Not a Sound

by Heather Gudenkauf

  In the final spot, covered by a blue tarp, is a motorboat we would take out onto Five Mines on David’s rare day off. We would pack a cooler and our fishing poles and spend a lazy day on the river. I’d slather coconut-scented sunscreen over Nora’s fair skin, checking and double-checking that her life jacket was secured.

  A for-sale sign is affixed to the boat cover, and I run my fingers over the shadow of script that once graced the side of the boat—Nora~Amelia. David added the Amelia once we were married, I’m sure so that I would feel welcomed to his little family. He’s removed the black lettering. I guess it’s easier to sell a nameless boat. A fresh start for someone else.

  I remember how David used to stand with his chest pressed to my back, his arms wrapped around my waist, as I would steer the boat through the back channels. I release one of the tie-downs, step up onto the frame of the metal trailer and peel back one corner of the boat cover. For a moment I can almost feel the warmth of David’s skin against mine. I step down and release the rest of the tie-downs and strip the cover from the boat. I hoist myself up over the side and into the boat, remembering. After a long afternoon in the sun, Nora would fall asleep in the shade beneath the boat’s canopy. David would turn off the engine and let the boat drift and we would sit side by side, feeling the gentle rocking of the current, my head on his shoulder.

  I am lost in a nostalgic daze when suddenly a shimmery filament on the carpet catches my eye. I bend over for a closer look. It’s a long strand of blond hair caught on a small metal bolt. It could be anyone’s hair, I tell myself. One of Nora’s friends, a coworker from the hospital. Lots of women besides Gwen have blond hair. There has to be a logical explanation.

  I remember what Peter said about asking my husband about what happened to Gwen. I turn back to the boat. There’s no way to know just by looking whether or not it’s been taken out on the river recently. The smell of bleach burns my nose. Stop it, I tell myself. David probably just gave it a thorough cleaning before he put it away for the season. But how long does the smell of bleach linger? I start at the stern and carefully begin to examine every inch. There are no puddles of blood, no bleach stains. See, I tell myself, you’re being ridiculous.

  I hate that I’m doubting David. He’s simply an ob-gyn trying to raise his daughter. He barely knew Gwen and said he couldn’t remember the last time they worked together. Gwen was pregnant. Could she have gone to David’s office for prenatal care? There are plenty of ob-gyn docs in Mathias, but David is known as one of the best and lots of health care professionals go to him because of this. Would Marty know if Gwen saw David for prenatal care?

  I stare at the boat for a moment longer, thinking of the morning I found Gwen and the wake from a nearby motorboat that knocked me to my knees and Stitch into the water. It would be a little harder to identify a boat if it didn’t have a name emblazoned on its side. But why would David kill Gwen? None of it makes sense.

  I go back inside. The house has grown chilly and I take the liberty of turning on the gas fireplace. The flames instantly come to life, licking at the glass screen. I pull Gwen’s calendar from my purse and settle onto the couch to examine the last year of my friend’s life.

  I flip through the pages, each square box filled with Gwen’s distinctive handwriting. Every once in a while I come across something written in what I figure is Marty’s hand. I first focus my attention on September and October of this year. I’m able to translate most of Gwen’s shorthand. The obvious abbreviations are easy. QP means Queen of Peace, MR stands for Mathias Regional, ICU, OBGYN, PSYCH and ONC. A few are more cryptic and it takes me a few minutes to figure out that SC means the skilled care unit and RR means recovery room. All makes sense in relationship to the different areas where Gwen would work as a floater nurse. I think that WC could stand for Willow Creek, a hospital that I traveled to as nurse examiner in the past. Gwen most likely was also called there to work with a sexual assault victim.

  But several abbreviations have me stumped. I have no idea what DT, SL or GH could mean. I flip through the calendar skimming for any reference to David. I finally spot QP/OBGYN in the box for June 5 and my pulse quickens. But this matches with what David said about not working with Gwen for several months. I flip forward to just before Gwen sent me the email.

  There. On September 27 at nine thirty in the morning. MOG—Mathias Obstetrics and Gynecology. The clinic where David sees patients. Not a shift at the hospital. An appointment.

  I close the calendar and slide it back into my purse. So David did see Gwen, and not all that long ago. Why wouldn’t he tell me about this? Maybe he thought he shouldn’t due to doctor-patient confidentiality. But Gwen was dead and she was my friend at one time. But wait, there are several doctors that practice at his clinic. Four to be exact. Gwen could have had an appointment to see any one of them.

  I look at my watch. Nine thirty. David will most likely be gone for at least a while longer. Maybe there’s a way I can find out if Gwen was David’s patient. I get up and move down the hallway to the back of the house where David has his home office and Stitch follows me. The door is open and the lights off. I find the light switch and flip it to the on position.

  David hasn’t gotten around to redecorating his office yet and everything is the same as it was two years ago. Many a night I would walk past this room and see David sitting at his desk, reading glasses on the edge of his nose, staring at the computer screen, updating patient charts and files. But he would always stop to give me a smile or wave me into his office to talk. He would slide his office chair next to where I sat on a small sofa and I would prop my feet up on his lap while we’d talk about our day.

  Now I pull out the desk chair and sit down in front of his computer. What I’m planning on doing is not only unethical but in violation of HIPAA privacy laws. I wiggle the mouse, the computer comes to life and I am met with a log-in screen. This one is easy. I enter the password that I know David has always used for logging in to his computer since I’ve known him. Nora1115. I open the browser and go directly to David’s bookmarks and find the link that will take me to Mathias Obstetrics’ secure site where David is able to access patient information. I’m met with another log-in screen and I try Nora1115 again but get an error message. I try David’s birthday. Again, the error message. I know I only have one or two more tries and then the system will lock me out. I type in my name and birth date and hold my breath when I hit Enter.

  I’m in. I enter Gwen’s name into the search bar and her information immediately pops up. David is her doctor of record and she did have an appointment with him on September 27. I click on the date and learn that Gwen was two months along in her pregnancy. I can just imagine how happy Gwen would have been to know that she was going to have another baby. David’s notes from her visit showed that both mother and baby were healthy and he prescribed her with prenatal vitamins and twenty-five milligrams of B6 three times a day for nausea. Another appointment was scheduled for October 31 but according to a notation on the calendar she never made it.

  A fissure of fear runs through me. David was Gwen’s ob-gyn, and she was supposed to meet with him on the day she died. But this knowledge doesn’t get me much closer to knowing what happened to her and what, if anything, David had to do with it.

  I remember what Marty said about Gwen being worried about a patient with a name that reminded him of a bug or an insect and I wonder if there’s some connection between that patient and David. I browse the patient directory, looking for any name that jumps out. I scroll through the A names but nothing seems like a match. I click to view the B names and that’s when I find her. Jo Ellen Beadle. Beetle. Could this be it?

  I open the file and see that she’s a twenty-seven-year-old woman who was six months pregnant in September. Her appointment date was listed as the same as Gwen’s just fifteen minutes later. They would have been in David’s clinic the exact same date and most likely were in the wai
ting room together. Okay, I’m getting somewhere.

  Jo Ellen’s next appointment was scheduled for one week later. I click on the visit summary. It’s blank. Jo Ellen never made it to her next appointment, either. I decide to go back through each of her previous appointments. From what I can tell from the records, Jo Ellen had a high-risk pregnancy due to a history of Waldenström’s macroglobulinemia, a cancer similar to multiple myeloma and non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. At the time she learned she was pregnant she was in remission. From what I can tell, throughout her pregnancy, David was watching Jo Ellen and her baby very carefully and by all accounts the baby was a bit on the small side but developing normally.

  I go back a few screens and click on the tab that would lead me to any hospitalizations that Jo Ellen may have had. One is listed. Two days after the clinic appointment, Jo Ellen was taken to Queen of Peace complaining of contractions. It was much too early for the baby to be born. There are pages and pages of scanned records but it’s the final one that says it all. Jo Ellen Beadle’s heart stopped at 3:37 a.m. on September 29. The infant was declared deceased thirty minutes later. David was the doctor present at the time.

  Stitch suddenly gets to his feet and starts barking. Oh, my God, David is home. I have no idea how close David is to walking into the house. He may already be inside. It takes me two tries to close out of the website and to log out of the computer. I try to get up from the chair as quietly as possible.

  Stitch is still barking. “Stitch, vpred, skoc,” I order. Go out, jump. Stitch runs from the room, his paws sliding across the floor. I peek around the corner and see Stitch jumping up and down nearly knocking David over. I slip from the room and across the hall to the bathroom without David seeing me. I quietly close the door. While I try to calm my racing pulse, I flush the toilet, then turn on the faucet. What does it all mean? Did David do something that led to Jo Ellen’s death? Did he try to cover it up and Gwen found out? Was David trying to play God and as a result a mother and her baby died?

  I open the bathroom door, hoping that David won’t be able to tell that something’s wrong. I needn’t have worried. David is still trying to ward off Stitch’s leaps.

  “Stitch, lehni, lehni!” I say sternly. Down. Stitch stops jumping and, breathing hard, lies down on the floor. “Sorry,” I say to David, who looks a little shell-shocked.

  “Sorry,” I repeat. “I don’t know what got into him.”

  David shrugs off the apology and rubs the head of a now calm Stitch. “It ended up being a pretty quick delivery. Thanks for staying,” he says.

  “It’s nice to be able to spend time with Nora. Thanks for letting me do this, David. It means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

  “I know what it means,” he says. “I’ve missed you, Amelia.” I search his face for any hint that this could be a joke but all I see is a sadness in his eyes. He lifts his hand to brush aside a strand of hair that has fallen into my face. My skin tingles at his touch. But it’s not a shiver of pleasure. I’m scared of him now. I’m afraid of what he might have done. What he might do. He steps even closer to me and I think he might kiss me. It’s all I can do to not push him away. I don’t want David to know I’m onto him. He leans in, his lips just inches from my own and I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. My body tenses and David can’t help but feel the way I’ve gone rigid beneath his touch. He pulls away, embarrassed, and averts his eyes and just like that, the moment is gone.

  “Well, I should get going,” I say, hoping that my relief hasn’t reached my voice. “Can I just say goodbye to Nora? I promise not to wake her.”

  David lags behind while I move through the hallway and up the steps to Nora’s bedroom. I crack open the door and the light from the hallway spills gentle shadows across her face. Nora is curled up on her side, and I go to her and drop a kiss on her forehead. “Thanks for a great night, Nor,” I whisper. “Love you.” She turns over, burrowing more deeply beneath the covers.

  Back downstairs David and I say our goodbyes. “Thanks, Amelia, you were really a lifesaver tonight.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, at once eager to leave and wanting to stay for Nora.

  This time, when David leans in to kiss me, it’s a chaste, polite one on my cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. “Maybe we can do dinner again soon.”

  “Sounds good,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual, but I’m quaking inside. I open the door and step outside. The cold, dark night soothes my flushed face but I’m conscious of David’s eyes on me as I make my way to the Jeep. How can I leave Nora behind with a man who may have killed to protect himself? Is he a monster? I don’t want to believe it. Is there a way I could have it all wrong? I hope I do.

  David’s still there, in the doorway, when I look up and start the car. It isn’t until I put the car into Reverse and pull out of the driveway that he steps back inside and shuts the door.

  18

  I spend a quiet weekend at home recovering from my first five days of work. I’m exhausted. I’m used to being by myself and it’s hard to explain, but trying to understand others can be draining. Forget the fact that I found a dead body not far from my backyard, had a woman nearly die in my arms and discovered that my husband might be involved in a murder. I’ve had enough excitement lately to last a lifetime.

  I scan the Saturday paper for any more information on Gwen’s case. Nothing. I’m tempted to call Jake, to find out if he has learned anything more, but my pride stands in the way. That morning was so awkward. I don’t want our friendship ruined over something so stupid. I’ll give him a few more days and then show up at the station at lunchtime with Chinese takeout.

  As promised, the locksmith comes and installs brand-new locks on both my front and back doors. Stitch follows him around all morning while I try to find out more about what happened to Jo Ellen Beadle. I find her obituary online. It doesn’t give much information. She died on September 29 at Queen of Peace Hospital. She was originally from a small town in South Dakota and worked at a local bank in Mathias for several years. No husband or significant other is listed. Survivors included her parents and a sister who still lived in Letcher, South Dakota. I wonder what brought her to Mathias. A job opportunity, a man? I wonder who the father of the baby was. There is no mention whatsoever of the baby in the obituary.

  I search for her on Facebook and her profile picture appears, but she kept her account private so that’s a dead end too. Next I pull up the Mathias Bank and Trust website in hopes of finding the names of some of her coworkers but the only names listed are the CEO and the board of directors. But what am I going to do if I do find someone I could talk with? What could they possibly tell me about what happened in that delivery room?

  Since I couldn’t learn anything from Jo Ellen’s Facebook friends, a nurse who was present in the delivery room at the time of her death sure could help me. I know just about all of them. At least I did two years ago. Just like with all of my other friends and colleagues, I lost touch with them, but there were a few that I think I can still look up and they won’t slam the door in my face.

  I think of Elaine Flynn, a large, grandmotherly type who has been at Queen of Peace for going on forty-five years and if she has her way will be there for forty more. I used to joke that she probably helped to deliver me when I was born and she laughed and said, Oh, Amelia, I would have remembered you. I’ve never met a woman who loves her work more than Elaine. We used to meet for coffee in the hospital cafeteria when we had breaks. She was funny and sweet and was one of the people who tried on many occasions to be there for me after my accident. I shut her out too.

  I have to be careful, though. If I come across as accusatory I’ll get nothing, and chances are Elaine would go right to David and tell him that I was asking questions. I settle on sending her an email and giving her an update on what I’m up to. I ask after her husband and grandchildren and invit
e her for coffee. Having face-to-face conversations with people who aren’t used to my deafness can be a challenge, but the questions I want to ask aren’t something I can do in an email or over the phone.

  Just as I hit Send on the email, Stitch comes to my side and nudges my leg and then goes to the phone to let me know that it’s ringing. I recognize the number as the one belonging to Five Mines Regional Cancer Center. “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello, Amelia, it’s Lori,” scrolls across the phone display.

  “Hi,” I say, a little taken aback. I know the clinic is open on Saturday mornings for those individuals who might need an infusion or a radiation treatment, but I don’t know why Lori would be calling me.

  “I was just wondering if you have Rachel Nava’s paperwork that she came in with the other day. Her sister called and wanted to come by and pick it up for her.”

  “Yes, I do have it,” I say. “Is she doing okay?”

  “She is. It looks like she’ll be able to go home early next week,” Lori says.

  “I was going to take the file to her on Monday, but I can drop it off at the hospital today for her,” I offer.

  “No, no, that’s not necessary. Just bring it with you to the office on Monday and her sister will swing by to pick it up.”

  “Sure, okay,” I say. “I’ll bring it then.”

  “Thanks and have a good weekend,” Lori says and then disconnects.

  * * *

  After a few hours I give up waiting around for Elaine to email me back. I don’t know what I expected. I’ve neglected the people who cared about me for so long it’s no wonder that they don’t bother to make the effort. I lock up the cabin and Stitch and I go for a run in the woods.

  Another snowstorm is scheduled for next week, but for now the temperature has risen to above freezing and much of the recent snow has melted and the earth is spongy beneath my feet. We make a five-mile loop of relatively level terrain. I like taking this route when I need to think things through since I don’t have to concentrate so hard on each stride I take and worry about navigating over rocky spots or watching for tree roots and sinkholes. I’m able to focus on my own thoughts and enjoy the beauty of my surroundings.