by E. G. Scott
“Some people really struggle with that.” She holds my eyes for an uncomfortable moment and I wonder if she can read my thoughts. I have been one of those people, for sure.
I swat away the memory of my Henry days and swap in Peter. I really try not to think about him too much when I’m working, but it’s getting harder the longer he is gone. Handsome Peter. Dangerous Peter. Missing Peter. It has been three weeks and no word, not even in code. But he swore that this was the week he would return.
He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell a soul if he disappeared and I’ve kept my word . . . for the most part. My heart aches thinking about him. I try not to let my mind wander to the worst. He’ll resurface again; I can feel it.
I finish inserting the rest of the needles. “So now all you have to do is breathe deeply and meditate if you can.”
“Meditate? I don’t really know how,” she admits.
“Try to focus on something simple that makes you happy, and keep coming back to your breath if your thoughts wander.”
“Okay.” She flutters her eyes closed and a smile spreads across her face. “Got it.”
“How do you feel?” Her shoulders have lowered from her ears and her mouth has gone slack.
“Wonderful. Actually, kind of stoned. Did you dip those needles in something?” She giggles.
“Nope. That is all you. You are experiencing the wonderful natural high of your body’s circuitry system flowing smoothly. Pretty incredible, isn’t it?” I beam. It never fails to fill me with happiness when a new patient feels good.
“Remarkable. I feel like I’m healing already,” she says dreamily.
“I’ll be back for you in about twenty minutes.” I switch the overhead lights off.
“You’re going to leave me here in the dark, alone?” The smallness of her voice surprises me. But the needles can be very disarming. “What if something bad happens?”
“You’ll be fine. I promise nothing bad will happen.” My heart opens for her. “I’m right outside the door.” I’ve gotten it nearly shut when she speaks again.
“Charlotte?”
“Yes, Lucy?”
“Thank you. I really hope someone does this for you. You deserve it.”
* * *
Back at my desk, I log in to Yelp, something I vowed to myself and to Rachel that I would stop doing. The practice became so habitually masochistic that I would often find myself checking in mindlessly multiple times an hour, even though it was repeatedly as painful as the mindless time before. But today, because of Lucy’s comment, I feel a strong pull to check. Part of me hopes that Peter might use the online review page as a place to communicate with me. “In plain sight can be the best place to send messages,” he’d told me when we started mapping out our secret codes.
The last time I logged on was four months ago, and Rachel, wonderful friend that she is, kindly offered to screen them for me and share any positive ones, and skip the negative ones so that I didn’t have to read how awful people think I am. Or the one person who does, who goes by many names, apparently. The most recent review is from just after I stopped looking at them, written by “Truthhurts,” with one star.
I would give Acupuncturist Charlotte Knopfler a negative 5 stars review if this app gave the option, but what I can’t communicate in stars, I’ll hopefully succeed with in words. THIS WOMAN IS THE WORST!! She shouldn’t be allowed to treat any other human beings for anything, let alone stick needles in them. She’s a careless and dangerous CRIMINAL. Take my word for it; do not give this woman access to your body or to your wallet unless you want your life ruined. She should be in jail.
The sudden sensation of wanting to fall through the floor into some alternate reality is acute. I can’t lose my shit while a client is in the office. No wonder Rachel offered to look at these; I should have known better. This one is the worst so far, or maybe it just feels that way because it’s the newest. I’m about to scroll through to challenge my theory and upset myself further, but my phone vibrates in the top drawer, where I keep it during sessions. I’m relieved for the distraction from the cruelty.
“Hello?”
“Can I please speak to Charlotte Knopfler?” I don’t recognize the overly official-sounding voice.
“Speaking.” I respond quietly for the sake of my patient.
“Ma’am, my name is Treat Allen. I’m calling from the Suffolk County medical examiner’s office.”
The world around me starts to tilt. I’m speechless and the voice continues.
“You were listed as the emergency contact of an individual who has come into our custody, and we are going to need you to come to our facility to make an identification. Are you able to do that today?”
All the saliva in my mouth has evaporated and I feel the hallmarks of a panic attack coming on. I put my head between my legs. My braid rests on the floor in a heap.
“Who . . . ?” I am unable to contain the tears as they run down my forehead and into my hairline.
“Ma’am, unfortunately I cannot give out any further information. We’ll require you in person before we can continue this conversation. Do you need our location?”
“Yes.” I grab a pen and copy the information on the back of one of my business cards. “I’m on my way.”
I shakily gather my cell phone, bag, and keys and proceed to drop everything on the threshold of my office. I nearly fall into a heap and start sobbing. Peter. I know it’s him. My love. Dead. The worst possible thing that could happen, has.
Heart racing, I struggle with locking the door behind me. I spot my green Prius and hate myself for being happy this morning about something as meaningless as finding a nearby parking spot. Now this seeming stroke of lucky convenience will bring me that much closer and more quickly to my biggest fear.
A cold incoming winter wind bites the tips of my ears and I shiver through my tears. I’ve forgotten my coat in the rush, but I decide against going back for it. A couple of stoned teenagers walk by me and burst into laughter before entering the China Panda next door. I start the car, attempting to still my quaking hands, and prepare myself for the fifteen-minute drive from Smithtown to Stony Brook.
The afternoon sky is dark-to-light ombré. It feels much later than five thirty P.M. It takes me ten minutes of driving well over the speed limit and disregarding yellow lights before I realize that in my panicked state, I’ve left Lucy full of needles in my locked office.
Desperate, I forge on in the same direction and fumble for my phone to call Rachel, who doesn’t pick up. I hear the desperation in my own voice as I cry my need for help through the voice-to-text and hope she’s nearby. As soon as I get the last of my plea into the phone, the sky opens up and torrential rain engulfs my car, a sign from above that I should slow down or else. I feel reckless now, and panicked, and instead of decelerating, I glide through a very yellow light. A car coming from the opposite direction in the turn lane slams on its horn and brakes, the loud honking reverberating in my head at top volume. The sky has darkened considerably and the rain is hard on the roof of my car and the wipers can barely clear the view for long enough to see mere inches in front of me. With each swish I pray for him to be okay and for my view to become clearer, and the harder it becomes to see in front of me.
Catastrophe is surrounding me on all sides now.
THREE
RACHEL
“Have you told anyone?” He sips the steaming coffee tentatively as he looks at me through dark glasses. We are indoors, so he looks like an incognito celebrity or, more fitting, a mobster.
“You are the only person who knows.” I look down at my tea and pull on the string attached to the bag filled with hibiscus flowers.
“Rachel. We are only as sick as our secrets.” His Rolex catches the sunlight as he takes another sip, the overflow liquid from the saucer dripping from the bottom of his cup onto the table between us.
He frowns. “I don’t think you should be making mortality jokes at a time like this, do you?”
“I don’t really care what you think,” I counter.
He catches my eyes. “This is serious.” He clasps his hands in front of him. “Listen to me. This is happening.”
I take a gulp of air to encourage my lungs to relax. “Don’t you think I know that?” My voice cracks and my eyes fill.
He leans back, satisfied with my display of vulnerability. “What are you going to do about this?” His voice rises.
I look around at the surrounding diners who’ve paused their conversations to look at us. “Jesus. Keep your voice down.”
“I’m upset,” he says, lower.
“You and I have very different opinions on this, that much we know. I don’t want to keep having this conversation. I should have just handled it on my own.” I pause, realizing I may be pissing him off. “No offense.”
He shrugs. “It takes a lot more than that to offend me. Another important thing about me that you should know is that I’m not in the habit of letting people off the hook.”
“I’ve already told you. This isn’t negotiable,” I restate for the third time this hour.
“I don’t want this on my conscience. Aside from the fact that I actually kind of like you, I value my reputation. If anyone found out that I had anything to do with letting you get away with this—”
“No one is going to find out. That’s the whole point of this.” I gesture to him and me. “What we’ve shared is nobody else’s business. That’s the agreement.”
“What about Charlotte?” I don’t like the way his voice changes when he says her name.
“What about her?” I reply defensively.
“Can’t she help you? Surely she’d want to save your life?”
“You are being unnecessarily dramatic and mean right now.” I shake my head sadly. “This is not her problem to fix.”
“Well, the person whose problem it is, is doing jack shit.” His eyes bore into me.
I tap my fingers on the table nervously. “She would not handle this well.” He looks wearily at my fidgeting and I retract my hands into my lap.
“If she’s really a friend, she’s going to want to help,” he responds.
“She’d be furious with me. She and I have very different outlooks on the right thing to do as far as this is concerned.” I look out the window and watch the steady stream of traffic flow by.
“Rachel, now more than ever you want to be living truthfully, don’t you?” he asks.
“Don’t start that shit,” I spew.
“All the work you’ve done on yourself?” He makes a tsk-tsk sound and it makes me want to drive my unused fork through his hand. “Secrecy is a slippery slope,” he pushes.
“I’m about to get up and walk out of here,” I warn.
“What about if I talked to Charlotte? Explained things to her in technical terms? I think she’ll like me; I tend to have a soothing effect on the ladies,” he says.
My mouth goes dry.
“Don’t you dare.” I grit my teeth and double down. “Besides, if you don’t keep my secret, then what’s to keep me from telling yours?”
“I have nothing to hide.” He laughs. “I’m an open book.”
“You have everything to hide!” I say seriously.
His face pales a few shades and he’s about to reply when my phone vibrates in my bag for the third time in ten minutes. I’ve been ignoring it, but it’s getting increasingly harder not to worry about who else is coming for me.
“Maybe you should get that?” he says, his irritation apparent.
I remain still. Better not to incite him.
“Go ahead, check it,” he says. “It could be a matter of life and death,” he adds glibly.
“You have a really fucked sense of humor, you know that?” I say as I flip over my iPhone, and he shrugs. I see that I have three missed calls and a text from Charlotte. My stomach climbs into my throat as I read the text and shoot back a quick response without asking his permission.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“I need to go. I’m sorry. There’s a problem at my office,” I stammer.
“Charlotte?” he asks. I shoot him a dirty look.
“She needs my help.” I reach for my purse to retrieve a twenty, but he waves it away when I extend my hand.
“I’ll add it to your tab.” He smiles wryly.
“Fine,” I shoot back.
“This conversation is not over. I’m not going away.” He means every word. My hand is on the door when he lobs one last grenade at my back.
“Rachel,” he says gravely. “Save yourself, while you still can.”
FOUR
SILVESTRI
“Ms. Knopfler?” I try my best to maintain a warm but reverent expression as the distressed woman approaches me in the hallway. This is about to be the worst part of my day.
“Yes, I’m Charlotte Knopfler.” In spite of her obvious unease, she extends a firm handshake and offers up the kindest smile anyone in her position can be expected to muster.
“Miss Knopfler, my name is Detective Silvestri. Thank you for coming in.” In a fun twist, the grief counselor who’s usually on hand for these moments called out this morning with a death in the family. Wolcott is off chasing down a stolen pool-cleaning van, which leaves Mr. Sensitive to walk this poor woman through the bereavement process.
“Please, call me Charlotte.” She wears her dirty blond hair tidily in a braid and bun arrangement. She’s dressed in loose-fitting clothing and slip-on shoes, and I pick up the scent of candles and incense. I suspect she’s a massage therapist or some sort of holistic practitioner.
“Okay, Charlotte. I’m going to walk you through the process. I’ll be with you every step of the way.” I give her my arm and lead her in the direction of the sitting room.
“Are you taking me to the body?” she asks.
“It’s not quite the way you might expect from the cop shows.”
We’re met by the medical examiner, Fisk, who leads us into the sitting room and gets us situated. I’m relieved to have another woman in the mix, as I’m hoping this will help put Charlotte at ease. I calmly explain that she’ll be handed a photograph attached facedown to a clipboard, that the photo will be of her loved one’s face framed by a blue sheet, and that there are no markings or trauma to the face that she needs to prepare for. I tell her that she can take as much time as she needs before turning the photo over.
As I watch her absorb the information, I find myself taken with this woman’s level of self-possession. Aside from being quite beautiful, she exudes positive energy. Even now, with her friend lying on the slab in the other room, she seems tuned in to Fisk and me in an almost deferential sense. Under normal circumstances, I can imagine what she brings to the situation. A real caregiver.
I watch her closely as she turns the photo over and forces herself to look at the image. I register surprise, then confusion, on her face before she faints in her chair.
* * *
This has happened once before. During my NYPD days, I had to accompany a next of kin to identify a body. We spent several days tracking down the sister of a young woman who turned up dead in a hit-and-run, and then had to wait until she returned home from an out-of-state visit to a boyfriend. When the woman finally made it in, begrudgingly, I sat her down while the medical examiner and grief counselor ran her through the drill.
The woman seemed more put off than concerned and became increasingly impatient and belligerent until she was handed the clipboard. She huffed, snatched the photo, and looked at it before freezing in place, becoming ashen, and passing out where she sat. When we finally reviv
ed her, she looked at me with eyes the size of saucers, her lips quivering. There was a detached glaze in her stare, and she seemed to be looking just past me.
“Are you okay, miss?” I asked.
“Well, ain’t that a motherfucker?” she answered absently.
“What’s that, miss?”
“Felt like I was staring into a mirror just then.” Her gaze continued to hover just beyond my head.
“I understand,” I said, patting her hand reassuringly. “These circumstances can be unsettling. Can I ask you the last time you were in contact with your sister?”
She looked at me for the first time, genuine shock dripping off of her face. “In contact?” She frowned incredulously. “I didn’t even know I had a sister ’til just now.”
* * *
Charlotte is taking short sips of water from the paper-cone cup she holds with two hands, as if warming herself by a fire. She wears an expression of what I read as pleasant, relieved surprise coupled with mild shock. Her unfixed stare settles somewhere on the wall at the far end of the sitting room. I let her eyes settle back to mine before I pick up the conversation again.
“You seem relieved,” I say finally.
“Of course,” she answers, allowing herself a deep exhale. “I thought that was going to be someone I know in that picture. Or knew, I guess.”
I do my best to temper my surprise. “Are you saying that you don’t recognize the woman in that photograph?”
“I have no idea who she is,” she responds. There’s the slightest hint of hesitation in her expression.
“And you’re sure about that?”
“I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.” She betrays a smile, then catches herself. She looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry, I probably seem callous. I’m sure she has loved ones out there who are worried about her and looking for her.”