by Chris Keane
After scouring the entire house, he headed out back where he had spotted her earlier in the week, sitting dangerously close to the creak in an old lawn chair. But the lawn chair was gone, and all that remained was her puffy pink slippers. Dante felt his heart sinking and his mouth running dry as he watched a branch rushing downstream with the current. His head no longer in the clouds, he screamed Gram’s name circling around the property like a banshee.
He ran down the hill, realizing he was in far better shape than when he had first gotten into town. But since it was Sunday, everything was closed giving the town a post-apocalyptic feel. There was also no one to ask for help. He weaved through the downtown area around the buildings and through narrow back alleys. But he found no sign of her at all.
Standing all alone on the sidewalk, Dante felt tears streaming down his face. He bit his lip hard, filling his mouth with the bitter taste of his own blood. Gram had taken him in, and he had been so caught up his own world that he ignored her deteriorating mental health. Now she was out on her own, shoeless and confused. It was all his fault! With each minute that passed, the chances of finding her before the dark grew slimmer.
Gram had mentioned one of her friends, Stella Vander Veer, who lived in a large white manor right off Main. Maybe Gram had gone there to visit or possibly her friend could give him some idea where she might be.
The massive white manor was easy to spot among the scattered bi-levels and row houses that sat on the edge of town. Dante figured this woman was really well off, at least compared to Gram. A set of four circular pillars divided the front of the house; the façade resembled the White House. There was just one problem: the place was in total disrepair!
Four-foot high weeds surrounded the plaster replicas of famous sculptures on the front lawn. Ivy sprouted along a windy stone path leading through a creaky iron gate. The house itself was blanketed in ivy and fern as well, but that didn’t take away from its appearance; it may have actually helped. It certainly was better than the storm of vinyl siding that had swallowed Dante’s neighborhood whole. Still, the place felt undeniably creepy. Gargoyles were perched everywhere, ostensibly spying on any visitors. At the footstep of the entrance, a stained white fountain choked on murky water. There was a pink Cadillac parked under a small roof jutting off of the side of the house, indicating that someone might be home.
Dante was startled when the front door opened creaked open and a well-dressed elderly woman stepped out onto the porch.
“Oh, hello?”
“I’m looking for my grandmother, Edith Elton. She says you are a friend of hers.”
“Of course…Edith. We grew up together. She lives up the hill.”
“Yes. I’m staying with her now. She talks about you often.”
“Why do you come in for a refreshment?”
“Um, I’d like to but I’m in a bit of hurry.”
“Just for moment. You look dreadfully dehydrated.”
Dante reluctantly entered the front hallway where an enormous crystal chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling. The old woman led him into a drafty living room filled with large oil paintings and red velvet furniture.
“So, what can I do for you?”
Dante grumbled, growing frustrated. “Like I said, my grandmother is missing and I am running out of places she could be. What can you tell me about her that may help me locate her?”
She sighed. “Growing up, Edith was the talk of this town. Beautiful. Intelligent. Everyone wanted to know her. Everyone wanted to be her. We had some good times together. But after she married your grandfather, we drifted apart. He was kind of a hard-nosed guy, and didn’t feel comfortable around people of prominence.”
“Wait! So you haven’t hung out in years?”
“Decades, love.”
Dante leapt off the couch, briefly thanked Mrs. Vander Veer for her time, and then bolted out the front door. Cutting across the front lawn, he tripped over the foot of a replica of David and fell face-first onto the cold, hard ground. The head of a hidden garden gnome had clipped his balls in the process, tearing his shorts. He kneeled down in the damp grass, paralyzed by the excruciating pain in his nether region. Fuck! He was quickly running out of places to look for Gram, so he decided to get the cops involved sooner than later.
As he made his way down Main, he saw the flash of lights in the distance, not knowing whether it was an ambulance or cop car coming his way. He flailed his arms wildly and jumped up and down as a white van with a red light taped to its roof blew by, presumably on its way to some decrepit hospital. For the first time in days, Dante longed for his parents — or at least his Mom’s presence.
The tiny brick police station was also empty and dead except for a wiry middle-aged guy in a generic blue t-shirt eating a microwave bowl of chili. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and forced open the matted plastic window. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, sir. My grandmother is missing.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“I don’t know. All day?”
“So, less than twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Then there isn’t much I can do,” the officer replied, turning his attention back toward a pile of papers.
“Please, Sir.”
“It’s Officer Lefler.”
“Officer Lefler, she’s not all there. She left without her shoes. And I’m afraid she may have really hurt herself.”
“Tell you what. I’m flying solo today,” Officer Lefler replied, shifting his seat. “Couldn’t leave if I wanted to. But if you can write down your address, first thing in the morning, I’ll come by and pick you up and search for your Grandma, OK?”
Dante nodded, dejected. He trudged back up the hill to his grandmother’s house with a feeling of impending doom. There was nothing he could do at this point other than hope and pray that Gram would make her way home safely. In the morning, he would be able to see and have the kind officer’s assistance. He thought about calling his brother, but there was really no point. He figured his immediate family was too far away to do anything about it at the moment.
Most of the night, Dante sat at the edge of his bed staring out his window that looked out on the side yard. Each time something rustled outside, he jumped up frantically. But all he saw were squirrels, a few fox, and a lots of deer. Dante figured that by now his grandmother was likely hungry, cold, and possibly in real danger. When he did close his eyes, he kept flashing back to the cold, murky brook cutting through Gram’s backyard. If she had accidentally fallen and was pulled downstream, he would lose his only living grandparent. Eventually, his own thoughts dulled along with the chorus of chirping crickets, and Dante slowly drifted off to sleep.
Dante stepped out onto the porch into the morning sun. Other than the obvious fact that Gram was missing, it was a picture perfect day: cool, crisp, and bright. He sat in a Adirondack chair, sipping a lukewarm Red Bull he had found at the bottom of his sports bag while he waited for the officer. He had no appetite to speak of and no knowledge of how to cook anyway.
In the distance, he saw someone walking towards the house. He crushed the can in his hand, stood up, and faced the road. Miraculously, Gram appeared, staggering toward the house. She was dressed in a pink gown and carrying a small purse in one hand and a pair of heels in the other. Dante jumped off the porch and sprinted to her, finally enveloping her in his arms.
“Gram! I’m so happy you’re Ok!”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were out all night! I thought you were lost or hurt.”
“I was just visiting with my dear friend, Stella.”
“No you weren’t,” Dante stated, firmly.
“Excuse me?”
“I went to see her, and she said she hasn’t seen you in years.”
“I’m sure that was just a figure of speech, dear. But to be honest, I was out with your grandfather again. He sure knows how to show a gal a good time!”
“But Gram,
Grandpa’s dead!”
She patted Dante on his head and in a patronizing tone whispered, “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”
As they stepped onto the porch, the officer pulled up the road and unrolled his window. He waved to them and smiled as he drove off back down the hill to town. Gram chuckled to herself as she bounced into the house and to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Dante headed into his bedroom and crashed onto the bed, not knowing what to think or what to believe anymore.
8
angie
The morning sun streaming through the venetian blinds painted bars over Angie as she lay in bed, awake but motionless. She was totally spent and in no mood to get up and face a day of dealing with cranky sick people. From Angie’s perspective, though, she had no other choice. Her father was an amazing doctor but a horrible businessman. If Angie hadn’t stepped in when her mother died, his practice would have been shuttered for sure. Now it was Monday again, which meant her personal goals were on hold for another five days, like they had been for the last five years.
Last night, Angie had stayed up late wondering how she had gotten from Point A to Point B with Dante. She had kissed the kid. She hadn’t planned to, but she had gone and done it anyway. Physically, he was nothing special: odd-faced, short and thin, with bad posture. But when he had leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, a warm feeling rushed through her body. So she gave him a smooch on the lips to return the favor. And then something happened she hadn’t counted on — he kissed her back…really well. Somehow, the kid had known exactly what he was doing.
Dante, like a helpless puppy, offered a nice distraction from life. Besides, it was way too much fun driving him wild with skimpy outfits. The poor guy was probably still traumatized from popping a woody at the lake. Looking back, teasing him seemed juvenile and borderline cruel. But now things were different. She had kissed the kid, and it felt good.
She stumbled out of the bedroom in an oversized t-shirt and boxers, her curly mop of red hair pointing in a million different directions. In the kitchen, her father sat hunched over a bowl of Special K staring wide-eyed at the obituaries like an owl. Angie loathed the daily ritual, but she understood it. Her dad was simply seeing what had become of his former patients. In a morbid way, it made perfect sense.
“Mrs. Davenport died,” her father stated plainly.
“From what?”
“Liver failure. Got to be. I told her to quit drinking fifteen years ago. Hey, did you update the computer with our new provider list yet?”
Before Angie could respond, a loud knock came from the front door.
“Geez!” she exclaimed. “They keep arriving earlier and earlier—no respect for the office hours anymore.”
Angie sprinted back to her room, threw on some sweat pants, and made a beeline for the front door. Standing there was a tall slender woman with long, blond hair holding a tray of brownies.
“Is Doctor Sewall in?” she asked, flattening the front of her bright red dress with her free hand.
“He’s having breakfast. Who shall I say is here to see him?” Angie asked suspiciously.
“Crystal,” she answered, bursting through the doorway.
Angie stood open-mouthed as she watched the gorgeous blond strut through her mother’s living room in high-heels like she owned the place. Her father wiped some milk dripping from his beard and stood up straight, smiling.
“Your hair grew back.”
“Almost. I’ve got extensions in.” She ran her fingers through her hair and took a step closer.
“You look well,” Angie’s father said.
“Thanks to you,” she said, handing him the tray of brownies.
“Well, I don’t know…” he replied modestly.
“Last time I was here, I could barely stand.” Crystal leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Come see me dance,” she whispered, slipping a business card into his hand. Her father watched longingly as she crossed the room toward the door, swinging her hourglass figure back and forth like a pendulum.
“Bye,” he mumbled, as the door slammed shut.
“Now I remember her! She showed up here one night in the dead of winter, bald and vomiting.”
“Huh?” Her father replied, staring blankly out the window.
Angie studied the woman as she ducked into her car. “Shit!” Angie exclaimed. “She was a mess. Terminal. Now she’s fine?”
“Apparently…”
“Dad, hold up, what was her last name?”
He shrugged and disappeared into his office.
Angie started digging through files of medical records. Her father insisted on hardcopies, and she was at least six months behind transferring them to the computer. Crystal…What the hell was her last name? She searched by month, starting just after the new year. Angie remembered her visiting last February, typically a packed month as colds and various illnesses plagued the cold mountain community.
It was almost office hours and there was simply no Crystal to be found. When Angie busted into her father’s office, he looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He shoved a brown manila file into his desk and looked up at his daughter, smiling.
“What’s up, Pork Chop?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t call me that anymore,” she griped.
“Fair enough.”
“So who was that chick? And don’t say you don’t remember. I just saw you practically shove her file into your pants.”
“A patient.”
“Yeah, I remember. Didn’t we refer her to a cancer center?
“She wasn’t responding to traditional treatment. So I gave her some alternative medicine.”
“You can’t cure cancer with tea tree oil, Dad!”
“I didn’t say I cured her.”
“Well, she looks fine to me.”
“Me too,” he said, coyly.
“I KNEW it! You like her! You know she’s a tad young for you.”
“Yeah.”
“And a patient…”
“Yeah.”
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“That’s sweet.”
“It’s not sweet at all. I know I’ll be the one picking up the pieces! You know I want to have a life too someday. I can’t stay here forever.”
“Listen, people are working again—I think the recession is finally over. Just give me some more time to get things on more solid footing, and I’ll hire someone. Then you can go to school…or whatever it is you want to do.”
“You’ve been saying that for the past few years, yet I’m still standing here.”
“I mean it this time.”
“Just keep it in your pants, Dad!”
He laughed. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. The girl is a ten.”
“Good. Now can I have that file back?”
“I’m not done with it yet.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she muttered.
The first patient of the day called to cancel, so Angie decided to dig a little deeper into the mystery woman. She had seen the label on the file just as her dad was hiding the evidence. Carol Brett. Crystal must have been some kind of alias or nickname. She googled her, and an article from the Albany Times appeared about a thirty-eight year old girl with late stage cancer whose symptoms had mysteriously gone into remission. Ostensibly, her cancer had disappeared despite her quality-of-life choice to abandon chemotherapy and radiation halfway through. There was no photograph, but it had to be her.
It made no sense. Angie had seen many cancer patients come through her father’s office over the years. Her own mother had died of breast cancer five years ago, which forced her to become an overnight expert on the disease. There was just no way that someone with late-stage cancer could just walk away from therapy, pop some pills, and be instantly cured.
Angie’s father knew more than he was letting on, that was perfectly obvious to her. If he wasn’t going to spill his guts, Angie hoped
that he at least was sloppy enough to leave a paper trail. As soon as the day’s patients were done for the day, Angie would look some more. For now, she had to get ready for work.
Angie stood naked in front of a full-length mirror checking out her body. It was July, and she still was way too pale. She had also gained at least ten pounds, the result of an insane junk food binge she had been on since her boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped her. What would he think of her now? Her breasts had gotten so heavy they were straining her back. Her hips had expanded past most of her summer wardrobe. She was getting fat.
As she slipped on her white scrubs, her phone glowed. “Hey Baby.”
A message from her ex. Fuck! Why was he contacting her six-months later? Just when she was finally getting over the whole debacle? She quickly deleted it, and then scrolled to his name in her contacts. Her heart started pounding. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She didn’t want to feel like this anymore. She clicked delete, and a message popped up: “Are you sure?”
Tabling her problems for the moment, Angie rushed to help her father, slamming the door hard on the way out.
9
The spotted kitty
Dr. Sewall waited in his car outside The Spotted Kitty, a windowless one-story structure on the highway, debating whether to go in. The last time he had set foot in a strip joint was out in Vegas before he had met his wife. That was a million years ago. He surveyed the ragged collection of people staggering in and out of the club, figuring most of them barely made it out of high school, much less college. And none of them had ever read any medical research on the deleterious effects of alcohol on the human brain.
A BMW screeched into the lot, and then a tall man dressed in a gray suit hopped out of the driver’s side. With his dark shades and wavy black hair, he looked like one of those men on TV walking the red carpet. He checked his phone, shoved it into his pocket, and strutted toward the door. Dr. Sewall checked his face in the rearview, sighed, and followed him.
