Limetown

by Cote Smith

Claire didn’t look at him, but she took his hand. That night, and for many nights after, when he was alone, lying in a strange bed in another strange town, he would think of her—even when he tried not to—in a wave of longing that also reminded him of Brenda. Of her latest dream, which Emile saw even though he was hundreds of miles away now. Her husband and daughter picked her up from the Eldridge, before they settled into a new beachfront house that Brenda knew would eventually be filled with renewed sorrow. In the dream Brenda and her daughter are sitting in the back seat, together, while her husband drives. The daughter is still young enough that she doesn’t protest when Brenda pulls her into her arms. The daughter drifts off, just as a song that both Brenda and her husband love comes on the radio. When the song is finished, her husband catches Brenda crying in the rearview mirror. He asks Brenda what is wrong, and Brenda laughs, her tears salting her mouth. “Nothing is wrong,” she says. “You came back. You came back.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Lia

  When Lia’s mother was pregnant, her father didn’t want to know what Lia would be.

  “Have I told you this?” her mom would begin.

  “Yes,” Lia would say, “a thousand times.”

  This never stopped her.

  “Your father didn’t want to know, which meant I couldn’t tell him about the dream I had every night until you were born. It was a simple dream, the same each time. I’m pushing a stroller in the grocery store when a man comes up to me and comments on what a beautiful baby boy I have. In the dream I am enraged, because I know better. I look at the man and tell him that my child is not a boy. She’s a girl. A strong girl. And one day she’ll be a strong woman. So strong the world better watch out.

  “Your dad said it was acid reflux. When I woke up still angry. He took me to the doctor, who prescribed something, but the feeling never went away. Not until you were born. Not until I was proven right. Every day,” her mother said, “you prove me right.”

  Lia did not feel strong when she returned to her dorm room after her trip to Menninger. Her legs were weak from biking to the coast, then hiking down the hill, then biking back again. She shut the blinds, lay in bed, and went over what she had discovered: the quarantine station, the purported experiments. In her head she connected them to Dr. Moyer, even though she had no evidence that he had ever been there. But how else could she explain the transcript about Moyer’s death, sent to her in an envelope whose return address was Menninger? She’d looked the facility up on her phone on the bus ride back to campus, and found a fan site dedicated entirely to conspiracy theories. According to its author, the facility hadn’t been used since the fifties, when the Australian government caught wind of what was going on and shut it down. But its author alleged that for years the government continued the work in secret. Admittedly, this theory was written in a large neon-green Comic Sans font, and thus was difficult for Lia to take seriously. Still, as she closed her eyes, she let herself wonder. What if James, the schizophrenic she’d read about in the DJHK transcript, had gone to Menninger? What if Moyer was the doctor who’d treated him?

  And what if, she speculated, Moyer’s untimely death was suspicious? What if it was actually a murder? Who would want him dead? Why?

  Lia took a long nap when she returned from Williamstown, then rode to the station that evening. It was a Friday night. Julie and the rest of Lia’s classmates were going out, but here she was, conducting cursory Internet searches at her unpaid internship. First, looking for stories on Menninger from legitimate news outlets. Nothing. Second, she searched for anything on Dr. Moyer. Friends, family. Nothing again. Lastly, when she could think of nothing else, she typed in “Limetown.” She was about to press enter when Wiley popped his head in.

  “Thank god you’re still here. One of the hosts is out sick. I need you.”

  “Me?”

  “Not on the air. Just work the phones. I can handle the rest.”

  She followed him to the booth, watched as he sat uncomfortably behind the mic, waiting for some sleepy jazz song to finish. It was nice being in that room again, so close to where stories were reported, where things actually happened, even if she was just watching.

  As soon as the light went red, Wiley began to sweat heavily. He stumbled over and through the copy.

  “Well, that did not go well,” Wiley said when the program ended.

  “You were just nervous.”

  “Nervous? You could hear me sweat.”

  “Well, it wasn’t really your story. I’m sure it’s hard to get a feel for something you haven’t written. I had this teacher in high school. She always said: if you don’t care, what’s the point?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you’re the producer, right?

  “For now.”

  “So is this what you really want? To run the same sad local news stories every day?”

  Wiley shrugged. “Worked for my predecessor. He’s dead now, and nobody remembers his name, but he seemed happy.”

  “People aren’t listening,” Lia said. “You know that, right? Or if they are they’re simply saying, ah, too bad, then moving on with their lives.”

  “Yeah. So.”

  “So, that’s not right. Why should they have the luxury of not caring? The people suffering have to care. They don’t get a choice.” Lia could feel the heat building in her chest. Wiley didn’t know anything about her, her family, about Limetown, but she was tired of questions going unanswered, of people telling her to look the other way. This feeling, she realized—contrary to her mother’s wishes—had only strengthened during her time in Australia. “Plus,” Lia said, “if we can get them to care, they’ll keep listening.”

  Wiley sat there, considering what Lia said. He stretched his large hands over his large knees. “You’re not wrong,” he finally said.

  Lia thought about the search Wiley had interrupted. The cursor she left blinking, like a pulse, next to “Limetown.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I have an idea.”

  * * *

  Maybe the sick host would be back on Monday, maybe she wouldn’t. But Wiley wanted to be prepared, in any case. Lia wouldn’t tell him about Limetown, her connection to it. Not until she proved herself. She didn’t press enter when she opened her laptop back in her dorm that night, and “Limetown” sat there waiting. She erased it, and in its place she typed “Menninger” again. She typed “Dr. Moyer,” knowing there would be no new results.

  Julie stirred in bed behind her. “Turn off that stupid lamp.” Lia apologized, but Julie said it was too late. She was awake. She sat up and stole a drink from Lia’s coffee. “Where were you yesterday? I texted you.”

  “I know,” Lia said. “It’s my internship. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “You do understand that without school, there is no internship.”

  She sounded like the study abroad chaperone.

  “I’m just saying, I miss you,” Julie said. “You’re never around anymore.” She ran a finger up and down the length of Lia’s arm. “Come back to us, Dorothy.”

  She tugged Lia’s arm, trying to pull her into her bed, the soft cotton sheets Julie had brought from home.

  “I’m sorry,” Lia said, but she stayed at her desk.

  Julie crawled back into bed. “Fine. But don’t get mad if no one’s there to save you when a house falls on your head.”

  Lia worked through the night. It felt good what she was doing, looking for answers, like she was satisfying an itch, even if she couldn’t reach the area she wanted to scratch the most. She created a basic outline for a Menninger story, one she could take to Wiley and say, Here. Isn’t this better? Isn’t this the type of story we should tell? Granted, the outline she sketched was pretty thin, and part of Lia was relieved when the host showed up Monday evening.

  Lia thought about her outline as she biked to her dorm that night. She let herself crawl into bed with Julie. She breathed in her hair and told herself to feel something, as if you could make yo
urself care for someone by closing your eyes and concentrating. But as Lia lay there, and her mind cycled back through the best parts of her day, as she thought about what exciting things the next day might bring, not once did her thoughts land on Julie. In the morning, when she was supposed to be in class, she would head back to Menninger. She would find that man again, the only source she knew, and make him point her in the right direction. She would lie if she had to, whatever it took to get the answers she needed to shape the story she wanted to tell. And there would be satisfaction in this, unraveling a mystery. There would be comfort in knowing that secrets can’t be hidden forever. That actions have consequences, and that when you throw a stone into the ocean, though it may appear otherwise, the waves never disappear.

  * * *

  It was a windier day than her first trip to Menninger. Lia was nearly blown off her bike as she turned the bend to the beach. Thunderous waves crashed against the shore. The window she’d shattered was still broken, though someone had taped a thin tarp over it as a temporary fix. Lia tore the tarp down and waited. When that didn’t work, she picked up a rock and shattered a different window to summon the old man. She shouted obscenities she hoped he might find offensive, a birdcall for someone of his generation, she thought, but no one showed. Eventually she hopped on her bike and went to look for him.

  It was another half hour before she came across a caravan park. It was a warm enough day that several of the park’s inhabitants were sitting in front of their mobile homes, sweating through sagging lawn chairs. A radio blared. Lia recognized the program. Its host was American, a loudmouth shock jock who specialized in political sensationalism. The residents took turns commenting on the gossip crackling through the static, drinking their beers and coffee and asking, Can you believe that?

  Lia was thankful when, after ten minutes of keeping her distance, the old man emerged from one of the trailers. He spotted her right away and told the others to turn off that damn noise. They glowered at the man, but picked up their radio and took it inside.

  “You’ve come with my money,” the man said.

  “I broke another window,” Lia said, “and will continue to do so unless you tell me what I want to know.”

  The man dragged a chair to a dormant fire pit and sat down. He propped a foot up on his knee.

  “The older I get, the more I realize how dumb everyone else is.”

  “So tell me what I don’t know,” Lia said. “Tell me who you are and what you know about Dr. Moyer.”

  “I told you, I don’t know any Moyer.”

  “Now who’s the dumb one.”

  The man laughed. Lia sat down across from him.

  “I can’t tell if it’s because you’re young or a Yank,” the man said, “but you’ve got a real bitchiness about you that I don’t think I care for.” Lia took a deep breath, the only thing preventing her from grabbing the fire pit’s poker and jabbing it in the man’s eye. “Then again,” he said, “people have said the same thing about me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Zeke.”

  “Zeke, my name is Lia. I’m here to do you a favor.”

  “Who said I needed any favors? Look around,” Zeke said, and motioned to the wealth of detritus littering the caravan park. “I’ve got everything I need.”

  Zeke reached beneath him and switched on a small radio, tuned it to the same program his neighbors had been bickering over. He smiled as the host worked himself up about some issue he had with the government.

  “You like this guy?”

  “He’s great. Not afraid to tell it like it is. Has a lot of good theories too. Some are a bit out there, but most make sense, if you think long enough.”

  “What about you? You have some theories of your own, right? When we spoke before, you mentioned something about experiments at Menninger.”

  Zeke shifted in his seat. “I was just wagging my chin.”

  “But you had heard of Dr. Moyer. You recognized the picture I showed you.”

  “I never said that.” He pinched his elbows together in a way that did not match his bravado.

  “Zeke, I work for a radio station. Just like that one. I can get your story out there.” She scooted to the edge of her seat, closer to Zeke and the dormant fire. “Whatever it is you think happened at Menninger, do you think they, whoever they are, should be allowed to keep it secret? Does that seem right to you?”

  Zeke didn’t say yes or no, not immediately anyway, which Lia took as a good sign. The radio program returned from a break. The host was already yelling, getting undoubtedly red-faced about how he’d seen what was going on in the Australian Parliament before. Back home, where the elected officials somehow forgot their reason for existence, to govern for the people, not for themselves. Be careful, the blowhard warned. They want you ignorant. Your ignorance is their bliss.

  Lia could see Zeke getting worked up. He scratched the side of his face, going against the grain of his gray stubble. He squinted his eyes at Lia.

  “We could bring you in,” Lia said. “Into the station. I could interview you. Tell the world yourself.”

  “No,” Zeke said abruptly. “Leave me out of it.”

  He crossed his arms.

  “Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”

  “I won’t,” Zeke said. “I’m not. What have I got to lose? You, on the other hand, little Yankee girl . . .”

  “I can handle it.”

  Zeke sized Lia up, and she wondered what he saw. Probably just what he had said: a naive American girl, eighteen going on eight. But she had smashed a couple of windows, and in doing so maybe proven herself to be a rebel or a truth-teller, if there was a difference.

  The man on the radio was telling his audience that they must act now.

  “You think so,” Zeke said.

  “You’ll save money on windows.”

  Zeke shook his head. “All right,” he said. “Then come close, and I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  * * *

  He never met Dr. Moyer. Lia should know that right away. He never talked to him either. But he’d seen him? “Oh yeah,” Zeke said. “I saw him.” It was in ninety-two? Ninety-three? The caravan park was new back then. Zeke had settled in with his third and worst wife. She was always riding his ass about something—money, which they didn’t have, friends, which they also didn’t have, sex, which they did have but she claimed was inadequate. The older he got, the more he became aware that all he wanted in life was to be left alone. So he started going on these long walks. Just to get away. Sometimes he’d head north a bit, into the woods, get lost and halfway hope he’d have trouble finding his way out. When that grew old, he went down to the coast. He avoided the beach at first, thinking wife number three might see him there—she was something of a surfer in her time, had a nice beach bod that he was twenty years too late for. Anyway, he found a nice spot, and of course she was there, tanning. Zeke slinked away before she spotted him, walked until the sand disappeared and it was just him and a bunch of jagged rocks.

  Lia knew the stretch of land he was describing. She had taken two of those rocks to break the windows.

  “That’s how you found Menninger,” Lia said.

  “I didn’t get too close at first. Something about that place spooked the hell out of me.”

  The two unmarked vans didn’t help. They arrived from a back road that snuck up behind the facility. As Zeke would discover on a subsequent walkabout, the road was gated off from the public and monitored by a single camera blinking its watchful red eye.

  “What else did you see?”

  Not much. He saw the same two guys take smoke breaks at the same time each morning. Though only one of them smoked. They both wore lab coats and never strayed far from the facility. Sometimes it appeared as if they were arguing, but Zeke couldn’t get close enough to hear them. Other times, a woman appeared too, and Zeke noticed that her presence caused the men to pause.

  “Blind mice,” Zeke said.

  “What?”<
br />
  “Three blind mice. That’s what I call them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like to. Can I tell my story?”

  Zeke never saw the vans leave. But one morning he left his home significantly earlier than usual. In part because he had a keen feeling something odd was going on at Menninger. In another part because the night before the wife had relegated him to the foldout couch, which was hell on his back. When he arrived at the facility, he saw that one van was missing. So he found a spot to squat in the woods and waited. It wasn’t long before he heard the van whining up the back road. The nonsmoking man got out and slid open the back door, offering his hand to a woman Zeke had never seen before. The woman, who was much younger than any of the mice, looked very confused. She had brought a bag with her—of belongings, Zeke assumed—and she didn’t try to run away, but it seemed she had no idea where she was or what she was doing there.

  “I never saw her again,” Zeke said. “But there were others. I went back each morning, camped in my spot. I saw the van return with a few other people, each as bewildered as the next. I never saw any of the patients leave.”

  “Patients?”

  “What else could they be? They were all . . . sick-looking. And what about the mice in the lab coats?”

  “But you never went inside. And you didn’t talk to any of the patients?”

  “The patients. No.” Zeke grinned at Lia, displaying a row of crooked and browning teeth.

  “You met a mouse.”

  “I set a trap. And man, Yankee, did you ever see such a sight in your life?”

  The trap was a fire. A campfire fifty meters or so from Zeke’s usual spot in the woods. Zeke built the fire upwind from the facility, and large enough that when the mice stepped out for their break, they were hit with the smell immediately.

  “And it worked,” Lia said.

  “Oh, they came running. One of them anyway, like he’d got his damn tail cut off.”

  “So you did meet Dr. Moyer.”