Now That You Mention It: A Novel

by Kristan Higgins

  Ah, irony. My own mother always favored her bad seed, too. “Mothers aren’t supposed to have favorites?” I couldn’t help saying. Lily, for all her drama, bitchery and crime, had been and remained Mom’s little darling. Still was.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Has Luke ever gotten clean and sober?” I asked, going back to the subject at hand.

  “Oh, sure. Plenty a’ times. Same with your sister.” She slammed the axe into the chopping block and looked at me directly for the first time today. “Speaking of Lily, she said you’ve been writing to her.”

  “Ayuh.”

  “She wishes you wouldn’t.”

  “Why? Too busy making license plates?”

  “Don’t put your sister down, missy.”

  “Why wouldn’t she want mail?”

  “I don’t know, Nora.” That was Mom. Never one to take sides, at least, not overtly.

  I sighed. “I have to go to Boston. I was kind of hoping Poe would come with me.”

  “Ask her.”

  I went inside, but Poe was back to being Queen of the Damned. “Why are you waking me up? It’s only ten-thirty! Go away!”

  “Want to go to Boston?”

  “Why would anyone want to go to Boston?”

  “Change of scenery? Shopping? Clam chowder? Freedom Trail? Red Sox game? Jewel of New England? Nothing? No?”

  “I’m tired!”

  I took a breath. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll see you in a day or so.”

  She pulled her pillow over her head. I sensed our conversation was over.

  So it was just Boomer and me, his raccoon toy, his Nylabone and his long leash climbing onto the ferry.

  I took a seat on deck, pulled my Red Sox hat down firmly to keep the wind from molesting my hair and put on my sunglasses. Boomer lay at my feet, gnawing on his bone. I hated bringing him to Boston, hated being without him. What if Luke came over now, huh? It’d just be me and my gun, and the last time I’d needed it, I’d almost shot Sullivan.

  Maybe I needed hug therapy. Xiaowen was somewhere off the coast of Oregon, saving the mollusks there, and wouldn’t be back for days. Roseline couldn’t meet me this time; she had a thing with her in-laws. Gloria was visiting her family and her Slytherin beau, but we were supposed to take the last ferry back together.

  I heard the sound of feet and looked up. Sullivan, Audrey and Amy were coming down the dock, a suitcase in tow.

  “Hey!” I said.

  “Hi!” Audrey said, jumping onto the boat and giving me a hug. “Tomorrow’s the big day, so we’re staying overnight. At a hotel!”

  “Wow. Exciting. No little brother?” I had yet to meet Rocco. Since he wasn’t Sullivan’s son, he wasn’t at the boatyard the way Audrey was.

  “No,” she said. “He’s staying with my grandmother. Not happy about it, either, but I’ll bring him the shampoo from the hotel.”

  “Nice,” I said. Damn, she was such a good kid.

  Sully nodded at me and handed Amy aboard, then got on himself. Both parents looked a little drawn and worried, unlike the patient herself, who was practically dancing in place.

  “Any questions? Anything I can do?” I asked.

  “You’ve been great already,” Audrey said.

  Amy and Sullivan were talking in low voices, their body language indicating an argument. Alas, the ferry motor prevented (and saved) me from eavesdropping. “Where are you staying, Audrey?” I asked.

  “The Copley Square Plaza. Mom and Dad let me pick.”

  “You picked the best one,” I said, because clearly this was what she wanted to focus on. “They have a tea, I hear.”

  “We’re going. Hey, do you want to come?”

  I didn’t even glance at Amy and Sullivan. “No, but thank you. I’m meeting friends.”

  “Drat.” She bent down and rubbed Boomer’s ears. My dog looked up at her and smiled and wagged, then went back to destroying the bone. Jake turned the ferry to open water, and we picked up speed.

  Sullivan was staring out over the ocean. Amy was texting.

  “Well, you guys have my number if anything comes up, or if you have any questions,” I said to Audrey.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Yeah. Thanks,” Amy added. Sully’s back was to us, so he didn’t hear...or just had bigger things on his mind.

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going in. I have some reading to do,” I lied. This was their time together, and they didn’t need me hanging around.

  At least I had a dog. “Come on, Boomerang,” I said, and my faithful beastie followed me into the small cabin.

  * * *

  When we docked in Boston, I hugged Audrey and wished everyone the best. Amy and Sullivan were preoccupied, and who wouldn’t be? Their kid was going to have medical instruments stuck up her nose and into her head. No matter how great the odds for Audrey were, they were both scared.

  I watched as they walked away, then slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for Bobby’s apartment. He was working and asked if I could drop the dog off. And being a schmuck, I said yes.

  It was sunny and warm, a lot warmer than on the island. I took off my denim jacket and tied it around my waist. Boomer and I were stopped a lot by people who wanted to worship him, and I allowed it. Didn’t have any other plans, after all. Maybe I’d go shopping. A little retail therapy might lift my blues.

  I read the signs on the second and third floors of buildings as I walked, always curious what other people did for a living. Piano lessons. Yoga studio. Attorney. A knife sharpening place—Est. 1938. Amazing that it hadn’t gone out of business. A ballet school. A private investigator.

  I stopped.

  James Gillespie, Private Investigator, Licensed, Bonded, Insured.

  “What do you think, Boomer?” I said.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” he said. Well, he implied.

  We went up the stairs and knocked, and a second later, an older gentleman answered the door. “Hello,” he said in a lovely, Morgan Freeman kind of voice.

  “Hi,” I said. “I might have a case for you.”

  “Do you, now? And who’s this?” He bent over and scratched Boomer’s ears, getting a croon of approval.

  It only took seven minutes. There wasn’t a lot I knew about my father, after all.

  “If he can be found, I’ll find him,” Mr. Gillespie said. “There are a lot of things I can try.” Coming from that voice, I believed him.

  I paid the retainer, signed a paper, and that was that. Mr. Gillespie said goodbye, and I went back out into the sunshine and humidity, feeling considerably better.

  At least it was something. I could tell Lily about it when she came to get Poe. I could tell her I’d tried, and even though Mr. Gillespie was the third private investigator I’d hired, it felt better to be doing something.

  I headed for the Commons. The Dog of Dogs would appreciate that. Plus, more hearts and minds for him to win over.

  Boston’s little park was full of people. Kids tugged on adult hands, begged for ice cream, splashed in the Frog Pond. There were at least six Frisbees flying through the air, making Boomer cock his head in wonder as his fellow canines chased these flying things. Two twentysomethings lay on a blanket in the grass, turned toward each other, just gazing into each other’s eyes. I smiled and looked away. Young love. What could be sweeter?

  Then I saw him.

  Him. Voldemort.

  My heart froze, and my knees turned to water. I sank to the grass and slid my arm around Boomer without taking my eyes off the man who’d terrorized me.

  I’d thought I’d seen him a couple dozen times in the past year, and each time, I’d been jolted with fear. Each time, I’d been wrong.

  This time, Lizard Brain was sure.

  He was just sitting on a bench, eating something—i
ce cream. Khaki pants, blue T-shirt, that completely unremarkable face, occasionally glancing at people walking past. People who had no idea what he could do. What he liked doing.

  I had to find a cop. Or call one. I pulled out my phone and, trying not to take my eyes off him, dialed 911.

  “Nine-one-one, please state your emergency.”

  “Hi, I was attacked last year, and they never found the guy, and I see him right now. I’m at the Commons, right across from Frog Pond, you know? Uh, I mean, north? North of the pond? And he’s sitting on a bench on the path.”

  “Okay, calm down, ma’am. You say he attacked you?”

  “Yes. I filed a report. I was in the hospital. I... It was bad.”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?”

  For a second, I couldn’t remember. I honestly drew a blank. “Um...Nora? Stuart? Nora Stuart. With a u. Shit, he’s getting up! He’s getting up and walking, uh, east. Toward Park Street. He’s leaving! He’s past the frog statues! Hurry up!”

  “Ma’am, I’ve found your record. I have police on the way. Can you describe the man?”

  “Five-nine, five-ten, about 170 pounds. Sandy blond hair, blue eyes. He’s wearing khaki pants, a blue T-shirt, a Red Sox hat.” Like every freakin’ male in Boston. I got up, grabbed Boomer’s leash and started walking. Fast. “I’m following him.”

  “Please, don’t do that, ma’am.”

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit, there was a throng of people approaching, all with name badges on lanyards around their necks, a guide loudly describing the wonders of the Freedom Trail. Tourists, damn them, and he was swallowed by them, all those people, their iPads and phones held high. I darted around.

  “Oh, I just love your dog,” said a woman in a thick Southern drawl.

  “Not now,” I said, bolting past, the epitome of rude Yankee. Where was he? Where was he?

  There. I started running.

  And maybe he had a lizard brain, too, because he began to trot past the hot dog vendors and the guy juggling balls, which made Boomer want to stop and play, and I had to yank hard, but this was important. There. There he was, yes, him, at the T stop, damn it all to hell.

  “He’s getting on the T!” I said to the dispatcher. “Where the hell are the cops?”

  I ran down the stairs, the dispatcher yelling at me, Boomer chuffing with excitement. The train was right there, people getting on and off, and I couldn’t see him anymore. If I dropped Boomer’s leash and left him, I could jump the turnstile.

  The train pulled out of the station. Tears of fury and frustration burned my eyes.

  Gone. He was gone.

  * * *

  When I unlocked the door of Bobby’s (formerly our) apartment later that afternoon, I was shocked to find he was home.

  “I thought you were working,” I said.

  “Hey!” he said, coming out of the kitchen to hug me. “How are you, Nora? Boomer! Who’s my boy?” He crouched down and let Boomer put his paws on his shoulders, then looked up at me. “You look fantastic. It’s great to see you.”

  I was still nauseous with adrenaline, clammy with sweat and fear and could feel my hair expanding with Boston’s humidity. I couldn’t look fantastic, and it irritated me that stupid Bobby couldn’t see that.

  The police had shown up a minute after the train pulled away. They took notes, but we all knew the guy wouldn’t be found. It had taken an hour of walking before my heart rate dropped to normal.

  “Have a seat,” Bobby said, standing up. “Make yourself at home. I mean, it’s still your home, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But I appreciate the thought.”

  “Wine?” he asked.

  “Water, please?”

  For the next half hour, Bobby talked, and I sort of listened and stroked Boomer’s head.

  This was the place I’d come to recover. Bobby’s apartment had never really felt like home to me any more than my office downtown did. It was pleasant and comfortable and familiar, and yes, there were still touches of my personality here and there—the throw pillows for the couch, the umbrella rack, because everyone in Boston should have an umbrella rack. The cheerful yellow kettle in the kitchen.

  Today, having seen my attacker, it felt like a sanctuary once again, and I didn’t like that. I didn’t want Bobby’s sanctuary. I wanted to make my own.

  I wished I was back in Maine. With Boomer, who was really my dog, not ours. The deal was that we were supposed to alternate taking the ferry. So far, I’d been the one doing it because of my easier schedule. No more.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” he said. Babe. Blick.

  “I’m a little distracted, that’s all. I should go.”

  “But you haven’t told me how you’re doing,” he said, stepping a little closer. “And you know, obviously, I still care about you.”

  Just then, my phone chimed with a text from Jake Ferriman. Ferry canceled because of weather. Check back at 7 a.m. for next available.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “My ferry got canceled.”

  “Yeah, a big rain’s coming in.” He tilted his head. “Let’s have dinner. You can stay over if you want.” He reached out and touched my cheek, and no, thank you, it was a little too reminiscent of last year, when my face had been swollen and bruised and throbbed with every beat of my heart, when Bobby had taken care of me. Good care, mind you. Until he got tired of it.

  “No, thanks.” I bent down and kissed my dog’s head. “Be a good boy, Boomer. I’ll miss you.” I looked at Bobby. “See you soon.”

  “You sure you don’t want to stay?” He gave me a soulful look.

  “I’m sure. Thank you, though.”

  Out on Beacon Street—because Bobby had really, really wanted a Beacon Street address, even though it cost the earth and my old apartment had been bigger and nicer and cheaper—I texted Roseline and told her I was in town for the night.

  Get your ass over here! she wrote back. This is the best news ever!

  I sighed with relief. Thank God for female friends.

  * * *

  Roseline did everything for me that I would’ve done for her—she fed me, gave me wine, loaned me soft, clean pajamas and urged me to take a bath in the enormous tub in the guest bathroom. Her husband was a sweetheart, the kind of guy who was great at chatting but also who knew when to leave.

  I didn’t tell her about seeing Voldemort. There didn’t seem to be any point.

  I called the clinic and told them I was stuck in Boston; a few minutes later, Gloria called and told me she’d left via Portland, driving up the coast so she could see another sibling’s new baby. “Dr. Larsen will cover,” she said, referring to our on-call night doctor. “He loves being needed. Don’t worry.”

  “Did you have fun with Slytherin?” I asked.

  “I did,” she said. “Gave him three guesses as to where I lived, and he got them all wrong. And we had a little fight, which was kind of fun.”

  “I take it you made up.”

  “Yep. He texted me an hour ago, begging forgiveness.”

  “A great quality in a man.” That was one of the things about Bobby—getting him to apologize was akin to extracting bone marrow.

  “You have fun with Roseline,” she said. “Tell her I said hi.”

  I didn’t sleep well. Then again, I didn’t have a panic attack, either, or a nightmare. I just thought.

  In the morning, the rain whipped against the windows. “Want me to call in?” Roseline offered. She was already dressed for work, and Amir had left. “We can go to a museum, get a pedicure, whatever you want.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I said. “Actually, I want to swing by the hospital. My friend’s daughter is having surgery today. Pituitary tumor. Cushing’s disease.”

  “Well, let’s go, then, chouchoute.�
�� Rosie’s office was just down the block from Boston City.

  On the way there, I got a text from Jake Ferriman that he was running, rain or no rain. I wrote back and told him I’d catch the later boat, or go to Portland and to Scupper from there.

  The differences between New England’s biggest hospital and the island clinic were vast. The clinic could be as tranquil as a yoga studio. In fact, I’d found Amelia in lotus position in her office, sound asleep, last week.

  But I did love working there more than I expected. At my Boston practice, I’d see upward of a dozen patients a day. On procedures days, it might be six or seven. I loved my field, but the clinic gave me more variety. Jimmy McNulty, who needed eight stitches when he fell off the monkey bars in the park. Aaron James had had food poisoning (those expiration dates mean something, people!). He was so dehydrated from vomiting and diarrhea that I had him stay overnight. I’d stayed, too, just because he was a widower (gay, though, so not a contender for stepfather, unfortunately). Since he had no family on the island, I slept in another bay, checking on him every two hours, chatting when he started feeling better.

  And I loved my coworkers. Gloria and Timmy were rock-solid nurses, unfazed by anything we’d seen so far, even the patient with the foreign body in her vajay-jay—a perfume bottle—that she most assuredly did not sit on, despite her claims. (Nice try. I’d seen at least half a dozen of those cases during my residency.) Gloria and I had gone to a movie the other night at the island’s tiny theater and giggled inappropriately through the previews.

  Here at Boston City, there were more employees than residents of Scupper Island. I smiled and waved to the folks I knew, stopped to talk to Del, my favorite CNA, then made my way to the surgical floor. Checked in with the nurse on duty, flashed my hospital badge and asked after Audrey. She’d gone into the OR about an hour ago. Dr. Einstein (such a reassuring name, and a wicked nice guy) was her surgeon.

  “Mind if I check in?” I asked.

  “Be my guest,” said the nurse.

  I went to the OR, the thrill of getting the behind-the-scenes pass still with me. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t just burst in, no matter what they showed on Grey’s Anatomy. There was, however, a window and an intercom. I couldn’t see Audrey—she was surrounded by three surgeons, the anesthesiologist, two OR nurses and a PA.