The Missing Year Page 6

  Nothing Ross read implicated Lila in wrongdoing.

  He supposed had there been anything, Guy wouldn’t have needed his services.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The crisp morning had Ross bundled in a down-filled coat and scarf, his nose running from the cold. Leaves covered the walk path as he headed into Lakeside, as prepared as he could be to meet Lila. The fact that her situation so closely mirrored his own had him worried what might resurface within himself.

  “Good morning, Dr. Reeves.” Mark met him at the reception desk, pad and pen in one hand, lab coat in the other. “Dr. Oliver guessed your size.”

  Ross set down his things, unzipped his jacket, and tried on its replacement. “It fits.”

  “I’ll have Judy order two more.” Mark handed Ross a scrap of sticky paper with a temporary password written on it. “There’s a laptop set up in your office. That password will get you on the first time, but you’ll have to change it when you log in.”

  “Where’s Dr. Oliver?”

  “He had to run out to a meeting. He asked me to give you the tour.”

  Ross picked up the files, his bag, and coat. “Can we start in my office? I’d like to drop off my things.”

  “Of course.”

  Ross led the way. He hung his jacket on a wall-mounted hook and took stock of the supplies on his freshly dusted desktop: in/out bins, a pen cup, a tape dispenser, and a stapler. A box, wrapped in blue paper with a white ribbon, sat in the center of his desk calendar.

  “What’s this?”

  “A welcome gift?” Mark was obviously guessing.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m curious about that myself. Open it.”

  Ross opened the card first. “Listen to the tree. It tells you where it wants to go. –John Naka.” Ross peeled the wrapping paper from the bonsai tree gift kit he supposed was a metaphor for Lila. “Interesting.”

  “Are you into gardening?”

  “Not so much.” Ross set the box on the desk, shaking his head.

  “Any guesses what it means?”

  “I have an idea.”

  Ross had spent the previous night thinking about his no-win situation, about the patient he hadn’t yet met, and his career, which hung in the balance. He had decided, even before Guy’s metaphorical tree, that his only option was to make the best of the situation it seemed Mark knew little about.

  “Well, if you hate it, you can always donate it to the greenhouse,” Mark said. “You ready to meet the group?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Ross grabbed his keys and followed Mark to an antiquated Otis elevator.

  Mark retracted the metal accordion gate with a series of loud thuds and stepped inside. A single bulb fixture illuminated the small space, casting a sickly pale glow like something out of a horror movie.

  Ross reluctantly entered, holding his breath as the car ascended to the second floor.

  If Mark noticed his panic, he didn’t let on.

  “Patients are generally allowed to be where they want to be during the day, outside of group and individual therapy sessions,” Mark said, stopping at the first doorway past the elevator and standing back for Ross to have a look inside. “This is the library. You’re welcome to borrow anything you want, but the selection’s limited. Across the hall is the game room.” Stacks of board games and boxes of cards filled an oversized shelving unit. Two foosball tables and air hockey covered much of the floor space. “Patients don’t normally play in there, though some of them take games here.” Mark led Ross to a common area surrounded by windows. “This is the community room where everyone hangs out.”

  Unlike at the hospital, Lakeside’s patients wore their own clothes instead of scrubs or pajamas.

  Elijah Moss, easily recognized from his file photo, sat playing checkers with one of the staff. Elijah was pink as a newborn mouse, the skin on his neck and face flaking onto his polo shirt.

  The staff member, a man whose nametag read “Eddie,” stood.

  “Dr. Reeves, meet Eddie Gill, one of our patient care assistants,” Mark said. “Eddie, this is Dr. Ross Reeves.”

  Eddie Gill appeared to be young-forties, his skin fair, hair red, and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. He wore dark-rimmed, hipster glasses and spoke with a hint of a Long Island accent. “Dr. Oliver mentioned a new psychiatrist joining us. Welcome.”

  “Thanks,” Ross said.

  A pale girl with dyed black hair who had been reading a book in the chair furthest from the group regarded Ross with quiet suspicion. The strangulation scar peeking out from the collar of her shirt was unmistakable Sophie Park.

  A disheveled man who could only be Joshua Hammond sat parked in front of a television broadcasting a sit-com Ross didn’t recognize.

  “Newspapers and news are prohibited and television channels are controlled by staff,” Mark said. “Visitors are discouraged, other than for family therapy sessions. The patients respond better without outside stress being brought in.”

  “Bugs. Bugggss. Bugggsss.” Joshua scratched inside his ear, mumbling something under his breath.

  “Joshua, are you all right?” Eddie shifted his focus from the double-jump on the checker board to the agitated man who was quickly becoming the center of attention.

  “The bugs are in my ear,” Joshua said, his finger knuckle-deep.

  A buxom redhead wearing a low-cut v-neck and a flirty grin set her magazine down on the couch next to her. “Are you sure it’s a bug? What if it’s an implant left by the aliens?”

  “Kendra, that’s enough,” Mark said.

  Kendra snickered and rolled her eyes.

  “Let me have a look.” Eddie placated Joshua by shining a light in his ear. “There’s nothing,” he said, though even at a distance Ross could see Joshua’s ear was bright red. “I’ll have Dr. Oliver check again after group, okay?”

  Joshua nodded and went back to watching his program.

  “He’s easily satisfied,” Mark said.

  Ross grimaced. “Not for nothing, but his ear really does look swollen.”

  “He’s at it constantly. Everything he can get his hands on goes in there. Dr. Oliver really will look at it and if Joshua’s put something in there again, he’ll get it out. Come on. There’s someone you’re supposed to meet.” Mark waved for Ross to follow him.

  A tragically thin, mid-thirties woman with tangled black hair and a distant gaze stared out the window from a wooden rocking chair in the corner. A crocheted blanket—frayed from age and use—spilled over her bony knees and half-covered her weathered hands, her fingers working their way through the tiny holes between the stitching.

  Mark set his hand on the back of the rocking chair, steadying the back and forth motion.

  “Lila,” he said. “There’s someone here to see you.” Lila didn’t even flinch. “Dr. Reeves, meet Lila Wheeler.”

  Ross angled for a better look at the emaciated woman whose sad eyes and willowy limbs reminded him too much of Sarah.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ross stood outside Guy’s office, waiting to be invited in. Guy seemed preoccupied, his eyes moving back and forth across a piece of paper.

  Ross cleared his throat and said, “Can we talk?”

  Guy smoothed his hand over what was left of his gray hair. “Come in and close the door behind you.”

  Ross took a seat, feeling a bit unsettled.

  “Are you all right?” Guy said.

  “I’m sure I will be.”

  Guy forced a smile. “I’m sorry for how things went yesterday. I should have told you—”

  “That you set me up? Yes. You should have.”

  “I didn’t mean for us to get off on the wrong foot. There’s a lot riding on this case—for everyone, not just me. Mark can’t afford his tuition, fifty plus people would be out of work, and these patients come here to find their center. What will happen to them if we’re not here?”

  “You could have told me that and I’d have tried to help.” />
  “I’m telling you now,” Guy said, “and giving you the opportunity to back out. I understand if you don’t want to stay. I’ll call and make things as right as I can with Dan. You can go back to Chicago and pretend none of this happened.”

  Ross shook his head. “I can’t do that, not after meeting Lila.”

  “Selfishly, I’m glad to hear that. Did you have a chance to read through her chart?”

  “I did. I know the records say food is an issue, but she’s so thin. Her medication log shows all the first and second line treatments for depression, which should’ve helped with appetite.”

  “She refuses to eat no matter which medication we put her on.”

  “What about a feeding tube?” Ross said.

  “I can’t get the authorization.”

  “It’s a minor procedure.”

  “It’s still surgery and a no-go without consent. We need to get through to her before she starves herself.”

  Ross leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know about Lila’s husband, what was his name? Blake?”

  Guy nodded. “I only know what I read in the papers. He was a well-respected surgeon who had put himself in harm’s way to save a young family and he was very close to his mother, Ruth.”

  “What about his father?”

  “I believe he is deceased.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s not the kind of thing you try to get Ruth to talk about.”

  Ross made a mental note. “What about Lila? Did you try asking her?”

  “I’ve tried asking her a lot of things. Conversations with Lila are only ever one-way.”

  “You’ve ruled out DNS?”

  Delayed Neurologica Sequelae (DNS), a potential side effect of carbon monoxide exposure, included, among other things, mutism—an inability to speak.

  “That was my first thought.”

  “And?”

  “EMS treated Lila with oxygen through a nonrebreather mask within minutes of her being found. She was inside of a hyperbaric oxygen chamber within six hours. Her COHb was normal.” COHb, or carboxyhemoglobin level in the blood, was routinely tested following carbon monoxide exposure.

  “Hyperbaric oxygen isn’t a guarantee,” Ross said. “There’s a twenty-five percent chance of DNS following carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “Poisoning. That’s the key word. Take another look at her levels, Ross. They were never toxic.”

  “Maybe she was tested after they normalized.”

  “You know that wouldn’t be the case if the doctors followed protocol, but let’s say, for argument sake, that the tests were wrong or administered incorrectly. The first word in DNS is ‘delayed.’ Mutism from DNS would have taken a month to manifest. Lila refused to talk from the beginning. I believe she can speak. She just doesn’t want to.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Guy was right.

  Ross re-reviewed Lila’s chart and found that she had never been carbon monoxide toxic. Despite her well-researched attempt—the right car, no catalytic converter—she had been found quickly and treated immediately.

  DNS would have been an easy solution, something treatable, or at the very least recognizable, but Lila’s condition wasn’t black and white. Every possible diagnosis Ross could think of had already been ruled out, leaving him with a series of dead ends and the likelihood that whatever was wrong with Lila couldn’t be gleaned from reading her medical records.

  Ross peeled the sticky note off the back of the monitor and powered up his laptop, entering “password” on the main login screen. Updates applied and the machine restarted. Ross unpacked the bonsai kit and potted the tiny Juniper tree while he waited. However Guy meant the gift, which had so far gone unacknowledged between them, Ross planted the tree as a declaration that he was up for the challenge. He brushed his hands off and clicked the icon to open an internet browser before typing in: “Blake Wheeler shooting Edinburgh.”

  The search string returned both local and national news coverage, most of the headlines referring to Blake as not only a victim, but as a hero. A local bit from the Edinburgh Times elaborated:

  “Tragedy strikes our local community as thirty-four-year-old Dr. Blake Wheeler fights for his life following a shooting that occurred in rural Edinburgh earlier this morning. Eyewitness accounts indicate that Dr. Blake Wheeler attempted to subdue the alleged shooter when a young family, passing through town during a cross-country move, entered the convenience store during an attempted robbery.

  ‘Our four-year-old daughter had to go to the bathroom,’ the mother exclaimed when asked what prompted the late night stop. ‘We were headed to the back of the store when the shooter stopped us, holding us at gunpoint. If it hadn’t been for one man’s intervention, we might have died that night. My heart goes out to the victim’s family. For what he did for us and our daughter, we owe him our lives.’

  Eighteen-year-old Garrett Wade, a once prominent high school athlete, is alleged to have held up the Express Mart on Connecticut Avenue following a two day drug-fueled crime spree. Several local residences had been burglarized and authorities speculate that the attempted robbery may have been drug-related. The alleged shooter has been moved to the Saratoga County Correctional Facility pending trial.

  Dr. Blake Wheeler remains at Merrick Memorial hospital, listed in critical condition.”

  A black and white police photo of an acne-scarred teen with a mop of messy curls and the face of a scared child had Ross feeling worse about the circumstances. The young man reminded him of Arlene Pope and the lives ruined by her poor decision. Ross clicked the back arrow and returned to the search results, skimming the subsequent articles for variations on the same story. There were few details other than that Blake had been listed in critical condition.

  Ross typed in a second search string: “Blake Wheeler Obituary.”

  Far fewer results returned. Blake’s obituary appeared in only a couple of local papers. The larger news outlets that had reported the initial shooting didn’t bother following up on Blake’s death. Ross printed a copy of the obituary for his records.

  “Blake C. Wheeler, M.D. left this earth to be with his lord and savior on September 14, 2013 at the age of thirty-four. Born on October 18, 1979 to Ruth and Charles Wheeler, Blake was a lifelong Edinburgh resident.

  A graduate of New York Medical College, Blake continued his surgical residency training at New York University, specializing in General Surgery.

  Blake is preceded in death by his father, Charles Wheeler, and is survived by his loving wife, Lila, and his mother, Mrs. Ruth Wheeler.”

  Wake, funeral, interment, and reception details followed, the last line of which caught Ross’s attention:

  “In lieu of customary remembrances, donations may be made to the Huntington’s Disease Society of America.”

  Huntington’s—a terminal neurodegenerative disorder—seemed an unusual choice of charities for a general surgeon. Ross prepared to go see Lila, wondering if there was a story behind that.

  It wasn’t a question he intended to lead with.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Psychologists call it the “Benjamin Franklin Effect,” asking someone for a favor in order to gain their trust. Benjamin Franklin had once asked to borrow a rare book from a man he didn’t get along with. The man, feeling that he had something of value, obliged, dissolving the tension between them. People see being asked a favor as a sign of admiration or respect. They have something someone else wants. They justify doing the favor because they need to believe they like the person asking.

  In Lila’s case, Ross wanted her to talk to him, to open up, and to eat something before she starved to death. He called for Eddie to meet him outside her room with a lunch tray and was pleased to find the bespectacled redhead waiting for him when he arrived.

  “Lunch is served,” Eddie said, handing off the tray with a smile. “Good luck getting her to eat it.”

  “Thanks.” Ross balanced the uneven weight an
d knocked on Lila’s partially closed door.

  The rooms at Lakeside were single occupancy. The stark white paint job and pale bedding were similar to the hospital rooms Ross was used to, but the atmosphere was more homelike. Built in furniture lined the left hand wall. Bookshelves, a dresser, and desk were all fixed in place without handles as a safety precaution. A neatly made platform bed sat in the center of the room, Lila’s crocheted blanket folded at the foot of it.

  “Hello,” Ross said.

  Lila faced out the window with the familiar distant gaze. Her dark hair had been brushed back from her face and tied into a loose braid that emphasized the hollowness in her cheeks. Fine lines worked their way from the outside corners of her blue eyes and her stare fixed on something in the distance.

  “Lila, do you remember me? We met this morning. My name’s Dr. Ross Reeves, but you can call me Ross if you’d like.” He set the tray on the table next to her and lifted the plastic lid off lunch, a pallid turkey and cheese on white bread and some chips. He poured out a foil-sealed apple juice into a Styrofoam cup. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?”

  Nothing about her expression said he was welcome or otherwise.

  Ross sat in a chair facing her. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  Lila blinked.

  “Fall has always been my favorite season. What’s yours?”

  If their meeting was a cartoon, the soundtrack would be crickets.