Scientists call these the lost years.
Peyton dropped the plastic bottles labeled with the Gerkey logo into the waiting carton. Pressing down the flaps, she pushed the box against the lip of the tape gun. The machine sucked the box from her grasp and spat it out on the other side. She carried the sealed carton over to the waiting dolly, placed it on top of the one she’d just completed, and returned to her spot by the conveyor belt. All around her, people worked doing the same thing. Drop. Push. Carry. Her shoulders ached and a paper cut throbbed across the web between thumb and finger, where the tape had caught hold of the latex glove and torn away a piece. The guy on the radio sang about hitting the highway his way. God, she hated country music.
On the other side of the spinning metal tray, Ronni hummed as she scooped up bottles. She loved working at Gerkey’s. She liked the discounts. Half-price hand lotion. Seriously?
“So what’s it like, having Dana around?” Ronni asked.
“Super.” A big fat lie. But even though Ronni was ten years older than Peyton, she was too dense to see through the sarcasm.
“She used to be my babysitter, you know. She wasn’t so bad. Sometimes she let me stay up and watch Saturday Night Live.”
It had been just Peyton and her dad in the kitchen that morning. Even so, she had felt Dana’s presence everywhere, stretching out and touching them as they had breakfast.
Ronni pressed the tape flat. “I totally forgot how much Dana looks like your mom.” She frowned, and Peyton could tell she’d just realized how lame that sounded.
Queen of the obvious, that was Ronni.
Ronni jerked her chin at the box Peyton had just taped shut. “Redo that one.”
“Why? UPS doesn’t care if the tape’s crooked.”
“It could get stuck in the automated machinery.”
“Whatever.” Peyton yanked off the tape. Ronni didn’t used to be such a jerk. It had something to do with the hormones she was taking to get pregnant. Peyton had heard all about temperature charts and fluctuating levels and in general, way more than she’d ever wanted to know about the baby-making process.
The highway song ended and a new one began. Peyton groaned. “Not this one again.”
“I love this song.” Ronni clicked her pen and jotted something down on her clipboard.
“It’s about shoes.”
“It’s about more than that,” Ronni said, seriously. “The shoes are just a symbol. Besides, you used to like country.”
Peyton had never liked country. “If you let me listen to my iPod, we’d both be happy.”
“It’s a safety rule and you know it. No earphones on the floor.”
“There should be a safety rule about being forced to listen to lame music.”
The whistle sounded. The assembly lines whined and the bottles trembled to a stop.
The floor was quieter now. She could hear the guys on the other line talking about their fishing trip last weekend. The country singer sang about an old sweater as they walked toward the time clock.
“What’s next?” Peyton asked. “Her bathrobe?”
“I told you,” Ronni replied. “They’re symbols. Like, shoes mean freedom. Sweaters mean comfort.”
Help me. “I know what symbols are.”
The foreman nodded at them. “Hello, ladies.” His gaze lingered on Peyton, full of sympathy. Peyton scowled and tugged off her gloves.
“Don’t forget to put on a new pair when you clock back in, Peyton.”
One time. She’d forgotten to put on a new pair of gloves one time, and after that, the guy lived to remind her. “It’s lotion,” she told him. “It’s supposed to go on skin. It’s not like we’re making paint thinner.”
He nodded at her, as if she hadn’t said a thing, his gaze moving to the next person in line. Why did she even bother?
Ronni pulled out her ID card hanging on a lanyard around her neck and passed it beneath the scanner. “Coming?”
“Maybe I’ll catch up with you later.” The last thing Peyton wanted to do was sit around the break table with Ronni and her friends. One of them was pregnant, one was breast-feeding, which always made Peyton nervous about looking at her, and two had toddlers. All they did was talk about teething and diaper ointment and the sale at the mall on baby clothes.
Ronni shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Peyton pushed through the exit and let the door latch behind her. She’d need her ID to get back in, which was another dumb thing about the place. What was in the place worth stealing? Like someone from Banana Boat was going to pay Peyton a million dollars to tell them exactly what was in Gerkey’s Baby Soft Lavender Hand Cream. Like there was anything in the whole freaking factory that was the least bit interesting at all.
Not that she’d ever tell Mr. G that. He took that stuff very seriously.
She’d discovered the large flat boulder her first day at Gerkey’s. She still couldn’t understand why no one else had found it and claimed it for themselves. It sat facing the lake, its basin gently scooped, and protected all around by pines. She wriggled into place, the cold stone stinging through the denim of her jeans. Later, the afternoon sun would glide across the rock and warm it. By summer, she’d be sweating.
She pulled out her cigarettes from her bag. Tapped one out, lit it, inhaled deeply. She tilted her head back and exhaled a stream of smoke.
By July, the lake would be warm enough to swim in. Though some people could tolerate the freezing temperatures earlier in the season. Eric, for example. Her mother, for another. She’d go running in, lifting her knees high and squealing, and then suddenly dive below the surface. She’d emerge, gasping, calling to Peyton to join her. But Peyton would refuse. She hadn’t realized there would be a finite limit. She examined the cut on her hand. Just a little scrape, but it hurt every time she opened her hand.
She had to clean her aquarium when she got home. Maybe she’d pick up that plastic Keep Away sign she’d seen at the dollar store. But maybe not. It probably had lead in it or something. Her mom had gotten into that kind of thing, toward the end. Peyton knew all about how black mold could hide behind walls and how weed killer could seep into groundwater.
“Hi.”
She squeaked and jumped. It was just LT Stahlberg standing beside a big tree and shuffling his feet. God. For some reason, he’d stuck aluminum foil under his hood. It poked out all about his round shiny face. No wonder his cheeks were so red.
“Jeez, LT.” Her heart was racing a million miles a minute. “Are you creeping on me?”
“What? No!”
Sure he wasn’t. “Well, cut it out.”
He scowled. “You shouldn’t be smoking. Your mom wouldn’t like it.”
Like he knew what her mom liked and didn’t like. “What are you doing out here? Don’t you have to get ready for work?”
He crossed his arms across his big gray sweatshirt. “I am ready.”
Huh. So even Mr. G couldn’t get LT to wear a uniform. Maybe he couldn’t find one big enough. She eyed LT through the rise of smoke. “The loading dock’s that way.” She jerked her chin toward the building behind her, but he didn’t move.
“I wanted to tell you. . . . I came by the other night. Did your dad say?”
She crushed her cigarette against the smooth surface of the rock and dropped it into the brush. Standing, she brushed off the seat of her pants. “I have to get back to work.”
“Seriously, Peyton. You have to be careful.”
Her mom had been careful, washing her hands every five seconds, measuring every ounce she drank, soaking the potatoes for hours and hours. Peyton knew exactly what being careful got a person. Nothing.
“You’re always wearing those earphones,” LT insisted. “That’s how they get you. They talk right into your ears and hypnotize you.”
“That’s only true for country music.”
He frowned. “Are you making a joke?”
“Don’t be so stupid. There’s no such thing as aliens.” What was it w
ith crazy people, fixated on something that wasn’t real? Didn’t they know there was enough real stuff to be freaked out about, right here on earth?
“That’s not true.” He touched the tinfoil fringing his face.
“Have you ever seen one?” she challenged.
“Well, no. But your mom said there’s stuff we can’t see that can hurt us.”
“She wasn’t talking about aliens, moron. She was talking about germs.”
He blinked rapidly. “I miss her.” His big dumb face, his pale lashes spiked with moisture, his blubbery red lips sagging. “She was my friend.”
Her mom said not to let LT get worked up, that that was how he ended up burning down the hardware store. She said he had to take his meds and keep to his schedule. His breath came in jagged gasps. He scrubbed at his face with both hands.
It’s all right. Peyton heard her mom’s voice. Look at me, LT. It’s all right.
But Peyton wasn’t her mom. “Shut up, LT,” she said fiercely.
He stared at her, his face loose and confused.
“She wasn’t your friend. She was your nurse.”
Anger darted across his eyes. She didn’t care. Her own anger swelled up and overtook her.
“And you stay away from me. I’m not your friend, either.” She wheeled around and stomped toward the plant. She was late for her shift. She dared Ronni to say a word about it. She hoped she would.
FIFTEEN
[DANA]
DOC LINDSTROM USED TO HAVE HIS OFFICE IN A whitewashed two-story building, along with a couple of dentists and an orthodontist. One of my least favorite places in town, the small structure had always been associated in my mind with fevers, vaccines, and dental drills. I wondered if Doc had changed locations, but as I drove down the street, I saw the same wooden sign in the parking lot. The building itself looked a little worse for wear, its paint dingier, front steps tilting at a steeper slope, the gray awning more faded and drooping. Something else about it had changed. It took a moment to place it: all the trees around it had been chopped down.
Viola Viersteck looked up from her seat behind the reception desk and instantly came to her feet, her face collapsing into an expression of sympathy. “Oh, Dana. How are you holding up?”
The two old guys in the corner halted their conversation and glanced over.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I’d never really known Viola, who’d been several years ahead of Julie in school, and I’d been surprised to see her at the funeral yesterday, sitting between her husband, another fellow I hadn’t really known, and a sulky teenager who had to be their daughter. She and Julie must have grown closer over the years.
Viola came around the desk with her arms outstretched. “I was so worried when you called this morning for an appointment.”
That caught the attention of the old geezers, who sat back and stared.
“It’s all right,” I said, stiffly submitting to her hug, embarrassed by her effusiveness. “I just have a few questions for Doc.”
She held me out and looked at me. Her lashes were heavily mascaraed, her hair elaborately frosted, and her lips slick with gloss. The neckline of her blue sweater plunged, revealing plump cleavage. Black Bear’s version of a diva. “How’s Peyton doing?”
“Hanging in there.”
“It’s such a terrible thing. She pretty much kept to herself all day yesterday, didn’t she? I didn’t even get a chance to give her a hug. Tell her Brenna’s mom says hi, would you? Brenna’s Peyton’s best friend, you know.”
That thin little thing in the tight miniskirt was Peyton’s best friend? “Oh,” I said, and tried to sound enthusiastic. “That’s nice.”
She nodded, sending her long gold earrings swinging. “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ll let you know when Doc can see you.”
Conscious of the curious gazes of the men sitting in the corner, I selected a chair as far away from them as possible. Periodicals fanned across the small wooden table beside me. Lutheran Today. Golf. Midwest Living. A plastic stand affixed to the wall offered brochures on colonoscopies, bone scans, and the first warning signs of skin cancer. I crossed my legs and stared steadfastly at the wall, until the old guys finally realized the show was over.
Geezer One cleared his throat and said to Geezer Two, “How’s your son-in-law doing?”
“Eh, not so good. His harvest is down six bushels per acre.”
“Rust?”
“Nothing like that. The number of tillers is way low. He can’t figure it out.”
“Too much rain?”
Money was going to be a problem. I could only ride on credit for so long before my cards were maxed out. I needed to follow up with White myself and do what Halim had failed to: make the guy pay us what he owed. I had White’s cell number, but would he answer if he saw who was calling? It would be better to have a lawyer contact him. My neighbor in Baltimore worked in a law office. Maybe she could recommend someone willing to make a targeted phone call without charging the earth. I chewed on my lip. Just how long would Frank allow me to stay, rent-free? Sheri might be willing to put me up, but her little boy was sick. Last thing she needed was a houseguest.
“Dana?” Viola stood by the door. “You want to come on back?”
Both geezers swung their heads with renewed interest as I stood.
Viola swished before me down the narrow hallway, teetering on her stacked heels, and stopped outside a door. “Go on in,” she said. “I’ll let Doc know you’re here.”
A dark green room, lined with books and hung with framed diplomas. A heavy desk sat beside the lone window, two chairs ranged in front of it. Julie must have sat in one of these chairs as Doc Lindstrom told her what the test results revealed. She’d been a nurse. She would have heard the clock start ticking.
A voice behind me said, “Dana.”
I turned to see the man who’d brought me into this world. “Hi, Doc.”
Doc Lindstrom had aged. His shoulders were drawn together in a stoop, hair now completely white, skin like crumpled parchment. He patted me on the shoulder. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.” Settling himself behind his desk, he regarded me with concern. “Is it about Peyton?”
I flushed. He was referring to the scene in Frank’s living room last night, my tugging Peyton over to him and pointing to the raised red bumps on her neck that had turned out to be nothing more than mosquito bites. Something I certainly should have recognized, something that only emphasized how much of an outsider I’d become. Then I caught myself. When had I started thinking of it as Frank’s living room? “I’m worried about what’s going on.”
“Well, sure. It must have been quite a shock, coming home to this. There’s been a lot for you to absorb.”
“You don’t know why Julie got sick.”
“You should really talk to her nephrologist, Dr. Gunderson. He came to the funeral yesterday. Did you have a chance to meet him?”
“No, but I called his office this morning. His nurse said she could fit me in sometime next month.” Which was ridiculous. I only needed fifteen minutes, I’d told her, but she’d remained firm, the implication clear: the doctor was busy treating people who really needed him. I pulled out Julie’s notebook, and Doc Lindstrom leaned forward as I placed it on the desk between us.
He looked up at me. “This is Julie’s.”
“So she talked to you.”
“Yes.”
“Ten percent of all kidney disease has no known cause.” I tapped a number circled in red. “But Julie calculated that here in Black Bear, it’s twelve percent.”
“The higher incidence surprised me, too, so I consulted Dr. Gunderson. He said that although the rate is higher, it’s not high enough to trigger alarm.”
“Really?”
“What we’re seeing seems to be an anomaly, Dana. In a few months, it could fall back to the expected rate, or even dip lower.”
As more people sickened or died. “You said ‘seems to be.’ What if it isn’t an anomaly?”
“You mean, what if there is a cause, and we just don’t know it yet?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s always that possibility. But Dr. Gunderson and I looked at all the cases. We couldn’t find any reason to think otherwise.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Dr. Gunderson thinks there’s no reason for concern.”
“Julie died.”
“You know,” he said gently, “there are lots of reasons people get sick with kidney disease. We’re learning more about it every day. There’s injury to the kidneys, workplace exposure, medications, cancer, high blood pressure, polycystic disease, chronic dehydration, but Julie ran none of those risks.”
“Irene said she got tested.”
“She had me run every test in the book. I did everything I could think of, even covered a few out of my own pocket.”
He’d taken care of Julie since the day she was born. He wouldn’t have faltered now. “What sort of workplace exposure?”
“It’s an interesting study. Sand workers. Which doesn’t mean anything. We don’t have a sand factory in Black Bear.”
“But we do have miles of new beach.” Sheri’s little boy crouching in the sand, his fingers working to free a shell.
“You’re saying people got exposed in that way?”
“It could be.”
“Hard to imagine, though. A manufacturing setting’s different, a lot of dust being churned up within a closed environment and getting inhaled deep into the lungs, where it can do all sorts of organ damage. But out on a beach setting . . .” He shook his head. “I just can’t see it.”
“If the wind was blowing?”
“Maybe while the sand was being dumped, there could be some residual airborne dust. But that would affect the worker, not the beachgoer. Beaches have been around for a million years. People have been walking on them forever, and all the people who live in the desert. There’s been nothing to show they’ve developed kidney disease at any greater rate than other populations.”
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