“Don’t worry about it. I’m paid up all through the week with the sitter, and besides, you look exhausted, Georg.”
Georg didn’t argue with her point and opened her car door. She then opened the sliding door on the van and let Millie out, who raced up to the front porch. Georgia leaned over to kiss both of the girls in their car seats, their sun-kissed arms outstretched to her. Then she walked around to Virginia on the driver’s side, the heat of the van’s engine hitting her exposed legs.
Virginia put down the window. “You gonna be okay here?” she asked.
Georgia looked over to the driveway and saw her dad’s parked car. “Yeah. Dad’s home now. And I’ve got Millie, too.” Her eyes wandered over to the porch where Millie was sitting, patiently waiting to be let in so she could finally sleep in her own bed.
“Dad’s probably asleep, though,” Virginia said.
Georgia shrugged. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry, Virginia.”
The concern in her sister’s eyes didn’t diminish, though. “Just get some rest today and take it easy. Try not to think of last night.”
“I’ll try. You’d better get going. I don’t want you to be late to work,” Georgia said.
“Okay. Well…I’ll see you later.”
“Sounds good, Virginia.”
Virginia shifted the van’s gears and turned the wheel to pull out back onto the street. “Love you, Georg,” she called out as she began to put up the window.
“Love you, too.” Georgia stepped back and the van drove off. She watched the van drive down Magnolia Lane, the hum of its engine becoming more and more distant. As the van turned off the lane and disappeared from view, it felt suddenly quiet without the company of her sister and the twins. Georgia sighed and looked up at the house. She wondered how her dad was doing.
She walked up the path to the porch and unlocked the front door, letting Millie in first. As she shut the door and locked it behind her, she listened for her dad. Except for the droning sound of the air conditioner, all was silent. Dad would definitely be asleep, she thought to herself.
She went into the kitchen and poured a glass of water, downing the entire glass as she stood over the sink. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She was tired, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
Georgia went upstairs, skipping the creaky step. She tiptoed down the hall and went into her room, gently closing the door behind her. Looking around the room, she saw that she had neglected her laundry over the last few days. Various shirts, shorts, and socks had been strewn about in her haste to get ready for work early in the mornings. As she picked up her clothes around the room, she decided to do a load of laundry. Surely her dad would have a few things that needed washing, as well.
Once Georgia had collected all of her dirty clothes, she made her way towards the door, but then remembered the clothes she was wearing. She stopped, realizing she should probably wash them, as well. She dropped the pile of dirty clothes back onto the floor and stripped off her own before changing into fresh, clean clothes. Bending down, Georgia scooped up the laundry again, not noticing the little slip of paper that had fallen out from her clothing and fluttered down to the floor.
She made her way downstairs to the laundry room. After Georgia had deposited her laundry into the washer, she checked the laundry basket. Seeing that it was nearly full, she began to transfer her dad’s laundry into the machine, but stopped when she saw the deep red bloodstain on her dad’s shirt. She gasped as her fingers brushed the spot of blood on the front of his uniform shirt. No doubt it was Dr. Young’s blood. Staring at the khaki shirt, she noticed more blood along the arms, closer to the wrists where the cuffs were.
Vivid images of a blood-soaked Dr. Young splayed across the front seat in his Cadillac ran through her mind. Dropping the laundry onto the floor, Georgia put her head in her hands as she fought the graphic, gruesome memory in her mind, trying to push it away. She envisioned Dr. Young lifting the pistol to his head, pulling the trigger, and the deafening gunshot that would have followed. She felt her own ears ringing as she heard the gunfire, and played the scene over and over again in her mind, the blood spurting from Dr. Young’s head as he fell across the seat, his limp body drowning in his own blood.
Georgia grasped the edge of the washing machine, her hands shaking as she tried to stabilize herself. She forced herself to take slower, deeper breaths. As she felt more oxygen entering her body and her brain, her mind calmed, and her thoughts became less erratic. A few more moments passed as she took deep breaths.
Georgia suddenly heard the sound of nails scratching the floor. Looking behind her, she saw that Millie had come into the washing room. Millie gazed up at her with her soulful, brown eyes. Georgia squatted down and hugged her, burying her face in Millie’s soft, warm fur. Millie nuzzled Georgia’s neck in response. Leaning back, Georgia cupped the white Labrador’s face and kissed her nose. “What would I do without you, Millie?” she asked, looking into Millie’s amber eyes.
Gathering herself and taking another deep breath, Georgia stood up. Then, keeping her eyes averted from her dad’s shirt, she dumped the rest of the laundry on top of the bloody garment in the washer, poured in the soap, and shut the lid.
With the laundry now started, Georgia went back to her room, this time with Millie following her. Millie padded over to the side of the bed and lay down, making a ‘hmph’ noise as she made herself comfortable. Georgia turned to shut the door to her room again, but felt something gently graze the side of her foot. She paused to look down, and saw a white slip of paper lying on the bare floor.
She bent down to pick it up, inspecting it, and then recognized the familiar shadow of cursive lettering within the folds of the note. This was the note that had been in Dr. Young’s pocket.
Georgia felt her breathing accelerate. Not opening it yet, she crossed her room and sat down on the edge of the bed, holding it in her hands. She knew she should give it to her dad, and yet she couldn’t. Maybe this note held all the answers to the questions about Dr. Young’s suicide. Maybe this note would give her closure, and even peace.
She began to unfold the note slowly. The note was definitely written in Dr. Young’s hand. She recognized the thin, elegant cursive lettering he had used to write her prescriptions for all those times she had been sick when she was younger, and the pain relievers he had prescribed her mom when she had cancer. Georgia felt her heart pounding in her ears as she smoothed the note out on her lap, and began to read.
My Son,
By the time you read this, I know you will have many questions. But before you reach a final judgment, let me explain.
Since I was young, my ambition was to be a doctor. I dedicated every day of my life trying to heal others and ease their pain, and trying to fix often unexplainable, unseeable afflictions. It was my own way of making this unfair world a somewhat better place.
But I cannot fix everything, and I cannot heal everyone, including myself. I have been struggling with my own war since my days in Vietnam, but it seems I cannot outrun my demons any longer.
As you know, I had a tumor removed several years ago. What you do not know is that they have since found another tumor. A brain tumor. Further complicating matters, I was diagnosed last year with Parkinson’s syndrome, numbering my days to practice as a doctor.
I have my own suspicions for how this happened. Agent Orange is a slow-moving death and has claimed many of its victims long since Vietnam. It would seem that I am another statistic now. A Vietnam veteran turned casualty of war.
I see the writing on the wall and I know what lies ahead can only end in one way. I cannot bear the fact that one day soon my life will be taken from me, and so I took it from myself. This will be hard for you to understand, but perhaps someday you will.
As I reflect on my days of parenthood, I know I was not always the best father to you. But son, I want you to know that I have always loved you, and I am beyond proud as to what you have made of yourself. You have grown i
nto a fine young man, and any father would be honored to call you his son.
My lawyer, Mr. Anderson, will be in contact with you. He will have all the details concerning my will. You and your mother will be taken care of, but I will need you to look after your mother. This will be hard for her.
Do not grieve for me, my son. Be happy for me, for I am free.
Dad
Georgia stared down at the letter in shock as she absorbed what she had just read. So that was it. Dr. Young had taken his own life to avoid a long, inevitable road of suffering, a road that ended in only one place.
She looked up, resolved in her decision. She wouldn’t be giving this letter to her dad, or to the police department.
She would find his son and deliver it to him herself.
Chapter 13
A Sense of Unease
Georgia was folding the laundry downstairs when she heard her dad moving upstairs in his bedroom. She heard his heavy feet come down the stairs, then pause.
“Georg?” he called out.
“In the laundry room, dad.” She heard his footsteps come closer. “How did you sleep?” she asked as he came into the room.
He leaned against the doorframe, rubbing his eyes sleepily. “’Bout as good as can be expected. Considerin' it’s…” He looked down at his watch. “Three in the afternoon.” He rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed as if he would rather still be asleep.
Georgia took out his uniform shirt from the dryer and looked it over. Satisfied that the blood had washed out, she folded it up and placed it neatly on her dad’s pile of clean laundry.
“How are you, Georg?” her dad asked, looking at her now.
Georgia bit her lip. “Okay, I guess. Better than last night.”
Her dad nodded, his eyes falling to the floor as he thought of the previous night’s events.
Georgia took a deep breath, anxious to ask the next question. “So…what happened last night? I mean, what do you think about it all?” Georgia stopped folding and looked at him.
Her dad readjusted his weight onto his other foot and stuck his hands in his jean pockets. “Well, suicide’s a pretty straightforward endin' with a complicated beginnin'. We know that Dr. Young shot himself ‘bout an hour and a half before you found him. Shot himself with his own pistol.” Her dad paused in thought and sighed. “His family’s been informed. I think they wanna have the funeral this Sunday.”
Georgia nodded as she took more laundry out of the dryer. She wondered if his son would be there.
“Other than that, we don’t really have a lot of answers.” Her dad scratched his head.
Georgia felt a surge of guilt as she thought of Dr. Young’s note tucked away upstairs in her bureau. It would have many, if not all of the answers her dad would be looking for. “Dad,” she started.
Her dad looked up at her.
“Why do you think he did it?”
Her dad heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Georg. I think for some people, suicide’s a way out of somethin’. Somethin’ bad.” Her dad frowned. “I think Dr. Young was in some kinda trouble. The kinda trouble where you feel like you only have one way out.”
Georgia nodded, hoping she wasn’t giving anything away with her expression.
“Hopefully in time the answers will become a lot clearer.” Her dad yawned, and Georgia noticed the dark shadows under his eyes.
“Dad?” she asked again.
He looked at her expectantly.
“Do you think I could go to the funeral?”
“S’far as I know that'd be okay. His wife said that anyone who knew him is invited. Virginia and the twins will probably be goin’.”
“Are you going to go?” she asked.
Her dad didn’t respond right away.
She turned back to the laundry and grabbed the last garments from the dryer. As she placed the clothing on the counter to fold, her dad finally answered.
“Dr. Young took care of your mother when she was sick. He took care of you when you were sick. And he took care of Virginia and my grandbabies.” Her dad shuffled his feet. “He’s taken care of all the women in my life. Seems like goin’ to his funeral’s the very least I could do to pay my respects.”
Georgia looked up from the laundry and saw the pained expression on her dad’s face. She realized then how hard this was not just for herself, but for everyone that had come to know Dr. Young. Dr. Young had touched the lives of so many in the small town of Willow Creek. Everyone would feel his absence in some way. She handed her dad his pile of clean clothes. “I’ll go with you."
✽✽✽
After a night of fitful sleep, Georgia finally gave up on trying to sleep any longer and decided to go into Duke’s Diner earlier than usual the next morning. She arrived at Duke’s just before five o’clock, the bell jingling overhead as she walked in.
Duke was mopping the black and white checkered floor and looked up. “Oh! Good mornin’, Miss Georgia. I didn’t know if I’d see you today!” He sounded surprised as he set the mop against one of the red booths and came over to her.
Georgia attempted to smile, but it felt forced today. She was exhausted and she knew she had dark half-moons under her eyes. “Hi, Duke. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t come in yesterday—”
“Miss Georgia, don’t you apologize now.” Duke stopped her, holding his hands up. “Your daddy called me early yesterday mornin’ and filled me in. I’m so very sorry you had to go through that. And Dr. Young…” Duke’s voice trailed off and his eyes wandered over to the booth where Dr. Young usually sat. “Well, he was a fine man. A good man. One of the best this town has ever seen,” he said solemnly.
Georgia nodded in agreement. “I know,” she said quietly.
Duke shook his head in disbelief. “It’s hard to believe it though, ain’t it? One day he was here, and now….” He looked over to Dr. Young’s booth again. “That man’s been comin’ to my diner for the last thirty years or so. It’ll be the strangest thing to not see him come through that door ‘bout every day.”
Georgia swallowed hard and followed Duke’s gaze over to the booth. Unsure as to what else to say, she said, “Well, I’ll go ahead and get started for the morning.”
“Sure, Miss Georgia. And if you need to leave early or if you need a coupla days to yourself…”
“No, I’ll be fine, Duke.” Georgia shook her head firmly. “I think staying busy is what I need to do right now.”
Duke nodded understandingly and patted her on the arm. “Just take it easy, okay Miss Georgia? In fact, why don’t you take next weekend off? Go and have yourself some fun.”
Georgia gave him a small smile.
Grabbing the mop again, Duke resumed his cleaning.
Georgia's gaze drifted back to Dr. Young's booth, and she realized then that Dr. Young wouldn’t be coming in today, tomorrow, or any other day ever again. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she went around the long counter and started up the espresso machine for the day.
✽✽✽
Over the next few days at the diner, Georgia could sense the unease of the town following Dr. Young’s suicide. Everyone, even those that knew Dr. Young indirectly, felt his death in some way. Usually chatty groups of women spoke in hushed tones as they huddled over their lattes and cappuccinos, as if they were afraid that Dr. Young himself would overhear them. Even the farmers seemed quieter than usual, and Georgia noted that the diner regulars refused to sit in Dr. Young’s usual booth.
It was a strange, eerie mood that settled over Willow Creek as its residents tried to absorb the shock and make sense of the tragedy. And for those that couldn’t make sense of it, or otherwise lacked the maturity to handle such news, they resorted to other explanations. Conspiracy theories soon arose, and the rumors spread like a summer wildfire around the town.
By the end of her shift Saturday morning, Georgia had heard just about every possible story that ended with the demise of Dr. Young. She shook her head as she overheard two teenage boys talki
ng on the barstools just down the counter from her.
“I hear he had a gamblin’ problem and was in a ton of debt,” one of them said.
“Well, I hear his son did it. Blew out his brains so he could get all his money.”
Georgia sniffed loudly in disapproval, and the boys stopped talking, realizing she could hear them. She wiped down the counter, saying nonchalantly, “If I were you, I’d hush my mouth. The dead don’t always like the living talking about them.” She sighed, sweeping some crumbs off the counter and into the rag. “But if you’d rather not listen to me, just wait and see for yourself. I hear some ghosts will come and sew your mouth shut in your sleep if they don’t like what you’re sayin’ about them.” She glanced up at the boys. She definitely had their attention now.
They were staring at her, and the color had drained from their faces.
“He actually used to sit right there, you know.” She pointed at the barstool that one of them was sitting on.
The boy instantly shot up off the stool and took a few steps backwards. “C-c-c’mon, Jeremy. Let’s go,” he said, looking at his friend.
The other boy, Jeremy, got up off his stool wordlessly and followed him. He looked briefly back at Georgia as they went out the door, his face still ashen.
Georgia smiled and waved at them. “Bye, y’all!” she called out sweetly. She chuckled to herself as she turned around to wipe the drip tray. Whether you believed in Voodoo or not, in the South, you didn’t mess around with the spirits. Even kids knew that.
She checked the time. It was already ten o’clock. Georgia washed the milk pitchers, wiped down the machine, and then swept the floor behind the counter. As she placed the dirty cups on the counter in the kitchen, Duke walked by.
“You leavin,’ Miss Georgia?” he asked as he picked up a tray of food.
“Yeah, I am. Say, are you going to be at the funeral tomorrow?” she asked Duke.
Georgia Summer Page 10
