanced in his direction, and reached for the sandwich.

The first day had gone better than expected. Getting Lila to eat reminded Ross that he needed food back at the motel. The nearest grocery store with any selection was twelve miles away, in Lake Placid, not far from his hometown. As he arrived, he realized he probably should have waited until the evening rush died down.

The supermarket plaza bustled.

Ross circled the parking lot twice before finding a spot and was about to get out of the car when his cell phone rang, the number on the caller ID causing him to momentarily hold his breath.

Mattie.

It had taken her almost exactly forty-eight hours to either notice he was gone, or to cool off enough to want to talk to him.

Ross had left Chicago without telling her where he was headed or why. Now that he was there, he wasn’t sure he could make her believe it wasn’t to do with Sarah. Yes, he had taken a temporary position at Lakeside, but that he and Sarah had started their life together in New York, that he hadn’t been back since her burial, and that he seemed to have returned at a time when she was the only thing on his mind was coincidental, even to him. He sent the call to voice mail and waited until the screen cleared to listen to what Mattie had to say.

“Ross, it’s me. I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have come to your house, or pushed you to choose … to make an impossible choice. I don’t blame you for lashing out. I … I miss you. And I’m worried. Where are you? Please call me when you get this message.”

The voicemail was the opposite of what he was expecting, but that was Mattie. She had her own way of handling things.

Ross’s, for now, was avoidance.

He exited the car, took a cart from the corral two spaces away, and went inside.

Five years was a long time to be away from a town as small as the one he and Sarah were from. He wondered what kind of conclusions people had drawn in his absence. Rural communities specialized in milling gossip.

Entering the supermarket, Ross considered his limited dinner options, mentally listing the meals he could make with one pot, one pan, a spoon, a spatula, and a strainer. He grabbed a loaf of bread from the bakery, spaghetti sauce, ziti, and was headed for the meat case to get a pound of ground beef when someone called out to him.

“Ross? Ross Reeves, is that you?”

He froze, not immediately turning around.

“It
is
you,” the woman said in one of her many theater accents.

“Hello, Camille.”

Of course he’d run into Sarah’s best friend since grade school.

The wheels of Camille’s cart thudded against the tile floor fast enough that he knew better than to try and evade her. She was in full costume, her claim to fame being performing as a community theater regular. The woman was addicted to assuming alternate personalities.

“Camille Grant, as I live and breathe.”

The mid-forties blond held up her empty left hand and pointed at her ring finger. “I’m back to McKenzie,” she said, tugging at the hem of her dress in a way that emphasized what appeared to be a set of enhanced breasts. “Sounds better on stage, anyway.”

“Then I guess I won’t ask how Adrian’s doing.”

“I couldn’t answer you if you did.”

A young boy, who Ross guessed to be about three-years-old, grabbed Camille’s hand and hid behind her.

“Cute kid,” Ross said, at a loss for anything else.

“Oh, thanks.” Camille pulled a face. “But he’s not mine. He’s Viv’s. I’m watching him until she gets off work. She should be here any minute.”

Vivian McKenzie, Camille’s sister, would have been voted the one least likely to reproduce had year book committees been more forward thinking. Instead, she’d been labeled “Most likely to be incarcerated,” a title Viv proudly accepted.

“Viv’s married?”

Camille rolled her eyes. “No. It’s a long story.”

With Viv, it almost always was.

Ross shook his head, unable to digest the news. “Viv, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“I know, right?” Camille smiled, her teeth as white as the sash on her v-neck blue dress. Her long hair was the exact shade of blond Ross remembered her bleaching it to in the seventh grade. A lot of changes had taken place over that summer, not just for Camille, but for Sarah, too, who had been the first girl to attract his attention. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing back?” she said.

Ross shrugged. “I’m helping with a patient at Lakeside.”

A psychiatric facility in a town as small as Mirror Lake didn’t need more than a mention. People knew well what and where it was.

“Are you here for good?”

“No. Definitely not. Six weeks max, depending. I’m staying at Peak View.”

Camille wrinkled her nose. “Eww. What about Chicago? You work for a hospital there, right?”

“It’s a long story,” Ross said, using her words against her.

“Mommy!” A smile spread across the timid boy’s face as a dyed redhead wearing enormous hoop earrings and tiny shorts with the pockets hanging out the bottom rushed down the aisle toward them.

“Viv?” Ross couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Viv ruffled the boy’s hair as she apologized to Camille. Her voice was deeper than Ross remembered, probably from the cigarettes he could smell on her breath. “Goddamned court again. The asshole, of course, didn’t show up. Like I have the kind of cash to pay for everything on a part-time job.”

Camille covered the boy’s ears.

If it weren’t at the exact moment Vivian recognized Ross, he wasn’t confident Viv would have taken the hint that she shouldn’t have been disparaging the boy’s father in front of him.

“Ross Reeves is that you?” she said.

“In the flesh.”

“Are you
back
?”

“That’s the burning question, isn’t it?” he said. “No. I’m not back.”

“Logan’s had lunch, but he’s hungry,” Camille interrupted. “You had better get him home and get him something to eat.” She ushered Viv away.

“Nice seeing you again.” Ross waved to Viv, who scowled at Camille over her shoulder.

“You, too,” Viv said, rolling her eyes.

“I’m so sorry about that.” Camille couldn’t hide her embarrassment. “Family Court stuff, and Logan.”

Ross couldn’t imagine anyone dressed the way Viv was dressed coming off as the “responsible parent.”

“She wore that to court?”

Camille nodded. “Really says something, right? You’ve missed a lot.”

“Apparently.”

“Speaking of missing ….” Camille made a show of surveying his cart. “That’s not much food. Shopping for one?” she asked, prying the way small town women do.

Ross nodded. “Yep.”

“Then you don’t have plans?”

“For when?”

“For right now?”

“I guess not,” he said.

“Why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”