by Nick Trout
“Will I see you this evening?” I ask.
“God no, I’ve been told to make myself scarce. I’m hanging out at Gabe’s. Pretty cool nailing Dorkin, yeah?”
Gabe, what a blabbermouth.
“Look, you keep quiet about Dorkin, and I’ll tell your mom the Loveatfirstsite.com scam was my doing.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because she needs to know who I really am.”
“The big reveal? So soon. Come on, play along for a while, just see what happens. I know you’d be good for her.”
But in this phrase I think I hear an unspoken “you’d be good for us.”
“This is the first date in forever where she’s actually planning on wearing underwear.”
Whoa, way too much information. “Look, Charlie. I don’t want to upset you, or her, but it’s not fair to deceive your mother.”
Charlie waits a beat. “I totally get it. If this is going to work, you want things to be right from the start.”
As far as I can tell, the only thing Charlie “gets” is the misguided and heartbreaking concept of “if my mom is happy, she will be happy with me.” Unbelievable. I’m supposed to be dealing with patients who can’t (or won’t) tell me where it hurts. Instead I spend just as much time helping those on two legs as I do those on four.
“What’s happening with Marmalade?” I ask, making a point of changing the subject.
“Not much. Fat as ever but still just as loved by my doting mother.”
And there it is, the bitterness in her words stinging my ear. Fat cats retain unconditional love. But not fat daughters.
“Anything you want to tell me about this, Charlie?”
“Nope. Except in my next life, I’m coming back as a cat.”
She hangs up, and I decide the best way to prevent a panic attack over my upcoming revelation to the smitten Dr. Honey is to bury myself in some heavy-duty research.
Whichever way I come at her case, Ermintrude is a disaster. My number one pick for the poor Jersey cow is a disease that still has no blood test and, more importantly, no cure. One quote jumps out at me—“diagnosis means certain death.” I think about Trey Garvey’s mood swings, clumsiness, light sensitivity, and craving for sunglasses. It all makes sense. If only the connection between Trey and Ermintrude were a leap, a stretch—instead it feels like a logical step, and a short one at that.
In need of a distraction, I switch over to a series of articles on the weird metallic objects dogs swallow (guitar strings, pincushions, razor blades, tinsel, none of which look quite the same as Gilligan’s X-rays) and then, during a lull in my attention span, pay a visit to the so-called Wall of Fame.
It’s no wonder the Polaroid camera fell out of favor. The wall is a crowded hodgepodge of regular photos and homemade missing posters (I notice the one from last week—Frieda Fuzzypaws, the fugitive golden retriever). But it’s the faded Polaroids that draw the eye. Despite the lack of direct sunlight, every canine in question appears to suffer from a severe case of jaundice. With no dates anywhere I can’t tell how long the wall has been around, but in the absence of a serial dog snatcher, and given Eden Falls’s population of little more than two thousand people, it’s been a while.
The photos are arranged in neat rows, right to left. I retrieve Stash’s photo and think about clearing a space for him in the middle, at eye level, but it doesn’t feel right, altering my father’s legacy. Each dog has a number printed on the white space at the bottom of the Polaroid. I guess that makes sense when you don’t know the dog’s name. I look at the last photo—a miniature pinscher, Lost Dog #41. Even as a still image, Stash comes across as anxious and a little too tightly wound. The man said, “It’s up to you,” and therefore #42 is staying with me. No need for a Sharpie or a piece of tape to put it on the wall. The Polaroid feels very much at home, back in my pocket.
About to turn away, my eyes settle on an object that’s both out of place and eerily familiar. Hand-cut, roughly shaped like a dog bone, it is made from cardboard, with two small holes at each end to accommodate a long piece of string. I flip it over, flip it back, sigh, and smile. It’s a sign (possibly in more ways than one) and I knew exactly what it would say, a bold font declaring “OPEN” on one side, and on the reverse: “DOG GONE, BACK SOON” (a witty alternative to “closed,” or so I thought). I made it for Dad when I was ten, Mom providing the materials and scissors, and then proudly hanging it in the front door of the clinic. I’m amazed that he kept it, let alone put it on display. Maybe he liked its sentiment, the optimism, the lack of finality. Maybe it was his hope for a lost son. Whatever the reason, I unpin the sign from the wall and put it back where it belongs on the front door.
When I return to my laptop, a gnawing sense of guilt and regret guides me toward my email. This concerns Gabe. Who knew the kid would be such an accomplished hacker? When I asked for his help I was simply gathering information, doing a background check, perfectly reasonable. Now it feels more like an invasion of privacy and, worse still, a betrayal of trust.
I begin typing.
Subject: Abort Mission
Hi, Gabe,
Please cancel my request for further information as discussed. It will not be necessary. Appreciate your discretion.
C
I press Send and have time to wipe my palms down my face and breathe a sigh of relief before a reply arrives in my inbox.
Subject: Too late!
Hey Doc,
Already done. See attachment. Otherwise hit delete. Good luck this evening. Don’t forget your sildenafil citrate!!!!!
G
Sildenafil citrate—the active ingredient in Viagra (hey, I’m a scientist, I know these things). Not funny, Gabe, not least because of that pixilated paper clip and what lies within its 124KB file.
Click on Delete or double-click the attachment?
Open it up and I’m not just jealous, I’m despicable, insecure. Amy’s invasion of privacy is reprehensible. Delete it and I’m naïve, myopic, and deserve to look like a fool. After all, information is power, and, for a scientist, irresistible.
The email sits open, the arrow of my mouse hovering in no-man’s-land. In the end, the interpretation of objective data wins over moral willpower and I click on the paper clip.
It’s from the Vermont State Archives and Records Administration. It’s a digitized copy of a legal document. It bears a notarized stamp, it hails from nearby Burlington, and, based on the date, it was registered some thirteen years ago.
I’ve stopped breathing, the vacuum inside my lungs amplifying the pounding of my heart.
There are details of witnesses, names I don’t recognize, someone claiming to be a justice of the peace, but all I see is the two names at the bottom of the page that are very familiar.
An enormous corkscrew twists around my guts.
Mr. Marco Tellucci in one column, Amy Carp in the other. Groom and Bride. Bride and Groom.
It’s a marriage certificate, and even though my index finger keeps clicking the Delete button, the image in my mind refuses to go away.
15
LET’S SKIP THE DENIAL PHASE AND GET STRAIGHT to the anger.
“Do I look gullible?”
I like to think I’m simply airing the question, not asking the black canine in the passenger seat for his opinion.
“God damn it,” I yell, slamming the steering wheel with my palm for effect. This time Stash glances my way. Though his raised eyebrows are probably the result of being startled, it’s easier to interpret their message—“Yes, you look gullible to me.”
Calm, Cyrus, calm. Consider the facts. The devil’s advocate to my immediate right stares back, my shock, disappointment, and blossoming insecurity eager to give Stash a voice.
“Amy doesn’t wear a wedding band.”
It’s called cheating.
“Amy lives with her grandfather, a man who, by his own admission, barely knows her… husband.”
Maybe Amy was ostracized, their marri
age a rebellious act driven by an irrepressible love.
“Now you’re just being combative.”
Thank you, I try.
“But what kind of a man ignores a wife nursing a sick relative, a wife forced to work all hours while he stays in a fancy hotel, cruising around in a gas-guzzling tank? Why not help her out, at least financially?”
If she’s as independent as you think, she might not want his money. Better yet, she might choose to be his love slave.
A shiver courses through my body.
“Wait a minute. The phone call in the bar, the call Amy had to take. I witnessed her reactions and noted her body language. She was genuinely surprised. Marco Tellucci may be her husband, but she hasn’t heard from him for quite some time. Yes, and that’s why it was important, that’s why they’ve been catching up. The bigger question is where has he been?”
Easy. Serving time in a federal penitentiary for what he did to the last man who went after his wife.
My inner monologue may be on to something, but it’s time to ditch all this unproductive speculation. Like my mother, Ruth, used to say when she first got me interested in looking down a microscope: Keep your mind open; weigh all the possibilities. Let the facts speak for themselves.
Back at Bedside Manor, I had clung to the most obvious explanation until a computer ping announced a follow-up message from Gabe:
Subject: One more thing!
Hey Doc. Before you ask, I already searched for documentation of a divorce. Nothing out there.
G
I’m not sure whether I was more disturbed by this news or the fact that Gabe, a kid I barely knew, correctly anticipated that I would find his attachment irresistible. Do I really come across as shallow, impetuous, and, worst of all, entirely predictable? What has this thing with Amy done to me?
This leaves me with two other possibilities: “separated” or “getting a divorce.” Either way, based on the video footage from The Inn, the relationship between Tellucci and Amy appears entirely amicable. The question I keep circling back to is why would Amy warn me off? Why would she want to test my faith in her, to challenge my ability to trust? She must know how much I struggle with these abstract concepts. And I’m not buying reverse psychology, begging me to let it go while secretly wanting me to find out. This may sound painfully naïve, but my best guess is Amy is trying to protect me. But from what? Did she marry into the Mob? Was the guy Tellucci screamed at in his Humvee a hit man?
My hand drifts over to the passenger seat and I watch it go, like it belongs to someone else, an Addams Family “Thing” mussing up Stash’s poufy haircut. Now I see why some people turn to these silent creatures for comfort and support in times of crisis. No head games, no lies, no pain. I pull back my hand. Is this dog turning me into “some people”?
I glance over at the clock and see it’s almost two. I am going to be late for a house call, to check out Gilligan the neurotic border collie. If I keep busy, keep moving, my mind cannot be caught, and there can be no reckoning, no obsessing. This revelation about Amy makes me want to revert to my old ways. Who needs all this… mess? Maybe it’s time to shut the world out, box up my feelings for Amy, and focus solely on Bedside Manor. Hey, a little flirtation with Dr. Honey tonight may be the perfect antidote. If only Tommy Lovelace knew how to flirt.
We pull up to the driveway of an isolated ranch house—set back among junk trees, plaques of black mold on rotten white siding, ice patches on a roof in need of insulation. Off to one side there’s a rusty car on breeze-blocks and next to it, under a tailor-made tarp, what can only be a snowmobile.
“Stash, stay.” About to turn the engine off, I change my mind. Can’t have the doodle getting cold.
Halfway up the driveway, the collie emerges from somewhere out back, barking, zipping through the snow, darting forward and leaping around.
“Do I look like a lost sheep?”
Someone might benefit from a little attitude adjustment. I’m referring to myself, not the dog.
“Gillie, no, stop that. Sorry, Doc. He’ll be fine in a minute. Come on in.”
Unlike my visit to Lionel’s house, no blue suede slippers for me. I stomp on the doormat and step inside. I never had grandparents growing up, but if I had, this is how I imagine their house would have smelled—a potent mix of boiled cabbage and BENGAY. It’s more distinctive than unpleasant, and I remember how this house was once Grandma’s house. Mary’s traded the riding hood for a red sweatshirt.
“Come on through to the back. Didn’t think you’d be by so soon.”
Gilligan leads us down a central hallway, and I take note of a formal dining room to my left (six Shaker chairs around a table, Tiffany-style lamp dangling from the ceiling) and a bedroom to my right (queen-sized bed, pink duvet, yellowing floral wallpaper). I enter a galley kitchen with a den and breakfast nook.
I note the peeling linoleum, chipped Formica, avocado-colored appliances. Curious about this retro style, I wonder where they’re hiding the orange shag carpet.
“We’ve got big plans for the place,” says Mary, making me feel awful and judgmental.
“Hey, you should see my apartment.” As soon as the words get away from me, I realize, in the shock written on Mary’s face, I might as well have said, “Don’t worry, I live in a dump as well.”
“I mean, this place has… great bones.”
Mary looks as unconvinced as I sound.
“I hope there won’t be a charge for this,” she says. “It’s not like it’s my fault you weren’t at the clinic when you said.”
Back to money. Perhaps I should have just driven around for a while, taken my mind off Amy that way. Besides, impressing her friend seems unlikely to make a difference at this point.
“Sure. Let me palpate Gilligan’s belly one more time.”
To be fair, Gilligan is much better behaved at home. Oh, he’s still squirrelly, running figure eights in and out of Mary’s legs before I can latch on, but at least this time I get to maintain the integrity of my eardrums.
“Any more seizures?” I ask as I run my hands front to back, top to bottom, trying to trace the path of the mysterious metallic material lurking in his guts. I should be poking something sharp, something that makes me pull back my hand to discover a bloody fingertip, but Gillie and the divining power of my palpation give me nothing.
“No,” says Mary.
“He’s been vaccinated for rabies, distemper, right?”
“Of course.”
Of course, that would be too easy. Then I notice his teeth, the way the incisors are worn down.
“Is he a rock chewer?”
“Not so as I’ve noticed,” she replies.
Stop staring at me, Mary. I’m trying my best here.
“Did he defecate this morning?”
She hesitates, and I’m not sure if she’s searching her memory or confused by the language.
“Bowel movement? Did he go to the bathroom this morning?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Could you please show me where?”
Mary opens the screen door out back and points vaguely in the direction of the tree line.
I excuse myself (as if I’m the one who needs to use the bathroom) and wade out into the snow until I discover a collection of excrement (or maybe I should say an archipelago of frozen tootsie rolls). I’m no expert on dog poop, but it looks pretty normal to me. I bag a sample and slowly head back, running out of options.
“Anything?” Mary asks.
“No.”
“Not a clue?”
“No, I have plenty of clues. My problem is interpreting these clues on a shoestring budget. In my world, disease doesn’t offer a friendly wave while shouting, ‘Hey, check out this clue. It’s pathognomonic.’ ”
“Patho-what?”
“It’s a tell, a sign, a revelation that says find me and you will have your answer. Mystery solved. It’s great when you find it, but it’s rare. Gilligan needs more blood work, urinalysis, abdominal ultr
asound. His clinical picture fits nicely with hepatitis, inflammation of his liver, but what’s the cause—viral, bacterial, toxic, copper, idiopathic?”
“Idio-what?”
“Idiopathic, it’s a fancy way of saying I haven’t got a clue.”
“Yeah,” she says, letting me see the frustration in her eyes. “That’s what it sounds like.”
I tilt my head to the ceiling, close my eyes, and suck down a lungful of air. She’s right. This woman needs an answer that I don’t have. She’s looking on as her dog refuses to eat, as his ribs stick out, as his waist sucks in, as he thrashes around on his side, helpless and afraid as an electrical storm sweeps across his brain.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I’m not having a very good day, and that’s no excuse, but maybe Gillie needs to see a doctor who’s a hell of a lot smarter than me.”
The sensation is like bile rising to the back of my throat, but I must fight back the nausea and swallow it down.
“I’d be happy to give you a referral. No doubt Healthy Paws in Patton will be able to sort him out.”
“That’s it,” says Mary, hands on hips. “You’re giving up?”
I squeeze my lips into a bloodless gray line and nod, avoiding eye contact.
The Clint Eastwood quote crosses my mind. A man’s got to know his limitations.
“I’ll be sure to fax over all Gillie’s information, and I’ll mail out his X-rays from today. Make sure they don’t waste money by repeating what’s already done.”
I make to leave, glance back, and see Mary busy cradling her dog’s head in her hands, whispering the same mantra as me in his ear.
“Sorry, I’m sorry.”
Through an oily cloud of smog I make out Stash, face pressed into the Silverado’s windshield as soon as he sees me marching down the driveway.
“Get back on your seat,” I say, hopping up into the warm cab. I’ve probably used about a quarter of a tank idling, but it was worth it for a fast getaway. I let up on the clutch and begin to roll forward. Suddenly Stash begins barking his head off. I slam on the brakes, thinking I’ve run something over.
Don’t tell me Gilligan got loose.
