"Michael, it'll be there tomorrow..."
"I'm too wound up, plus I'm real curious to see what kind of equipment the widow left behind. I'll only be a few."
"She said she was going to leave everything."
"Yeah...I'm anxious to see what everything is."
"Please, don't be too long. First night in the new house. I'm bound to be spooked by all the creaks and noises."
"Don't worry, you'll be asleep in no time," I said, and kissed her goodnight.
7
I felt like a cat exploring a deep long closet for the very first time, eyes wide and searching for the light-switch in the hallway leading into my new, still unexplored office. Finally I located it on the wall to the right. An exposed bulb in the center of the ceiling, weakened by a layering of dust, emitted a pallid glare across fading green walls. The hallway (that's all it was: a five-foot hallway connecting the house to the examination room and medical office like a big vein) was as bare as a prison cell with chipped plaster walls and a steel institutional-like door complete with the tandem security of a deadbolt and chain. I thought it strange that Farris chose to install the sort of door you would normally use to partition a garage—the impassable type that keeps the burglars and bugs out. I made a mental note to have it changed to match the rest of the paneled doors and closets in the house.
I opened the steel door. It led into the waiting room where my patients would sign in and fidget away their time before seeing me. Two small plaid sofas hugged the walls, and were separated by another door, this one leading out to the side of the house where the patients would enter. Opposite this door was a small cut-out partition. Looking through it I could see a small desk that was built into the short wall. Here's where my wife would do her job, greet the patients with her pleasant smile and enter all their personal information into the computer I was hoping to have set up within the next few days.
Just to the right behind the partition was another doorway, this one leading into the examining room. It was painted the same odd green color as the hallway, and I made a second note to put a fresh coat of cool sterile white over the queasy clinical decor. In the eight-by-eight room was an eye-chart on the wall alongside a 3-D diagram of the human nervous system. On the opposing wall sat a stainless steel examining table, which still had half a roll of sanitary paper rolled beneath it. This paper always reminds me of the wrappings they use when you buy a hero, er, submarine sandwich at the deli.
I closed my eyes for a moment and fantasized about meeting my first day's worth of patients. They would be much different than the breed of people haunting Dr Scully's Practice in Manhattan. There I'd served a Medicaid population with general family healthcare, poor people whose green cards still had wet ink on them. Teenage pregnancies and flu-like symptoms that were a result of either painkiller withdrawals or the beginnings of hepatitis. A real treat. Here in Ashborough I'd end up spending my time crawling through annual check-ups, treating the occasional flu or trifling with the sniffles and broken limbs of schoolchildren. In six months time I would end up crossing paths with most of the town's population—at last count hovering around twelve-hundred—and I say most because there's always your small percentage of individuals who refuse to see a doctor for one of two reasons, either they feel invincible to nature's harmful ways, or that they're too scared to face God's music. These are the same people that come crawling to me for a miracle cure a day late and a dollar short. Sorry Charlie, God I ain't.
There was another door two steps into the entrance of the examining room, this one also, oddly, made of steel. Note three: change this door. It led into my future sanctuary. The library. I've made my hesitations quite apparent regarding moving my family from the city to the country; but this room, well, let's just say that its presence made it much easier for me to look beyond my reservations. Upon walking through the door you are faced with an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, and we're talking lofty here, vaulted ceilings that start at twelve feet and point skyward to an apex of nearly eighteen feet high. Being in this room made me feel as though I was in a church, with cathedral ceilings and arched doorways purposefully constructed to further inspire a reflection of the heavens—to induce a mysterious quiet apprehension that a divine presence is in visitation. Spooky, yet breathtaking. A room with a view, and so much more. Yeah.
This room was sanctuary. Here, I felt protected.
Apparently Emily Farris felt it necessary to not only leave her husband's medical supplies behind, as evident to the immediate right where two large oak armoires stood; inside were all the materials I would need to patch and mend and record and administer and perform all my doctorly duties: a fresh and wealthy inventory of medicinal furnishings and instruments. Really, I could go to work tomorrow if I had to. The widow, in an apparent struggle to vanquish all memories of her husband's career, left the entire room untouched. And I'm not just talking filing cabinets stuffed with medical records or cases of promotional pharmaceuticals, I'm talking furniture that included the aforementioned armoires, a huge cherry desk facing out the windows, plus custom bookshelves lining two entire walls stuffed with every medical encyclopedia under the moon (after all, it was night). There was a coat rack by the door, original paintings on the back wall. And don't let me forget the fireplace, set with harvest-gold brick that went up the entire wall through the peaked ceiling. She even left behind a set of brass hearth tools. Magnificent.
I peeked over the books, then sat in the leather-bound chair before the desk. I pulled at the drawers but they were all locked; someplace, I would need to locate the key. There was a small cabinet to the right of the desk, near the fireplace. I stood up, walked over to it and although there was a keyhole in the facing, the door was unlocked. Inside was an assortment of liquors, plus three shot-sized glass tumblers. I chose the brandy, sat back down at my desk, and poured myself a drink. As I sipped the alcohol, I stared beyond the glass panes of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and for the first time relished in the flavor of my new country home, all the while thinking of my past fantasy of gazing out the windows at the dark expanse of woods in the backyard, courting the fireflies on a hot summer night.
I smiled as the warm spirits softened the anxieties of the day. Perhaps I wouldn't miss the city after all.
Ten minutes passed, I sipped the last drop of brandy in the glass and decided that now would be a good time to retire to bed. I placed the glass on the table, looked out into the darkness, and saw, in the distance of the woods, a brief and single flash of gold light. I walked to the window, cupped my hands around my face and peered out. It did not come again. Perhaps one of my fireflies had paid me a visit?
When I turned around I saw a small icebox in the furthest corner of the room. I didn't notice it until now, as it hugged the corner between the bookshelf and armoire. I went to it, pulled at the door but it was locked. Rifling through the desk earlier I noticed a few small keys of which I'd assumed went to the liquor cabinet. I retrieved them, then fitted the first one into the lock on the icebox. It opened with a small click.
Inside was an assortment of blood samples, each one labeled with a patient's name. I found it odd that Farris had presumably collected the blood of his patients, which wasn't necessarily out of the ordinary if he'd planned to send them out for testing. However, there was quite a collection here. Then, I discovered something amazing.
The man had samples of disease-infected blood. They were labeled as such: Hantavirus, HIV +, Malaria, Bubonic Plague. I wondered where he'd gotten them from, for what purpose they could be used. Was it possible that he'd had some patients who'd come down with these diseases? HIV, yes. Hantavirus, possible. But malaria? Bubonic Plague? I locked the cabinet back up and made a point to try and research Farris's files for a conclusive rationale as to why he'd had those samples on hand.
Back in the house, all was quiet. I peeked in on Jessica, who along with Page appeared not to have moved since I last checked in almost two hours ago. I felt a true powerful sense of love for my daughter
, a feeling so deep it scared me. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar surroundings, seeing her here for the very first time, sleeping so peacefully, the simple act appearing oddly precarious in nature, as though she'd settled down in the first comfortable place she could find after a day wandering as a lost runaway.
In my new bedroom, I undressed and crawled into my half of the bed that for the time being was a stark metal frame holding up two twin boxsprings and the king mattress; the rest of the wood bed was disassembled on Christine's side, towering against the wall like phantom trees. I lay there for ten minutes feeling the pressures of the day waning, and all the while I listened to Christine's shallow breaths and the occasional grind of her teeth. Still, sleep seemed as far away as my life in Manhattan, and I propped myself up on my elbows and peered out the window facing the woods in the backyard. In the full moon's light, I could see the birdbath, the shed at the perimeter of the woods, and then the woods themselves that pitched up slightly and disappeared in the distance, even at this height.
All was quiet. Too quiet.
Deep in the darkness of the woods, I saw a second brief flash of golden light. And then, like the first, it was gone.
A half hour later, while I still lie awake in bed, I thought, Fireflies don't come out until July.
8
The next three weeks were an anticipated transitional period for us, but proved to be busier than we ever expected. I ended up opening my practice to the public one week after moving in. It was a choice by default. I hadn't planned on ramping things up so quickly, but as soon as the phones were hooked up they began an eternal serenade of tolls and in twenty-four hours I had a tapeful of messages from Dr. Farris's old patients (my new patients) seeking checkups and appointments, all for non life-threatening issues. Through my perusal of their records, and the general lighthearted conversations that took place during their stopovers, I realized that these people simply wanted to be the first ones to initiate some chatter with new doctor in town. It was all part of the small-town directive. She who plants the grapevine grows the most acquaintances. And while I played mayor, Christine assumed command of the household.
Jessica was having a grand old time exploring the nooks and crannies of the house, and even helped Christine choring about with an enthusiasm that'd remained previously dormant. She'd do the job that was asked of her as long as it incorporated a conversation pertaining to all the fun activities she'd soon encounter in kindergarten, plus, as Christine so duly illustrated, how she'd be the smartest kid in class because all her roots were planted in city soil. I frowned upon this type of work-load bribery despite the fact that it served its purpose quite well, and hoped that Christine's ego-boosting commendation would fade from Jessica's mind before September arrived.
I'd had lunch with Phillip a couple more times, and soon enough I was formally introduced to Rosy Deighton. As it turned out, she didn't remember our encounter in the bedroom, although I still had my suspicions as to whether there might have been some ulterior motive that day on the part of her husband. Looking at her was still unsympathetic on the stomach (she even joined us for lunch one afternoon—I'll spare the details), but she seemed a rather pleasant lady who did her best to keep up a good attitude despite the fact that the golden years of her life had been pretty much wiped out.
Curious as to her condition and certain that cancer hadn't been the culprit, I'd spent many hours searching Neil Farris's files for Rosy Deighton's medical record, but found nothing. I'd never met Farris, and knew very little about him before I assumed his life here in Ashborough. But what I'd learned was that he was a very detail-oriented man. His files were immaculately kept, alphabetized by last name, and categorized by condition. There were fourteen people suffering from cancer in Ashborough (at least those of whom came to Farris for support), and Rosy Deighton wasn't one of them. Actually, according to the records left behind for me, Rosy hadn't even been a patient.
I never told Phillip that I couldn't locate Rosy's file—I felt this bit of information was something he didn't need to know about; last thing I needed was the necessity to unearth it under his watchful eyes, wherever the hell it was. I ended up examining her (another choice by default) during my lunch-breaks and prescribed her a mild anti-anxiety medication in addition to the painkillers she was taking, something that would help her get through the mental aspect of her discomfort. That's the difference between old-world practice and new: Farris, in his seventies, mostly avoided prescribing anti-anxiety or anti-depressive meds for fear of their addictive properties, something he indicated in many of his patient files. Little did Mr. small-town physician know was that half of America chows down Xanax and Zoloft like they're tic tacs.
Although I knew the medication would help Rosy's thinking patterns (I decided to chalk up her window-tapping outburst as a case of sleepwalking, and prescribed some Ambien to keep her bed-bound), I felt disappointed that there was nothing else I could do for her to make coping a bit easier. She'd have to live with her deformities for the rest of her life, and she'd have to deal with it, otherwise she'd end up in some padded room wearing diapers and swilling on her very own custom pacifier.
On a different occasion Christine met Rosy and did her best to make nice with her by talking herbal teas, spice candles, and aromatherapy; as it turned out, Rosy had a bit of new age pith in her bones, and Christine took to that just fine, happily discussing the healing properties of jasmine and sandalwood and other essences of the mind. Rosy had mentioned how much she enjoyed children, but Christine thought it best to keep Jessica away, and I agreed. To a five year old, Rosy was the bogeyman. To some adults, too.
Sometime during the third week I took the afternoon off so that we could tour the elementary school, and get Jessica registered for kindergarten in the fall. When we first arrived there Jessica had spotted an unruly line of older children in the hallway, third-graders I supposed, and casted a silent wary look up at me as if to ask whether she had a choice in this matter. Suddenly, school didn't seem all the fun and games Christine made it out to be.
We met the elementary school principal, a bald and rotund fellow named Goodwin Clarke, who made a strong point to discuss the rheumatoid arthritis in his hands and how the anti-inflammatory meds gave him the bloodies, something both Christine and I really didn't need to visualize at the moment. Christine did her best to not look at me for fear of bursting out in laughter, and I changed the subject by promising Goodwin an appointment the following Saturday.
When we arrived home Jimmy Page was eyeing his leash. He ran to the door, then looked at me, then at the door, then at me again. I got the hint and took him for a walk in the back before he started whimpering. Page's first and favorite spot had become the cement bird fountain, and in no time all the weeds around the pedestal were dead. They ought to market the stuff, I thought.
I made a point to spend some moments between appointments here in the backyard (not much hustle and bustle here in Ashborough, unlike New York where you bounced back and forth between examining rooms like a volleyball), circling about the property, checking out the grass and the weeds and the sea of trees and copses that seemed to go on forever. Regardless of the amount of time, whether it was a few minutes or a half hour, each time out seemed like a small journey, and I would discover something else with the property I didn't know about, simple little things like where the water spigots were or how someone had planted a line of white rose bushes about twelve feet deep into the woods. One Sunday afternoon—soon, I promised myself—I would take a few hours to search these woods. Don't ask me what I expected to find. But since most of my life had been spent on sidewalks and concrete, I thought it'd be fun playing the role of forest explorer.
The rest of the day was spent in typical Cayle family fashion. Jessica ran about the property with Page, Christine rearranged our things while getting dinner ready, and I painted the hallway and examining room the flat-white color I thought it should be. At one point Jessica slipped into my office to proudly show off a marvelou
s scrape on her knee. I covered it with Bacitracin and a Band-Aid and sent her on her ungraceful way.
After dinner we spent the evening relaxing in the living room, something we really hadn't done as a family since moving in. The television was off, another rarity. Jessica was lying on her stomach on the spiral-weave rug reading Dr Seuss, and I poked through the last of Farris's files trying to accustom myself with the medical histories of Ashborough's families. At one point Christine glanced over at me. She was sitting on the loveseat by the window that looked out across the front yard. I saw a glossy joy in her gaze, and she aimed her eyes down as if embarrassed of her tears. Jesus, I thought, she wants another child. Ain't that a number you can bet on. And she wants one soon. My excuse of having no space is moot now. No more tight city living for the Cayles. We could have two or three more with the room in this house. I'd have to settle for one more.
Then, she said it. "Michael...I want to talk."
I stood, walked over to her and kissed her, knowing that I'd have to give in to her appeal. Yep, she wanted another baby, and she'd start the conversation by saying, I'm thirty-four, and I'm not getting any younger.
Neither was I. And I wanted another child too. Kind of. "Wait until Jess is in bed, then we'll talk."
She nodded, smiling, knowing she was finally going to win this cold war.
An hour later Jessica was asleep on the floor, unperceiving of her mother's yearnings. Christine looked up from her Better Homes and Gardens with that same glazed stare. "Michael...I'm not getting any younger. And you know Jessica needs a sibling." She always started the talk that way. It was her path of least resistance, of trying not to sound too selfish. Thing was, I was starting to agree with her, more so now that we lived at 17 Harlan Road. Without any other children in the immediate area—heck, there were hardly any people in the immediate area—Jessica would have much to gain with a brother or sister in the house.
Deep in the Darkness Page 4