Rock Spider (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 2)

by Mira Gibson

  “Gertrude?”

  “Yeah?” she asked, snapping back to the conversation,

  “I wanted to hear about your headaches,” he reminded her.

  “I wouldn’t have headaches if I got fresh air. Hot is fine,” she explained, forming a cohesive sentence, her point finally meshing perfectly with her words.

  “How about your anxiety?” Dr. Hagstaff seated himself on the bare windowsill, because, she gathered, the window was what interested her most.

  The crinkling noises he was making with his papers felt like cuts on her eardrums.

  “My anxiety wouldn't be so bad if I got fresh air," she said then quickly revised her response. "Once I’m home I’ll be fine. I’m sure of it.”

  He smiled, but it seemed brittle. “Well, I have some good news, Gertrude-”

  Impatiently, she corrected him. “Gerty. Call me Gerty. I’ve told you that.”

  “Right.” He took a moment to ride the swell of his incidental faux pas. “Well, the good news is that your motor skills are up to snuff, you’ve made wonderful progress in therapy, and the staff believe it's time to discharge you, or rather enroll you in our outpatient program.”

  "Really?"

  Her heart felt strange, achy. What was that? Sadness? Happiness? It felt like doom.

  When Dr. Hagstaff handed her a tissue, she realized she was crying.

  “I have concerns, of course,” he went on. “But at this point you’re ready for a routine. We’re confident you’ll be able to acclimate to your old schedule, go to work, though I’ve spoken with your supervisor and advised you work less than forty hours a week. We’d like to see you back here, as I mentioned, a few times a week.”

  His words turned garbled, consonants too round to discern, vowels too guttural to place like an ancient language she’d once known in a past life, déjà vu washing through her as she tried to understand him, frustration building that she couldn’t.

  To anchor herself, she focused on a comforting thought: Doris would help her. No sooner than the notion had taken hold, her heart sank, pulling her into a cold daze.

  Doris was dead.

  “Did I go to the funeral?”

  He startled, which told her she’d interrupted him.

  Gently, he reminded her. "Gerty, no.” Taking her hand, which caused hers to go strangely limp, he explained, “You were in surgery. You don’t remember we’ve talked about this?”

  Defenses rising, anger was strength, she said, “Of course I remember.” She couldn’t mask how jarred she felt, twofold in fact, she hadn’t gone to her sister's funeral and she hadn’t remembered asking. “What about my parents?” She hoped she hadn’t already asked about them too.

  Dr. Hagstaff frowned, releasing her hand in favor of pushing his glasses up his nose. “We notified them of your care.”

  His statement immediately called to mind a string of memories. Though the details were fuzzy, the feeling behind them, the heartsick free-fall into oddly blissful resignation, came surging.

  When she had been able to walk again, Gertrude had ventured down a darkened corridor to the hospital pay phone. After many rings, her mom had answered. She hadn't sounded concerned or alarmed or glad to hear Gertrude's voice, and soon her father wrestled the phone out of Marsha's grasp and hung up, leaving Gertrude confused. Attempts to contact them further had gone worse, her mother curtly sighing into the receiver followed by a click, dial tone blaring in Gertrude's ear, as she stood in the hall, stunned. A certified letter had come next, which her therapist had read out loud: It was you who said we’d broken the family, it was you who blamed us, but now who’s broken the family?

  In the whitewashed labyrinth of her memory, Gertrude knew her parents resented her, hated her even, for the accident, for surviving when her sister hadn't.

  Outside, a child cackled.

  Offering her a buck up, kiddo smirk, Dr. Hagstaff jabbed her shoulder then said, “Let’s not forget about your biggest fan,” as if it were a consolation for her parents hating her. “Wendy Weisman?”

  “Wendy,” she said, trailing off.

  “Got a bit of a promotion, I understand,” he said with a nervous chuckle. “She’s eager to have you back. But again, I told her it will have to be a very light caseload. Gerty, I wholeheartedly believe this will be the best thing for you. It’s time. Once you immerse yourself in the day-to-day, your brain will adapt to organizing short-term information, which by the way, has been your strength. Your long-term memories are like a deck of cards strewn across a floor. It’ll take time to find and organize them. But living day to day, forming memories as you go, will be easy, like being dealt a winning hand. You see?”

  Gertrude suddenly remembered how useless his metaphors were.

  “You think I’m fit to work?”

  His expression loosened, causing him to look a bit ill, but he quickly launched into another forced smile.

  “You may have some personality challenges. Word fumbles, of course, but...”

  When he didn’t finish his thought, she realized her savings had probably run out. The copay on her insurance was a joke and being discharged was likely the only option at this point.

  “When do you want me out?”

  More nervous chuckling ensued, as he assured her, “We don’t want you out.” He wasn’t convincing. “Your paperwork will be in order tomorrow morning.” He brightened as though he’d forgotten a fun tidbit. “We have a very nice lady coming by this afternoon from Wonderful Wigs, a lovely charity who has donated-” off her narrowing gaze that must have looked appalled, he was quick with, “they’re very tasteful, all kinds of styles and colors-”

  “I don’t want a wig.”

  Gertrude palmed the shaven side of her head, trying to visualize what she must look like—the buzz cut, the ghastly staples holding her skull together. The damaged side of her head was a stark contrast to the other side, where scraggly chocolate brown hair fell to her shoulder.

  “A hat perhaps?”

  Grumbling, she said, “I’ll figure something out.”

  “The wig people also have makeup," he said, determined to sell her on the service. "Really neat brands. Movie star makeup.”

  Clearly, he had no idea what he was talking about, but the bruising on her face probably hadn't faded well enough or he wouldn’t be suggesting makeup. She hadn’t dared to look in a mirror since the accident and when she'd felt for swelling around her cheekbone and it seemed it had subsided, she'd figured she looked her usual self. But maybe that had been wishful thinking. At thirty, even a superficial scratch took time to heal and would often leave a lingering brown mark on her skin.

  “Well,” he announced as though concluding their time together, “you have options.” Rising from the windowsill, he shuffled his papers, though as far as she could tell they were nothing more than a theatrical prop, and then tucked them under his arm. “I asked Wendy to swing by at about three.” Checking his wristwatch, directing the rest of his point there, he added, “I thought it’d be helpful if she went over a few things with you before you return to work. Remember, anxiety is fear of the unknown, so the more you know, the less anxious you’ll feel.”

  “How much time do I have?”

  “Oh, just enough to get dressed properly. She’ll meet you in the visitor’s center.”

  Properly? She thought she had, but giving her outfit the quick onceover—flip flops cracked at the soles, worn out sweats she’d ripped at the knees, and her sweater, plagued with ratty pills—she had to admit she looked like a homeless person.

  She went into the bathroom, which was a sterile cube lined with geriatric bars meant to assist patients in the tasks of getting on and off the toilet, in and out of the shower. She'd hung a towel over the medicine cabinet so she'd never have to see her reflection in the mirror, and had taped an index card on the wall. The card detailed a checklist written in her sloppy hand—pick up toothbrush, put toothpaste on brush, brush teeth, rinse with tap water, floss, comb hair.

&nb
sp; With a child’s lack of precision she accomplished all of these steps, but as she started for the hallway she suddenly got a nagging feeling like she was forgetting something. After a moment spent attempting to conjure it up, pausing then pacing around her room, she decided it was nothing, and made her way into the visitor's center having never changed her clothes.

  Wendy Weisman was a sigh-happy optimist, who looked as if she belonged mixing egg whites into cake batter in front of a live studio audience and not tethered to a dreary office desk, tucked deep in the annals of the Division for Children Youth & Families, typing Risk Assessment reports into her PC like a tireless squirrel.

  Thrusting all two hundred pounds of herself up from a table when their eyes met, Wendy grunted to her feet and paid little mind to the chair she’d knocked over then beamed her gummy smile at Gertrude, whose hands felt suddenly cold, though she ventured over using shallow steps.

  She felt more comfortable watching Wendy's long skirt swish and sway with centrifugal force than holding her old friend's gaze. She hated anyone seeing her like this and as awkwardness took hold, Gertrude glanced around the room.

  At one of the tables, a young blond girl—her arm as bent as a dying bird, her head wrapped in a turban that screamed cancer—was hopping a black checker piece over a line of red ones, while her mother smiled sadly as if this victory outweighed the siege on her daughter’s health. Near the snack bar, a kid with an athlete’s stature angrily snatched a carton of chocolate milk from a bookish, older man’s hand, insisting, “On!” though it caused him to wobble on his crutches. Gertrude knew he'd meant to say, No. She’d felt the same way more times than she could count, the fury at being babied, the frustration of knowing it was necessary. The room smelled like mayonnaise, which she’d come to associate with dashed hopes and outrage.

  Arms open wide, ever eager to embrace, Wendy sang, “Gerty!” inviting her into the pillow of her bosom. "Bring it in for the real thing! Make it count!"

  The look on Wendy's face, the sinking smile and darkening eyes that indicated she was pained to see Gertrude bald and bruised, made Gertrude realize that whoever she used to be, the snappy personality, the witty retorts, the gung-ho flare for each moment, was no longer a part of her. Whoever that person had been never made it out of the lake that night, whoever she used to be had drowned in Winnipesaukee with her sister.

  But when her cheek met with Wendy's chest as she accepted the hug and did what she could to reciprocate, Gertrude remembered she was still alive. She would go on. She had to.

  Wendy relaxed her grip then placed her hot hands on Gertrude's shoulders, urging her back, as she angled her almond-brown eyes on her like an estranged grandparent marveling her granddaughter's growth. “Let me get a good look at you. You look pale,” she observed then screwed her face up with further examination. “Maybe not more than the last time I saw you. You eating enough?”

  “Hard to tell.” Gertrude wondered when Wendy would release her.

  “Sit, sit,” she said jubilantly then uttered, “Oh.” A guttural sigh came next, straining in her effort to right her chair. More wheezes escaped her as she got situated, face jiggling under skin as fine as rice paper. By contrast, Gertrude slid easily into a plastic chair across from her and stole a glimpse out the window to drink in the sight of rolling hills, the lake, white-capped mountains a whisper in the distance, the library’s steeple jetting up from treetops, New England at its most picturesque. “Dr. Hagstaff says you’ll be back with us tomorrow?”

  Taken aback, though she tried not to seem so, Gertrude feigned a smile, but it must have looked worrisome, because Wendy dove in with, “Oh, no, no,” reading Gertrude’s apprehension all the while. “No, I’ve talked to Harry. You had way too many cases. No, we’ve agreed what’s best is to ease you back into the swing of things. Only one case for the rest of the summer.”

  Mentally, Gertrude grasped for the date, but nothing came up. She wasn’t even confident she knew what month it was. Her mind kept offering October, which couldn’t be right. August? Then a worse obstacle, more than remembering what day it was suddenly dawned on her.

  “I don’t have a car.”

  Wendy blinked and after a beat leaned in, cheeks lifting into a bewildered smile. “Gerty, we got you a car, remember? I told you as much on the phone.” Abashed chuckling followed. “It’s a real clunker, but it’ll do the trick.”

  “Right,” she said, scrambling for an inkling of recollection.

  “I dropped the keys off with the clerk out in the lobby,” she said matter-of-factly, in the same friendly tone she generally reserved for staff meetings. She seemed to get a bit lost in brushing crumbs off the tabletop. “What happened that night?”

  It was such a radical change of topic that she froze.

  “You’re such a careful driver.”

  There wasn’t a hint of blame in her voice, only desperation to understand the unfathomable. The subtle anguish in Wendy’s eyes mirrored the dark abyss Gertrude had found herself falling into every night since she’d arrived at the Lakes Region Brain Injury Rehabilitation Center, and the painful truth was that she didn’t know. She couldn’t remember a thing from that night, not even the smallest most minute, most insignificant detail. Nothing.

  “Well,” said Wendy after letting out a resolute sigh, “the case Harry set aside for you is sure to get you back into the swing of things. A truly fascinating family.” But her face contorted with a hint of bemused horror, which contradicted her statement. “Nothing too rocky,” she added as if to convince herself. “I’ve got your back.”

  Chapter Two

  Monday morning she dressed slowly and deliberately, one leg at a time into a pair of mint condition sweatpants that Nurse Jefferson assured her were tight and dark enough to pass for professional, one foot after another into a pair of black Keds, the laces of which took an indescribable amount of concentration to tie as Jefferson kept repeating fine for the office, though her tone revealed an edge of disdain for the shoes. She pulled a black sweater over her head, the nurse warning all the while that it would have her sweaty as a pig. Lastly, Gertrude gathered her belongings: the ratty purple sweater she’d been living in day and night, her cracked flip flops with soles worn thin to the point of erosion at the heel, her comb and toothbrush, the toothpaste was theirs, the toilet paper was also, but she put it in her box with the rest. She signed the last pages of several forms that were so thick they could’ve been a graduate school thesis. And finally Dr. Hagstaff walked her out to the car that Wendy had dropped off the week before.

  A clunker to say the least, the car looked older than Gertrude.

  “She said you liked Audis," he commented in an upbeat manner, juggling her box and his mess of papers, as they stared at the vehicle. Optimism faltering, he offered a few more comments then gave up, which sent her heart plummeting.

  “Any car is better than none,” she said, studying the Audi as though it was behind glass in a museum.

  An Audi 80, muted blue, rusty halos eroding its wheel wells, and cloudy headlights flanking a dusty black grill, the car looked as though it had died in the early 70’s, had a proper burial, and was somehow resurrected.

  Peering through the passenger's side window, he noted, “Manual,” then swung his big face around to her and his thick glasses reflected sunlight into her eyes. “You okay with a stick?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  As he stepped back, another glare bounced off the window, blinding her, and when she turned away from it she noticed her reflection in the glass. She didn't like what she saw.

  “But have you driven a stick shift before?”

  His concern was palpable and she had the urge to ask what it would matter. She’d had to relearn even the most basic tasks in the hospital. She would relearn how to drive. There was no way around it.

  Dr. Hagstaff opened the passenger’s side door, which made an unhealthy snapping noise then drooped out of frame. Gasping, papers fluttering out of his hand, he caught it
and laughed at his overreaction. It was hanging on, hadn’t fallen off like he'd expected. “Just a quirk,” he explained once he understood its personality. He set her box inside then closed the door gingerly and backed away as though any sudden movement would have the vehicle collapsing like a house of cards. When it didn't, he let out a carefully measured breath.

  Companionably, though their dynamic was anything but, he tossed the keys to her and they plunked against her chest and clanked to the asphalt. It was then she realized he’d meant for her to catch them. He looked perturbed.

  She made slow work of picking up the keys, her left hip stiffening upon the forward bend, and when she straightened, she flicked away the small pieces of gravel that had come with it then rounded the driver's side door. Hagstaff followed, motioning to get the door for her, which revealed another quirk. The handle stuck a bit, clicking stubbornly, and it took him a few tries to get the inner latch to dislodge correctly. Then he reached for her, an awkward paternal urge to perhaps hug or assure her with a physical gesture.

  Palm up to ward him off and a curt flick of her chin, asserting that’s not necessary, she settled behind the wheel, then grazed her fingertips over the dash, the stick-shift, glancing around but too overwhelmed to get her bearings. When it occurred to her this was the grandfather of her faithful Audi, she felt slightly more at ease.

  “You call me anytime, Gerty.”

  “Yes,” she said, unfocused, sensing more than seeing him back away. Then he quickly shuffled near and gave the door a firm shove, helping her close it.

  “Good luck out there,” he shouted far too loudly. The glass wasn’t that thick.

  She shot him a brief smile then focused on the interior, hoping he’d go away.