Looking for Peyton Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  I parked at the edge of the road, lifted my insulated bag, and went up the front walk. I had barely reached the porch when the front door flew open and a young girl appeared. All smiles, she was dark-haired and pretty in an unpolished way. She had Tom’s blue eyes and was equally lean, a fact that wasn’t hidden by the overall shorts she wore. It was only when I got close that I realized she wasn’t as young as I had first thought.

  Still, her smile was infectious. “Hey,” I said. “I’m Annie.”

  Though she continued to smile, she seemed to grow shy, hanging now on the post at the top of the stairs. I was wondering whether she talked much at all, when Tom came out the door. He wore shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals, and was handsomely tanned.

  “You are a lifesaver,” he said, trotting down the stairs to relieve me of the bag. “Mrs. Jenkins took Ruth down to the outlet stores in Conway today, so she didn’t have time to cook dinner. I was about to open a can of tuna.”

  “Then I’ve really saved your life,” I remarked. “You never know what’s in tuna.”

  “Oh, I do.” He unzipped my insulated bag. “Tuna steaks are iffy. Canned light tuna, eaten in moderation, is fine. Besides, I’m not pregnant, and neither is Ruth.” He put his nose down and inhaled. “Chicken pot pie?”

  “You’re good.”

  “It smells incredible.”

  “It may need reheating.”

  He touched it. “Nope. Ready to eat. Are you sure you won’t join us?” When I shook my head, he looked back. “Ruth. Come meet Annie. And see what she’s brought.”

  Ruth came as far as the bottom step, where she sat. If she was hungry, she didn’t show it. She didn’t spare a glance at the bag, but continued to look at me.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Ruth,” I said.

  Tom gestured her over. When she gave a quick head shake, he led me to the steps. “If the mountain won’t come to Mohammed…” He settled close to Ruth, clearly not forcing the issue of a formal introduction. Gesturing me to sit, he put the bag on his lap. “You said you have to be back for Phoebe. How’s she doing?”

  I settled on the other end of the step with my back to the post. “Lousy. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I’ve tried to get her to see you, but she won’t. I’m thinking that’s because Middle River is…well, Middle River, and people will see her going to your office and begin to talk. So Plan B is to see someone in New York. I’m going down with her Saturday to help out with a buying trip. She’s depending on me to organize things and make sure she is where she’s supposed to be when she’s supposed to be there, so I’ll be able to get her to a doctor before she knows what I’m up to. Only I don’t know who to see, and time is short.”

  “I know just the person,” Tom said, as I had figured he would. “When do you want to see her?”

  Her was even better. “Tuesday morning.”

  “This coming Tuesday?” He gave a sputtering laugh. “You only ask for the world.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been putting it off, hoping she’d get better. But now even Sabina agrees that something’s wrong. And this trip is the perfect opportunity. If you can’t—”

  “I can,” he said. “She a friend. She’ll do this for me. For what it’s worth, she’s in on the cause.”

  “Our cause?” I asked, though unnecessarily. I hadn’t talked with Tom since that first day at the clinic, but I sensed instinctively that we were on the same page, same paragraph, same line.

  He nodded. “Judith is an expert in alternative therapies. She’s helped me treat some of the people here in town with something called chelation.”

  “Chelation,” I repeated, testing the word.

  “It’s from the Greek word for claw. A synthetic amino acid is used as a chelating agent. It enters the body and gloms onto toxic metals that may be present in body tissue, then pulls them right out. The body doesn’t like this synthetic stuff. It can’t see the metal under the glomming, but knows that the synthetic substance doesn’t belong there. So it directs the whole business to the kidneys and expels it through urine.”

  The scientific explanation made sense. I still wasn’t sure about the politics of it. “Do the people you treat with this know you’re trying to rid them of a toxic metal?”

  “I’ve explained it, albeit hypothetically—you know, if there’s a metal, this will remove it. Obviously, I can’t point fingers and make accusations about the origin of the metal. And my patients don’t ask.”

  “Don’t ask?” I was amazed.

  “Don’t ask. They’re simply glad to be feeling better.”

  “Then it does work?”

  “I’ve seen improvement.”

  “Did you ever suggest it to my mother?”

  “Yes, but she wanted to give the traditional medicine time to work. Unfortunately, she fell down the stairs before we could know either way.”

  That saddened me. But again, my concern now was my sister. “I can make Phoebe agree to do this.”

  “Assuming Judith recommends it,” he cautioned. “She’ll do a complete workup to rule out other things.”

  But my thoughts were racing on. “If the cure for mercury poisoning works, isn’t that proof of its existence?”

  “No. Is it mercury? Or lead? Or another metal entirely? Lead can be detected in a simple blood test, not so mercury and some of the others.”

  “But if I can find a connection between the people you’ve treated successfully and something to do with the mill, isn’t that proof?”

  “That depends on what kind of connection you find.”

  “Can I talk with your patients?”

  “I can’t give you names. That would be a violation of confidentiality. I could call them and have them call you if they were interested in talking. But that raises the problem I cited last time we talked.”

  “Your position.”

  “Yes,” he said, and his voice said he was making no apologies for that. I had to respect him for it.

  I tried to bargain. “Okay. If I went down a list of people who’ve been sick, would you give me a yes or a no?”

  “As to whether I’ve treated them? No. As to whether I feel they’d be willing to talk, I could do that. I wouldn’t be speaking as a doctor, just as a resident of Middle River. I’d be guessing.”

  “Guessing is more than anyone else has been willing to do. I’ll take it,” I said and looked at Ruth. She hadn’t moved other than to lean forward a notch when Tom sat down so that she could see me without obstruction. “Your brother is a good man.” I looked at Tom. “Naturally, when I need it most, I don’t have my list with me. Can we talk later?”

  “Sure. You have my number.”

  I eyed the insulated bag. “You really will have to heat that up now. And I do have to run. Thanks, Tom. It’s so nice to know you’re a friend.” I stood. “It’s been nice meeting you, Ruth.”

  She didn’t reply, just continued to look at me with what struck me as doe eyes.

  Tom noticed it, too, and said as he walked me to my car, “She’s been skittish around strangers lately, so that’s a high compliment. I think she’s in awe.”

  “Why?”

  “She wants a sister, and you fit the bill. She likes the way you look.”

  “She seems very sweet. How old is she?”

  “Twenty-eight. She was a late-in-life baby for my mom. A very late-in-life baby,” he added sadly, then brightened. “But she likes living here. The city was too loud, too busy, too big. She doesn’t do well with change, and the city is full of that. I couldn’t control it. Here, I can. My hours are more regular. I go to work, I come home.”

  “What happens when you attend conferences?” I asked. Some of those reported in the Middle River Times were in places he couldn’t possibly do in a day.

  “Mrs. Jenkins stays over. She’s a godsend. It’s working out well.”

  Phoebe professed to love the chicken pot pie, though I sensed she spoke more from an ingrained politeness than her taste buds. She had wi
thered by the time I cleared the table, and was soon on the sofa in the den with the TV on and her eyes closed. I was loading the dishwasher when Sabina called to thank me for the dinner, of which, she said, they had eaten every last bite. She asked how Phoebe was and said that the more she thought of it, taking Phoebe to a doctor while we were in New York was the right thing to do. She asked what I was doing tomorrow.

  Mention of tomorrow made me think of James, which created a perverse excitement that was distracting, so that it wasn’t until later that I questioned Sabina’s sudden interest. At the time, I simply felt good about the call.

  I peeked into the den. Phoebe was dozing. Satisfied that I’d have a measure of privacy, I got out my notes and called Tom. The conversation was simple: I tossed out a name—Martha Brown, Ian Bourque, Alice LeClaire, Caleb Keene, John DeVoux—and Tom said yes or no, depending on whether he felt the person or his or her family would be approachable. There were no guarantees; we both knew that. But given the length of my list, it was a start.

  Phoebe continued to sleep. So I set up my laptop in the kitchen, connected to the phone jack, and logged on. I skimmed past the spam and found notes from Jocelyn and Amanda. Saving them as a treat for later, I went straight to two others.

  The first was from Greg. I opened it eagerly.

  HIT THE 13,000-FOOT MARK IN ONE PIECE, BUT IF WEST BUTTRESS IS THE BEST ROUTE, I SHUDDER TO THINK OF THE WORST. BAD WIND AND SNOW HERE. IS THIS AUGUST? ME, I WOULDN’T BE ANYWHERE ELSE, BUT I’M GLAD YOU’RE NOT HERE. YOU’D HATE THE COLD. HOPE YOU’RE FINDING WHAT GRACE SOUGHT. SEND WORD. LOVE YOU.

  Smiling, I shot back a note.

  I’m making progress along with a friend or two, and things are actually better with my sisters, which is good. The law here is a problem; I’m beginning to feel harrassed, which is not good. Am I finding what Grace sought? What is that? Small-town caring? Not yet. Acceptance and respect? Not yet. Family? Maybe. I found a running pal. You’d die if I told you who. I’ll keep that a secret, one of Middle River’s many. Climb safely. I love you, too.

  I hit “send,” then, with bated breath, opened a note from TrueBlue.

  You’re getting warm. I’m impressed.

  Yes, I have information on this end. Here are a couple ofdates—March 21, 1989, and August 27, 1993. Go through your list of people who are sick and see if any of them were atNorthwood during the week preceding those dates.

  What happened on those dates?

  First the names.

  And if I give you the names and those “witnesses” suddenly start showing up face-down in the river?

  O ye of little faith.

  Thursday morning I went at it. I pared down my list to include only Tom’s yeses, then pared it down again to include only those people whose ailments most resembled the symptoms of mercury poisoning. I did this before Phoebe came down for breakfast. I waited until she had a cup of coffee, hoping that would wake her up some. When it barely did, I went ahead anyway and asked her about TrueBlue’s dates.

  She couldn’t remember. Had I really expected she would? But I did sense it had less to do with what ailed her than with the passage of time. Would I have been able to say what I did on a particular day, week, or even month more than a decade ago? A big event, yes. A milestone in my life, yes. An everyday occurrence, I doubt it. Would anyone?

  Failure on this first test notwithstanding, I set off at ten o’clock with my map and the highest of hopes. In the ensuing three hours, the map remained, but the hopes faded fast. Of the people I visited, half were either at work (yes, at the mill, apparently well enough to work) or unwilling to talk. The unwillings to talk included two mothers with ill children and a total of six men and women who had been diagnosed with either Parkinson’s, dementia, neurological problems, or multiple bouts of pneumonia. Silent. All of them. And I tried hard. Yes, I was tipping my hand. But there was no law against my dropping by to talk with people in town, was there?

  That said, Marshall Greenwood was watching. I passed him often enough—and he slowed and stared at me as we passed—to know that he was monitoring my comings and goings. That might well have explained these people’s unwillingness to talk, because I certainly made myself innocuous in my introduction.

  “I’m Annie Barnes,” I would say to each. “My mother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease last year.” Or Alzheimer’s. Or pneumonia. I tailored my approach accordingly. “I’m trying to find other people with the same symptoms to see if there may be a mutual cause. I understand that your husband has been sick.” Or your wife. Or your son or daughter or mother.

  Inevitably, I would get a yes, but that was the extent of the accommodation. “He’s fine now,” one said and closed the door in my face. Another asked, “How did you get my name? The paper? Well, Sam’s a friend, and I’d like to help find your mutual cause, only I don’t think there is one, and I’m really busy now.” A third, of course, remarked, “I know who you are. I don’t think I should be talking to you.”

  They were more factual than hostile. Several people asked who had sent me or whether I was working for a health organization. But none agreed to talk with me, until I reached the McCreedys. Remember that name? Omie had put them on the slate, and Tom had seconded the nomination. It was one in the afternoon by now, and Marshall was probably on lunch break, which may have explained their inviting me in. Then again, they did indeed have a “string of problems,” as Omie claimed, so it was possible that they simply needed to vent.

  Tom and Emily McCreedy lived in the same neighborhood as Sabina. Owners of a flower shop and nursery at the far end of Willow, they were in their midforties. Though neither came from families with histories of ill health, Tom had chronic kidney disease that zapped his strength and immune system, while Emily, who was already being treated for bipolar disorder, had just been diagnosed with adult-onset asthma. They had three children ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen. The oldest and the youngest—both girls—were healthy, but the sixteen-year-old—a boy—was autistic. He attended a special school, and though the state paid part of the bill, the McCreedys footed the rest. Given their own medical bills, it was hard.

  The fact that I found them at home in the middle of a workday said something about the state of their health. Once I was in their parlor, they described their ailments in depth. They expressed bewilderment that two people who had been in perfect health not fifteen years before could now be so chronically ill. They spoke of their son with genuine anguish. And anger. They were convinced that something in the air had tripped something in their own body chemistries to cause malfunction—and yes, they had run tests on the air and materials in their home and in their shop. All had come out negative, though they didn’t particularly believe the results.

  When I asked what they thought might have tripped them up, they tossed out a smorgasbord of possibilities. Acid rain, airborne asbestos, bad well water—they were convinced that at some point there had been a problem, and that if the tests didn’t show it now, the problem had either been eliminated or was being hidden. In any event, Emily pointed out with visible irritation, the damage was already done.

  I asked about the mill.

  “What about the mill?” Tom asked blankly.

  “It produces toxic waste,” I said.

  “It’s way on the other side of town.”

  “Do you ever work there?”

  “Yes. We do floral arrangements for meeting rooms and conference areas.”

  “And landscape design,” Emily added.

  “Could there be something in the air there?” I asked, trying to carry over the theme they had raised earlier themselves. On one hand, it amazed me they hadn’t thought of the mill on their own. On the other hand, they might simply have bought into the hype about Northwood’s environmental good health.

  “The air there is fine,” Tom said. “The Meades aren’t sick, and they’re there all the time.”

  “How long have you been doing their floral arrangements?”

  “T
wenty years. They were one of our first clients, and they’ve been consistently the best.”

  That didn’t bode well for me. Their first and most consistent client? It was the loyalty issue again. That said, of all the people I had approached today, the McCreedys were my best hope. Every one of their symptoms could feasibly be traced back to mercury poisoning.

  So I asked, “Do you have a record of specific dates when you were on the grounds of the mill?”

  Tom deferred to his wife, who apparently kept the files but was beginning to look edgy. “We have financial records,” she said. “They would show what jobs were done on what days. But I don’t see the point of this question.”

  “What if there had been a toxic spill at Northwood on one of the days you were there?” I asked.

  “We’d have known it. The Meades would have cleaned it up and helped everyone who was exposed.”

  Yeah, right, I thought. “Do you know that the physical problems you’ve had are consistent with the symptoms of mercury poisoning?”

  “I have kidney disease,” Tom said, “not mercury poisoning.”

  “But where did you get it?” I asked. “And why you? Isn’t that what you’ve been asking me?”

  “Bad things happen,” he replied, at which point I tried Emily.

  “You’re being treated for bipolar disorder. As I understand it, mood swings are typical of that. Did you know that they’re also a symptom of mercury poisoning? Same with asthma. Same with the kind of neurological damage that can result in the birth of an autistic child.”

  Emily’s expression hardened. “If you think we haven’t thought about all these things, you’re dead wrong. We’ve thought about everything. But I was pregnant with Ryan sixteen years ago, I was diagnosed as bipolar seven years ago, and the asthma diagnosis came just last year. So when might I have been exposed to mercury? All those times? And no one else in town has been? And none of the doctors are worried? And the mill has covered it all up?”