The Missing Year

by Belinda Frisch

  Ross averted his eyes as Camille undressed and stepped into the water. He enlarged the first page of the file and read the emergency care report from the shooting.

  The paramedics detailed Blake’s condition upon their arrival at the convenience store. He had sustained a single, small caliber gunshot wound to the right front-temporal region of his head. The injury caused his jaw to lock, forcing the paramedics to use a bag-valve-mask to support his breathing. The handwritten emergency room notes were harder to decipher, the doctor’s penmanship worse than his own, which bordered on illegible. Words were half-written in a cross between print and cursive. Ross zoomed in further. Blake had been intubated on arrival to the hospital and moved directly to surgery. The bullet had never exited his brain. The surgery to retrieve it had been successful, but left Blake comatose for nearly a month. Neurology notes recorded brain activity, making Ross wonder at what point the issue of removing Blake from life support had come up.

  Camille added water to the bath, momentarily distracting him.

  “Water’s getting cold.” She turned the page in her book. “How are you making out?”

  “The plot thickens.” Ross shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair, rubbing his aching back.

  Paperwork from administration spoke of an advanced directive Lila had brought to their attention. A summary prepared by the Chairman of the hospital’s Ethics Committee noted that Blake being held on life support was a direct violation of his right to choose, and that furthermore, in compliance with Blake’s wishes, Dr. Jeremy Davis’s request for something called ASO had been denied.

  Ross had gone to medical school, but he didn’t recognize the term. He made a note to look it up and kept reading. Joyce Coleman, the hospital’s CEO’s, extended her sincerest written apologies to Ruth who had fought removing Blake from life support and lost. The letters were copied to Lila as well as to two different attorneys.

  Blake’s advance directive was ironclad.

  Lila discontinuing life support wasn’t her idea, it was his.

  Ross opened a browser and typed the search string: “ASO neurology,” returning a dozen articles on an experimental treatment called “antisense oligonucleotides.” When he saw what the treatment was for, an alarm went off. Blake’s surgical error, Lila’s nursing school—if Ross was right, everything made sense.

  Jeremy Davis wasn’t working with Lila.

  He was working against her.

  And the reason why was Ross’s smoking gun.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  No matter what Ross said, there was no way Camille was letting him out of taking her to dinner. He wanted to continue his research on Blake and to keep trying to get in touch with Mattie who he had been calling non-stop. Camille insisted Ross taking her out was the closest thing she’d had to a proper date since her divorce, though he found that hard to believe.

  For all Camille’s faults, she was as wittily charming as she was beautiful, and not just for her age. Mid-forties looked like late twenties on her, only more refined and sophisticated. He hadn’t seen the allure when they were younger, but understood now why Sarah had loved her so much.

  “Why don’t you go and get us a table,” he said. “I’ll be right in.” Letting Camille out at the door was the gentlemanly thing to do, and it bought Ross time to call Mattie.

  “Don’t keep me waiting,” Camille said.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Camille shut the car door and went inside. Everyone from the man holding the door to the passing waiters eyed her.

  Ross waited until she reached the hostess station to pull away and then dialed his cell phone.

  “Pick up. Pick up.” When Mattie didn’t answer by the third ring, Ross knew he was going to voicemail again. “Mattie, honey. Please call me back. I’m worried. At least let me know you got home safely. I’m sorry for everything, even though nothing happened.” Ross had monitored the late news the night Mattie flew home. He had no idea what flight she was on, but the fact that no domestic plane crashes had been reported was the only thing allowing him to sleep. He had left over a dozen messages since. Probably well over a dozen, but he had lost count. Every one said the same thing: “Nothing happened.” And nothing did, though he didn’t know why it mattered. He and Mattie had broken up.

  Then why did he feel so guilty?

  Ross straightened his yellow tie and finger-combed his dark hair, heading toward the restaurant and praying he wasn’t overdressed in the Armani suit Mattie had picked out for a fundraiser back home. He never felt right wearing it, no matter how many times he had been complimented. The pants hung a little too straight, the jacket uncomfortably narrow, and the overall look had him feeling like he was playing dress up, attempting to be younger. He tried not to read too much into Mattie’s intention.

  She said their thirteen year age difference didn’t matter.

  Ross was bothered for her.

  What kind of life could they have when he reached his twilight and she was still thriving? And was it right of him to leave her alone so young? Nothing was set in stone, but Ross placed his bet on nature taking its course, sooner in his case than Mattie’s later. He had always thought it was Sarah he’d grow old with, but things don’t always go according to plan.

  His cell phone chimed as he reached the hostess station.

  The text message from Mattie made him smile.

  “You’re listed as my emergency contact. They’d have called you if something had happened.”

  She was nothing if not practical.

  “Good evening, sir.” A young man in a black and white waiter’s uniform greeted him.

  “Good evening,” Ross replied, about to describe Camille when he saw her hand waving in the air from a table to the right of the entrance.

  “Hey, over here,” she said.

  Ross couldn’t tell if it was her lack of decorum, or the fact that she looked breathtaking in the low-cut red dress, stiletto heels, and matching red lipstick that made her the focus of attention. From the women’s shaking heads and the men’s eager eyes, Ross guessed it was a combination of both.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” he said.

  Camille smiled, having downed a half a glass of Chardonnay in the time it took for him to make the call. “No problem at all, Sugar.” She was Adele through and through.

  “Are we going to play Cletus and Adele all night?” Ross whispered.

  “I wondered how long you could keep up.”

  “Not long enough for Community Theater, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right. One actor at the table is enough. I was starting to wonder if you left me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Who knows? I half expect you to jump a plane to Chicago at any minute. You were calling the girlfriend, weren’t you?”

  “Her name is Mattie.”

  The woman seated at the next table glanced over.

  Camille stared back with crazy eyes that warned the woman to mind her own business.

  “And yes, I called her.”

  “Still no answer?”

  “Define answer. I got a text message, so that’s something, right?”

  A young waitress wearing the same androgynous uniform as the waiters approached their table. She wore no jewelry, her hair in a tight bun, and modest makeup, but under other circumstances, she might have been attractive. Something the uniform did its best to hide.

  “Good evening,” she said. “Welcome to The Captain’s Roost. May I bring you something to drink?”

  “I’ll have what she’s having,” Ross said.

  “Another Chardonnay for me, too.”

  The waitress nodded and went to the bar to fetch their drinks.

  “Adele the Belle, I thought the jig was up.”

  “And confuse the poor girl?” Camille laughed.

  Ross rolled his eyes, thanking the waitress when she quickly returned with two glasses of white wine.

  “Can I ask you something?” he said to
Camille. “Was I imagining it the other night, or were you purposely giving Mattie a hard time?”

  “I’m going to answer that question with another question. When you and I first ran into each other at the market, were you expecting I was still married to Adrian?”

  “I guess so,” Ross said. “I knew you two had trouble but I hadn’t heard you divorced.”

  “Then you can understand why me walking in on my best friend’s mostly naked husband with another woman got my hackles up. You and Sarah left New York as a perfect couple. There were never two people more meant to be together. Feel free to analyze this if you want to, but on the days that I really miss Sarah, I mean the days I can’t face that she’s gone, I pretend she’s with you in Chicago, living the good life.”

  “The ‘good life,’ huh?” Ross smiled to keep from tearing up.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do. And when you put it that way, I get it.”

  “I saw that woman—”

  “Mattie.”

  “I saw the lovesick way Mattie looked at you and I wanted to hurt her. Not physically. Well, maybe physically at first, but I wanted her gone. I was defending Sarah.”

  “I know.”

  Camille finished her first Chardonnay and started on her second. “I was wrong.”

  She said it so quietly, Ross wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

  “What?”

  “Do you need me to hire a skywriter? I was wrong. I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should’ve let the bra thing slide, but I had to open my big mouth.”

  “I’ve done worse, believe me,” Ross said. “Mattie’s too good at getting shit on—excuse the expression.”

  “No worries. People get shit on sometimes.”

  “I’m not the guy to do it.”

  “I know that,” Camille said. “You were always one of the good ones. This woman, Mattie, do you love her?”

  “More than I realized.” Ross could see it wasn’t the answer Camille was expecting. “But—”

  “But what?”

  “But I love Sarah more.”

  Camille forced a smile when the waitress brought a basket of bread. “Thank you,” she said in a purely northern tone.

  “Are you ready to order?”

  “I think we need a couple of minutes more, please,” Camille said.

  Ross sneered when the waitress left. “You broke character. I’m afraid I might have to fire you.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. Speaking of, why don’t you tell me about this appointment tomorrow? Did you come up with a plan?”

  “I did. And it’s a good one.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “You sure the appointment is at nine?” Ross eased into the driver’s seat, his back aching from sleeping in the soaking tub rather than on the hardwood floor.

  “Positive,” Camille said, fastening her seat belt.

  Ross turned to grab his and a pain shot up his spine. “Damn Honeymoon Suite.”

  “You could’ve slept in the bed, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Ross had seen the wine-soaked version of Camille before. No matter how comfortable they were with each other, he had made a judgment call.

  Camille grabbed the end of his seat belt from him and fastened it. “You look more like a patient than someone ready to take on the illustrious Dr. Davis.” She handed Ross two pain relievers and her coffee cup.

  “Thanks.” Ross swallowed the pills, praying for them to act quickly. “And I’m not taking anyone on, Camille. It’s a doctor’s office, not a gladiator arena.” He pulled out of the bed and breakfast’s parking lot, wincing when he checked over his shoulder for traffic.

  “You could have at least let me drive.”

  “Not a chance.” He accelerated. “Listen, we need to review the plan.”

  “Again?” They had covered it twice the night before.

  “Yes, Camille. We can’t screw this up. When the nurse calls you back for the appointment, we’ll both go. We’ll wait for the doctor to come into the room and once he’s inside, you’ll excuse yourself to go to the bathroom.”

  “That’s your big plan?”

  “That’s my plan as far as you go, yes. Why?”

  She seemed disappointed. “I’ve been running lines in my head for two days.”

  “Let me hear.”

  “What’s the point if I don’t get to actually say them in character?”

  “Will you at least tell me what cover story you came up with?” He took another sip of her coffee.

  “I told the receptionist my philandering husband gave me and STD he picked up from a hooker.”

  Ross nearly spat. “You what?”

  “And when that didn’t convince her, I told her I took a home test and found out I was pregnant. People can’t resist helping a baby.”

  “A pregnant STD patient. That’s your medical emergency? You expected me to go along with that?”

  “I thought it’d be fun to watch you try.”

  “That’s great.” Ross couldn’t see the humor in the situation. He was tired, in pain, and sweating profusely.

  “What’s going on with you this morning?” Camille used the vanity mirror to apply a light coat of lip gloss. “Are you still mad at me for this Mattie thing?”

  “No.” Ross softened the edge off of his tone. “It’s not you. I hate confrontation.”

  “I know.”

  Camille didn’t have to say how she knew.

  Ross could tell she had heard it from Sarah.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Me, too, but you did say to get an appointment within forty-eight hours, and I got one. I couldn’t think of anything that would get me in to a doctor’s office faster than an STD and a baby.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  * * * * *

  The waiting room of the Edinburgh Family Practice bustled with patients ranging from infancy to old age. Coughs and sneezes hung in the air, encouraging Ross to sit as far away from the others as possible.

  Camille checked in as Adele Clements and leered at Ross to keep up the ruse. The three receptionists behind the glass window scowled at him as well.

  “Nice work,” Ross said when Camille sat two chairs away.

  “Thanks,” she whispered, checking to see that no one was looking first.

  Ross stared at the clock, watching the minutes pass and wondering if they were ever going to be called back. An elderly lady with a walker took the seat between them. She wore plate-thick glasses and reeked of Jean Nate, a pungent, bug spray-like perfume his grandmother had worn when he was a child.

  “Bet you’re wishing you sat next to me now,” he said, leaning forward with his hand cupped over his nose and mouth.

  “Adele Clements,” a woman wearing pink scrubs called from the far side of the room.

  “Finally,” Ross said.

  He and Camille got up at the same time and made a beeline across the waiting area.

  “Adele?” the woman verified Camille’s assumed identity.

  Camille nodded. “That’s me.” The accent was back.

  Ross went without acknowledgement, other than the sideways glance he’d been trying to get used to.

  “I’m Nicole, Dr. Davis’s nurse.” Nicole handed Camille a plastic cup and a stack of wipes for a clean catch urine sample. “I’m going to have you start with the bathroom and then we’ll head to the exam room.”

  Waiting for Camille to produce the urine specimen that would undoubtedly prove her to be a liar or, at the very least, a poor home test taker, Ross thought of all the ways things could have gone wrong up to that point. Patient security and identity theft precautions being what they are, he was amazed no one had asked “Adele” for identification. He chalked the laxity up to them paying cash and counted his lucky stars to have gotten as far as they had.

  Camille returned and held the half-full cup of urine out to Nicole.

  “We’re going to go right here into exam room
five.” Nicole led them across the hall to a pediatric suite. The circus animal décor had Camille’s eyes shifting from the wall to Nicole and back again. “You can put on this gown and can keep on your socks and underwear.” She handed Camille a blue cotton gown large enough to fit them both. “Dr. Davis will be with you in a minute.” Nicole closed the door, but from the sounds of crying babies and plain-as-day conversations through the paper-thin walls, Camille expected the wait to be longer.

  “I’m not putting that on,” she said.

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “How am I supposed to explain leaving my own doctor’s appointment now that I already went to the bathroom?” Faint sweat rings formed at Camille’s armpits.

  “You can still use the bathroom excuse. Say you have to go again.”

  Camille drew a deep breath, let it out, and began counting. “One, two, three—”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Doctors offices make me anxious.”

  “Now is a hell of a time to tell me that.”

  “I thought I’d be fine.”

  “Maybe you should go out to the car now. When Jeremy comes in, I’ll tell him you’re in the bathroom. That way you won’t have to say anything. You won’t even see him.”

  A knock came at the door.

  “Come in.”

  “Camille!” Ross stared at her, wide-eyed.

  “What did you want me to say?”

  The bespectacled Dr. Jeremy Davis walked in, laptop in hand, wearing a white lab coat, blue shirt, and red tie. Close-cropped brown hair gave way to a hint of gray at his temples.

  “I’m sorry. Didn’t the nurse give you a gown to change into?” Jeremy was about to head back into the hallway when Camille stopped him.

  “She did.” Camille’s voice cracked. A cotton gown dangled from her shaking hand.

  Jeremy set his laptop on the counter and held out his hand. “I’m Dr. Davis,” he said. “I’m sorry, Adele, is it? I can see you’re nervous.”

  Camille nodded. “Very.”

  “Maybe you should go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face,” Ross said. “She’s terrible with new people.”