by M. M. Mayle
“I’ll tell the owner,” Nate says and crowds the guy across the threshold.
“Be sure you do because that method of extermination runs the risk of the animal expiring before it can return to its natural habitat, and then you’ve got decomposition to deal with and—”
“I’m on it. I’ll get someone on it right away. Thank you!” Nate says and shuts the door on the guy’s heels.
By now too distracted to pick up where he left off with his reading, he packs up to go. Before leaving, he checks the exterior doors and takes a quick look into the garage, where Laurel’s weeks-old Range Rover awaits delivery to its new owner. He’s half sorry he didn’t buy it himself—this first edition left-hand drive model—but David Sebastian had the inside track there and can put it to good use when he plays gentleman farmer at his place in Connecticut.
In his own car, he consults the page of instructions clipped to the sun visor. The next stop is Wolcott, and the impetus for that errand is Amanda’s afterthought to their phone conversation this morning. Her reasoning was that if he’d already gone the extra mile by overseeing the appraisal, why not extend the favor another mile or two and look in on old Mr. Chandler. If only to set a few minds at ease, was the way she put it, and he wasn’t one to argue.
At the nursing home in Wolcott, Nate takes one of the last parking places out front and that turns into a disadvantage when a receptionist directs him to a room at the far end of the building. No stranger to holding areas for the infirm, he blanks out the passing scene until he reaches the designated room.
The room is large and might even be called bright and cheerful if it were in any other kind of facility. The deep sill beneath broad double windows supports a gallery of family portraits and candids; a mix of sickroom items and personal grooming supplies are aligned atop a chest of drawers, along with a small bouquet of fresh flowers; the hospital bed is overlaid with a homey multicolored quilt.
Benjamin Chandler is propped up in an arm chair. He’s decently groomed and dressed in street clothing that attempts to conceal his near-skeletal condition. But nothing short of a mask could conceal a mouth twisted in a rictus synonymous with death, and empty eyes flickering back and forth in a manner usually associated with deep sleep.
“Mr. Chandler,” Nate says, “I’m a friend of your daughter’s and I want to let her know that you’re getting along okay.” He yammers away, not unlike the loquacious Mrs. Floss and the persnickety appraiser, and for all the reaction he’s getting, he could be talking to Colin during his down period. He nevertheless keeps it up, blames it on preconditioning.
A husky orderly with an armload of fresh linens fills the doorway and takes in the scene. “You must be family. No one else bothers talkin’ to him these days,” he says.
Nate allows the assumption to stand and figures to leave as soon as the orderly steps out of the way. Then it’s déjà vu all over again when the orderly continues to block the door and launches into a stream of rhetoric that seems certain to surpass anything heard so far today.
“He’s a DNR, so I always make sure he’s gettin’ those liquids. Dehydration’s not gonna be the cause of death on my watch.” The orderly points out the plastic pitcher, tumbler, and flexible drinking straw lined up on the roll-around tray table spanning the patient’s chair as though Nate might not otherwise know what they were for.
“And I don’t want anybody feedin’ him the wrong way,” the orderly continues. “He can’t chew too well, so I gotta be extra careful there. Only the other day this crazy lady from his old neighborhood showed up set on feeding him some treat she’d concocted. A blintz, I think she called it, and she was gonna shove it in his mouth whole. I don’t wanna tell you the disaster that coulda turned into.”
The orderly nods sagely and plunges on: “His kids, on the other hand, they know better than to give him anything that hasn’t been mashed up and okayed by me, so the only problem I have with them is their comin’ and goin’ through the fire exit the way their big sister always did, even though she always complained that the alarm didn’t go off when it should’ve.”
The orderly shifts his considerable weight and Nate thinks his moment is at hand. But no, there’s more.
“Then we’ve got this other kind of visitor,” the self-ordained watchdog continues. “The kind that shows up like they’re paying last respects at a wake. They come in the front door empty-handed and never say anything—I figured you for one of ’em till I heard you talkin’ in here—and because they generally stop in only the one time, they’re not what you’d call memorable. But they would make you ask yourself how Ol’ Mister Ben happens to have such a mixed bag of friends and acquaintances, and then you’d remember he used to be a professor at one of those schools over in Montclair or thereabouts, and that put him in touch with people of all ages, and from all walks of life.”
What the hell is this, National Run-off-at-the-Mouth Day?
The orderly eventually realizes he has a job to do and withdraws a step or two from the doorway. Then, as has been the case with everyone heard from today, the orderly tosses out one last remark.
“I don’t think you said who you are—what member of the family you are.”
“I’m the one who collects useless information,” Nate says and squeezes past him to freedom.
On the drive back to the city, his thoughts move to the only subject that’s managed to eclipse his usual preoccupation with the homicides of Cliff Grant, Gibby Lester, and Sid Kaplan—the subject of how soon he could be prepared to give Laurel Chandler the recommendations she’s asked to receive in person.
He could be very close if he avoids another day like today, and leans as hard on himself as he is on the team of independent auditors discreetly looking into the inner workings of Clark, Sebastian & Associates; he could be ready to make a presentation by the week after next—the same week as the May 20 all-star concert for Rayce Vaughn—if he stays focused.
He goes home instead of back to the office. Once there, his biggest decision is who to call first, Amanda or Brit Air.
SEVENTEEN
Afternoon, May 7, 1987
The household is as quiet as it ever gets in daytime. The regular staff is finished with routine chores, Simon is down for his afternoon nap, Anthony’s at school, and Colin is in London for the day. Nothing is moving, not even Toby, Anthony’s spirited terrier, or the nameless young cat that’s followed her around since day one.
Responding to the hush, Laurel finds herself tiptoeing along the corridor leading to the north wing and her newly established office. She’d be inclined to whisper if she did encounter anyone in this secluded area of the mansion. And if she did, it would be the ghost of Nate, the only person who has occupied any of these rooms under current ownership.
With time to kill before placing a prearranged call to the States, Laurel enters the former morning room of some long-dead lady of the manor and inventories her new possessions. The L-shaped desk incorporates the best features of an executive command center and an executive assistant’s work station; the computer and printer are state of the art, as are the fax machine and the phone equipment. Perhaps best of all, the fax and phone lines are exclusive to her use—not that she has anything left to hide now that Colin knows of her business arrangement with Nate.
She settles into a sumptuous leather chair that releases a new car smell as she swivels back and forth, and rolls to the opposite end of the angled desk where a credenza is within easy reach. Someone—Colin, no doubt—has placed the file box containing her notes and transcriptions on the surface of the credenza and left the credenza doors ajar revealing several reams of printer paper and a thick stack of legal pads, along with a supply of thermal paper for the fax machine. Heavy-duty hinting. Hinting approaching nagging that she resume work on the stalled biography.
She activates the computer, but her heart’s not in it; the necessary concentration is not there, even though the call she’s scheduled to make in a half hour has direct bearing on C
olin’s life story. She brings up a blank page in the word processor program and fixates on the blinking cursor instead of acquainting herself with the program features.
In a near mesmerized state, her thinking zeroes in on her father, who taught her to type on an old manual Remington. Would he regard automatic spell and grammar checkers as a form of cheating? Would he condemn paperless editing and scoff at inkjet printing? What would he think of computing in general?
That line of questioning encourages her to wonder where he would he stand regarding her recent life choices. What would he say about her decision to leave the country—to leave him behind? Does she really want to know? Does she really want to delve into that painful subject again? Does she really need to, now that she has positive reinforcement from an outside source? If she can’t trust impartial Nate Isaacs to tell her how well her father is being cared for in her absence, who can she trust?
She would, however, feel more at peace if Benjamin Chandler could be moved to England. But even if that becomes a possibility, it can’t happen anytime soon. Not until after the European tour, and not before the August wedding, although it’s her secret wish that her father be present for the wedding, if only in body.
“That’s enough of that.” She scolds herself for raising vain hopes and refocuses on the cursor with the aim of putting it to its intended use. She still has twenty minutes left, enough time to complete a page or two of transcribing. But with each entry she completes, there comes distraction, the recalling of the circumstances under which the material was acquired—source, setting, mode—and the recalling of her level of idealism and naiveté when she first agreed to become Colin Elliot’s official biographer.
These days, any reference to that job title brings a smile to her lips, just as any contact with Rayce’s tape recorder results in a moment of somber reflection. She takes the compact little machine from a desk drawer, handles it as the memento mori it has become, inserts a tape and fast-forwards, pausing several times before reaching the portion up for review.
She cocks her head to listen as Nate’s voice delivers the ideal segue for the telephone interview she’ll conduct ten minutes from now.
. . . When we went our separate ways—me to Colorado with Colin, and Bemus and Tom back to New York—we couldn’t help feel we were marking the end of an era. We all knew that even if Colin made a full recovery, he’d never be the same person he was at the start.
That last remark still sounds ominous, but she tries not to let it affect her as she prepares to pick up where she left off in the narrative. She props the index card holding the contact information against the phone, sets out a fresh legal pad and several ballpoint pens, then keeps a sharp eye on the computer clock while contemplating a few more entries.
At the appointed hour of eight a.m. MDT, Laurel dials the main number for the Fortescue Center in Denver, Colorado, and the extension for a Dr. Aaron Kice in the neurology department. He picks up directly and, after minimal formalities are exchanged, proceeds with the sort of test statements she herself often uses to determine a common level of knowledge. She helps him along by volunteering that she has nodding acquaintance with the field of neurology because of her father’s Alzheimer’s.
“Then you’re probably aware that neurology has many subspecialties,” he says as preface to a minute or two of spoken boilerplate.
She listens without bothering to take notes.
“When Mr. Isaacs arranged for this interview, he vouched for your preliminary knowledge of Mr. Elliot’s treatment, so I’ll assume you’re aware it was a team effort—an interdisciplinary effort, I should say.”
“I am aware,” she says with a slight edge of impatience. “I am also aware Mr. Elliot’s perceived neurological deficit wasn’t a precise fit with any single one of those disciplines, hence the team approach.”
They match redundancy with redundancy for another couple of minutes. Traumatic brain injury, nontraumatic brain injury, acquired brain injury, cerebral hypoxia, losses in areas of cognition, language, memory, concentration, reasoning, and problem solving are a few of the terms and conditions falling on her now deaf ears as she questions why Nate recommended that she interview this particular doctor, a Behavioral Neurologist, according to her notes.
“It was only after Mr. Elliot’s physical condition had improved enough for him to endure longer and more intense periods of verbal probing that anyone considered that we could be dealing with a dissociative disorder.”
Laurel keys on the words “endure” and “intense,” and winces as she tunes back in. The doctor reinforces her understanding that a dissociative disorder is usually brought on by extraordinary stress, and that can include witnessing as well as experiencing an overwhelming event.
“Such as a catastrophic accident resulting in loss of life,” she says.
“Yes,” he answers. “That’s the obvious factor in Mr. Elliot’s case, but my findings could point to a stressor other than the obvious.”
“Oh?” Laurel is all ears now, pen and pad at the ready.
“Yes. And because this form of acute mental decompensation does not automatically preclude all forms of cognition—the reason Mr. Elliot could cooperate, and to some extent, actively participate in his physical rehabilitation—he was able to react to a specific stimulus in a way that suggested the accident itself may not have been the precipitating cause of his retreat.”
“Good lord! What could be worse than witnessing your own near-demise and the demise of your passenger?” Laurel blurts. “And do I really want to know what the specific stimulus was that produced this reaction?”
“No question that an accident of this magnitude was adequate to send him into hibernation, as he called it on his recent visit here. But before I go on, I want to assure you the stimulus was nothing faintly medieval. I refer only to the verbal probing mentioned earlier, and to a specific instance when the therapist used a later entry point. Allow me to explain.”
“Please do.”
“Toward the end of Mr. Elliot’s stay with us, we drilled him over and over with details of the accident.”
“Who supplied those details?”
“Nate Isaacs, Mr. Elliot’s manager, who was first on the scene, as you’re probably aware.”
“I am.”
“The goal was to find an entry point, pinpoint the moment or event within a series of events that caused him to shut down, and employ it as a reverse catalyst, so to speak. Until this particular day, all the emphasis was placed on events leading up to the accident and the accident itself—with no results, I should add. But when the therapist began inputting details of the immediate aftermath and the rescue effort—”
“Who was the therapist?”
“I was.”
“I thought so. Please continue.”
“I got a reaction. His face registered anger at first, then contorted with what’s best described as anguish. He frowned intensely—mightily. His brows knit until they resembled a pair of caterpillars in conflict—dueling caterpillars—and then it was over as suddenly as it occurred. I immediately repeated the stimulus, to no avail, and subsequent efforts failed as well, but that isolated incident became the basis on which we felt we could send him home with legitimate hope that he might one day be reachable.”
All she can think of for a moment is dueling caterpillars and what a writer with a knack for nonsense verse could do with that hilarious imagery. Then whimsy escapes her like air leaving a burst balloon and the image that remains is of Colin, shipped home with nothing but hope to cling to. But it was legitimate hope, the man said.
“Ms. Chandler? Are you still there? I have time for a few questions if you have any.”
“I do and I’ll be brief. What did you say when you produced this reaction? Do you remember your exact words?”
“Yes. I was speaking of his wife’s death and sparing none of the gruesome details. It was when I said ‘your wife was decapitated in the accident’ that he reacted as I’ve described.”
“I see,” she says and stiffens slightly. Of all the gruesome details recounted to her by Nate that difficult night in his Manhattan kitchen, this is the detail she least wanted to hear designated the ultimate stressor. Better that Colin would have withdrawn for another reason, one less apt to suggest that he couldn’t deal with the ghastly circumstances of Aurora’s death, and perhaps did not want to go on without her. But why should this matter now? The woman is dead, after all, and by all outward signs, Colin’s love for her is dead too.
“Is he ever likely to flash back on that stressor?” Laurel says.
“I’m inclined to doubt it. Of course if he encountered a precise set of provocations or was met with another monumental stressor—and the odds against either are astronomical—he might return to the galvanizing event, which is not to say that he would again withdraw, I hasten to add.”
With a flourish of banalities designed to conceal her low opinion of the doctor’s contribution, she steers the conversation to an end. She sets aside the legal pad containing a generous sampling of doodles and opinionated comment in addition to the dutiful notes taken on the supposed stressor. Stressor. Not a word she’ll use again. Not if she can help it. If Nate were not an ocean away and perhaps not even awake yet, she would have more questions for him right now than she did for Dr. Kice.
Her eyebrows may well be in dueling caterpillar mode as she saves her work and shuts down the computer. She leaves the room without determining if the answering machine is activated and the fax machine set to receive. Doesn’t really matter, she doesn’t really care. Not while she’s in the grip of this wholly unexpected and unexplainable fit of jealousy that stays with her until she enters Simon’s room in time to catch him surfacing from his nap.