“Yeah, I know,” Sabina commiserated. “They really make you feel small and powerless, don’t they?” She smiled again. “You, though, are big and powerful. All it takes is a word from you, Aidan. Let Marshall here know that Annie is to be protected, and she will be protected.”
“I want her gone,” Aidan stated flatly.
“Well, she will be that, too. She’s only here for the month, and nearly half of that’s passed. Two more weeks, Aidan. That’s all. Can’t we make this work?”
Chapter 20
PHOEBE AND I left for New York immediately after the funeral, and the timing couldn’t have been better. For the tiniest while I had actually felt comfortable in Middle River. But feeling comfortable was a luxury I couldn’t afford. My life was elsewhere. I needed a reminder that there was, indeed, life beyond.
That reminder came as soon as we passed through airport security in Manchester. Had I truly felt unsafe because someone had slashed my tires in Middle River? The thought of bona fide terrorism put that in perspective and, emotionally, it was uphill from there.
New York was my kind of town. When I had decided to join Phoebe, I had upgraded our reservations, not because I didn’t want to stay in the more modest hotel she had initially booked, but because I had promised her a good time, and location was everything. Our room overlooked Central Park and couldn’t have been more lovely. We had barely unpacked when a bottle of wine and a bowl of fruit arrived, and Phoebe felt pampered. The feeling remained when we shopped. We hit Fifth Avenue and did more window-shopping than anything, though I did buy Phoebe a beautiful scarf at Bergdorf’s and, at Takashimaya, bath salts and body lotion.
We also stopped at the Godiva boutique at Rockefeller Plaza. You already know I love chocolate. What you don’t know is that I have a thing—a real thing—for Godiva truffles. And not just any Godiva truffles. I would beg for a roasted almond truffle and steal for a smooth coconut, but for a hazelnut praline, I could be tempted to kill.
I’m kidding, of course. But I was happier once my shoulder bag contained that little box of truffles.
We walked over to Madison and shopped more. I kept an elbow linked with Phoebe’s to steady her, but it brought us closer even beyond the physical. We talked as we walked—about Mom and Daddy, about Sabina and rivalry and happy times, too. Then Phoebe flagged. We returned to our hotel for high tea in the lobby, and, reinvigorated, visited the Central Park Zoo. Phoebe needed a nap after that, but she loved the restaurant where we ate dinner. I was gratified. It had always been a favorite of Greg’s and mine.
We spent Sunday and Monday at the buyer’s show, held at the piers on the Hudson, and I gained a new respect for what Phoebe did. This was hard work. I have never seen so much merchandise of so many different kinds, with so many people so skilled in the sell. How much of what to buy and in what colors? Amazingly, Phoebe was able to sort through it all.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that her problem wasn’t physical at all but purely mental, that it was depression, and that removing her from Middle River had lifted her spirits. I had been hoping that, too. But it wasn’t the case. The physical problems remained—the odd gait, bad balance, fine tremor. She still easily lost her train of thought and had trouble finding words. What she did with regard to work, though, was to compensate. She had brought along notes and reminders, and not only checked them often herself but had prepped me on them, so that I could assist her as smoothly as possible.
Using the past as a guide, she moved methodically down a list of known vendors. And she was remarkable. She might have faltered at first, but she always ended up asking the right questions of each, expressing reservations when the pitched merchandise was inappropriate, approaching new vendors when their goods caught her eye. She drew on every bit of her inner wherewithal to stay focused. But it exhausted her. We had room service deliver our dinner both nights.
Then came Tuesday morning. Phoebe had expected that we would sleep late and leisurely return to the airport. She was not at all happy when I told her what I had done. I do believe that if she had been rested, she would have flat out refused. She protested, but feebly. She said she didn’t need a doctor. She said that I had no business making an appointment behind her back, and that I was causing a rift between Sabina and her. She argued that Alyssa had not had mercury poisoning and therefore why in the world should she?
But she didn’t have the strength to fight for long. Any last protest died when Sabina called on the phone in support of my plan.
Judith Barlow was a surprise. Anticipating a specialist in alternative medicine, I had expected someone close in age to Tom, but she was easily approaching sixty. I had expected someone who looked eccentric, but she was elegant in a simple and conservative way. Likewise her office, which, contrary to my expectation, was in a prime (read “high rent”) area, and was large, professional, and polished. The woman clearly had a successful practice.
She smiled when I was drawn to the diplomas on the wall. “People come here half expecting that I got my degree from Sears Roebuck.”
“Harvard?” I was impressed.
“Undergraduate and medical school, with my training at Mass General. The fact is that I practiced traditional medicine for twenty years before I moved into the other.”
“Why the move?”
“Too many people came in with problems that I couldn’t touch with traditional treatment. When you reach the point of having tried everything and getting nowhere, you have to look farther.”
“We’re not quite at that stage,” I cautioned with a glance at my sister. She was sitting in a chair, looking frightened. “Phoebe hasn’t seen a doctor, but her symptoms are identical to those we saw in our mother. I was hoping we could skip treatment that didn’t work on Mom.”
Judith sat down at her desk, put on wire-rimmed reading glasses, and studied the file I had brought. When she was done, she opened a clean file on Phoebe and proceeded to ask more questions than I had ever heard a doctor ask at a single sitting. More important, she asked the right questions. I’m still not sure whether Phoebe had decided to cooperate or was simply worn down by what ailed her so that she had no defense. But I was stunned by some of her answers. I knew about the obvious symptoms. But joint pain? Itchy skin? Night headaches? These were all news.
There was a physical exam, followed by more tests than I thought a single doctor’s office was capable of performing. But Tom had known what he was doing in recommending Judith. She had a remarkable facility, with nearly every diagnostic tool at her fingertips, and those that she didn’t have were in nearby office suites. Moreover, she was able to get quick readings on tests, so that she could decide which ones to do next.
We missed our plane. And Phoebe grew increasingly cranky. Taking one test after the other was grueling and, of course, there were waits between tests. But Judith was methodical. At every turn, she explained what she was testing for and why. As Tom had told me she would, she ruled out every conventional ailment before she ever mentioned mercury.
That came in the final sit-down. “If these symptoms were new,” she told Phoebe, “say, within the last three or four months, I’d test a hair sample for the presence of mercury. Given how long you’ve had symptoms, though, mercury from an initial exposure would have long since grown out. Absent our ability to actually isolate it through other tests, I can only make an educated guess. Mercury is the leading suspect. Things like grogginess and itchy skin aren’t indicative of Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s. Nor is asthma, which is what that lingering cold of yours appears to be. So we have a choice. We can treat the symptoms. Or we can go for a cure.”
I looked at Phoebe, but she didn’t seem to know what to say. So I asked, “What does a cure entail?”
Judith explained the general premise of chelation therapy to Phoebe, much as Tom had to me. But she went further, patiently explaining the details. “The specific protocol for this treatment is evolving as the results of new studies come in. Normally, I would reco
mmend the oral route, which would entail a varying schedule of pills taken every four hours on alternate weeks, then, depending on your progress, a switch to pills taken three to four days every week or two. We do it slowly over a period of months, and we give you breaks. It’s gentler. But it does take a while before you feel better.”
“What’s a while?” I asked.
“Two to six months. On the other hand, given your proximity to Tom, he could administer a newer protocol that involves an eight-hour intravenous infusion. Some believe that this is the only way to remove mercury from the brain. The infusion hits your body hard. Following it, you have a bad couple of days during which you can’t do much of anything. But then suddenly you do feel better. We repeat the infusion every few months, until the mercury is gone.”
“How can you tell when it’s gone?”
“When mercury is pulled from the organs, as happens in chelation therapy, it is expelled in the urine.”
“I thought mercury wasn’t expelled that way.”
“On its own, it isn’t. Attached to a chelation agent, it is. In those few days following the infusion, we closely monitor the urine for its mercury content.”
“How long until it’s gone?”
“Not knowing exactly how much is there, I can’t tell for sure. In general, though, it takes one to four years until you’re free of the metal.”
“That long?” Phoebe cried feebly.
Judith smiled. “It isn’t so long when you stop and think about how long you’ve been experiencing these symptoms.” She patted Phoebe’s file, which had mushroomed in a day. “According to what you’ve told me, you’ve been symptomatic at some level for several years.” She shot me a glance. “Now the thing to do is to find out when and where you were exposed.”
I called Sabina from the cab on the way to the airport. She had been trying me every few hours and was waiting for word. To her credit, she listened. More than that, she heard.
“Not Parkinson’s?” she asked.
“The doctor doubts it.”
“Does that mean Mom didn’t have Parkinson’s either?”
“It’s hard to tell. Mom was older than Phoebe when she got sick, and in fairness to Tom, the symptoms could have fit Parkinson’s. But Phoebe has other symptoms.” As I spoke, my poor sister was tucked into a far corner of the tattered leather seat, staring out the window in something of a fog. I’m not even sure she heard what I said. I asked Sabina, “Did you know that she gets intense skin rashes on her stomach?”
“No.”
“Or that she has pain in her joints?”
“She thought that was the flu.”
“She’s had those pains on and off for several years.”
“Several years, and she didn’t say something?”
I had been frustrated, too. But I could see Phoebe’s point. “She thought it was age. Early arthritis. Then Mom got really bad and Phoebe was frightened. Mom died. It’s scary when you have the same symptoms. But there’s hope for Phoebe.” I explained what chelation was about.
“Attaches to metal?” Sabina echoed. “Couldn’t that metal be lead?”
“The blood workup says no. No lead there. Mercury won’t show up in the blood, but that’s what the doctor thinks it is.”
“The doctor, or you?” Sabina asked with the old distrust.
“I was quiet, Sabina. I didn’t say the m word once. She came up with mercury all on her own.” When Sabina was silent, I said, “I know you don’t want to hear this. It complicates things, because if mercury is the problem, there’s only one possible source.” I waited for her to argue, and still she was silent. “Do you know what I mean? Sabina?” I checked the bars on my cell. There was barely one.
We weren’t able to reconnect until Phoebe and I reached the airport, and then I couldn’t talk. There was too much to do, what with supporting Phoebe and our luggage. We managed to get seats on the last flight to Manchester, but time was short and the security lines long. I had visions of our missing this plane, too, and sweated it out. We actually made it to the gate with a handful of minutes to spare before boarding began. Moving off to the side, I called Sabina.
“Hey,” I said. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah. I’m trying to take in what you said. How’s Phoebe handling it?”
“Hard to tell, she’s so tired. She says she’s relieved. Poor thing must have been terrified of getting worse and worse.”
“Mercury? Are you sure?”
“Yes. And I have to tell you more, Sabina.” It was time. I needed an ally. Sabina’s mind seemed open. I spoke quickly, wanting to get it all out before we boarded the plane. “Remember the fires that totaled the Clubhouse and the Gazebo? They were set.” Without mentioning TrueBlue, I told her what he had said.
Sabina was fast to respond. “I find that very hard to believe. There was a clandestine clean-up, and none of the people involved told anyone about it?”
“What if they weren’t told what had spilled? Or what if they had been sworn to secrecy? The Meades give bonuses for that kind of thing. Big bonuses.”
“Wouldn’t they have gotten sick themselves?”
“Not if they were wearing protective gear.”
“But you’re talking arson—and fraud. That’s big-time criminal behavior. It’s a lot to swallow. A lot. Who’s your source?”
“I can’t say yet, but think about it, Sabina. If this plot was in a book, it would make total sense, wouldn’t it?”
“But do you know how many events take place at the Clubhouse?” she continued to argue. “If there was a mercury spill beneath it, wouldn’t all those people be sick?”
“Not if they weren’t there on one of the few days between the spill and the fire. What if we found that Mom was? What if Phoebe was? She can’t remember. At the time of the Clubhouse fire, she was already working with Mom. We need to try to reconstruct her schedule. Same with other people who might have been there. I talked with the McCreedys.”
“Annie—”
“Don’t worry. They deny any connection. But look at the physical problems they’ve had. They’re florists. They do work for the mill. Isn’t it feasible that they were at the Clubhouse delivering flowers for an event that Mom attended?”
“I don’t think you should be involving other people yet. This is so off the wall.”
I didn’t snap at her, just stayed calm and cool. “Look at it this way. If Phoebe does have chronic mercury poisoning and can be helped with Dr. Barlow’s protocol, how many other people in Middle River could use the same?” I had been listening to airport voices with half an ear, but suddenly heard the right words. “They’re calling our flight, Sabina. I have to get Phoebe. We won’t be arriving in Middle River until late, and I want to go running early tomorrow. I’m feeling emotionally stuffed up, if you know what I mean. Can we talk later in the morning?”
Emotionally stuffed up? Well, that was one way to put it. Another was curious. I wanted to see James.
Wanted to? Was dying to. What can I say—he was an incredible lover. I would have thought that being a Meade, he would have made love in an egotistical, Me, Tarzan! sort of way. And he was strong. And forceful. And definitely took the lead—but he also took care to make sure he satisfied me.
Granted, it wasn’t a hard thing to do. One look at James, and my insides quickened.
About now, you’re probably thinking that I am a total hypocrite. After all, since I’d last seen James, I had learned that he and his family had been involved in the dirtiest, most immoral of activities. I mean, knowing that people were exposed to mercury and not telling them what it was that they had? That was as low as it got.
I could rationalize and say that something didn’t fit about all this, and it didn’t. James didn’t seem all bad. Hadn’t he tried to separate himself from his father and brother that first day we talked at Omie’s? Besides, could a man who had adopted a baby he clearly adored actually raise her in the shadow of poison? Granted, he didn’t bring her to the day c
are center at the mill. He had a nanny. Still, I had to believe he cared for his child.
So that was one reason I wanted to see him in spite of all that I had learned. But there was his parting shot at Omie’s last Friday. I don’t do one-night stands. I didn’t know what he had meant by that, but I also didn’t know what I wanted him to mean. He was my summer fling. That’s all. We had no future, James and I. James was a Meade. End of story.
That said, as summer flings went, he was hot and heavy—and that was not my imagination. So maybe I was curious to see if I could make him hot and heavy again. Was my ego involved? Of course, it was! Remember, another Meade had made a fool of me once. Egos don’t forget things like that.
Despite getting home after midnight, I was up at six Wednesday morning. By six-thirty, I was sitting in the yard with Mom’s flowers, the willow, and my second cup of coffee. I called Tom at seven to tell him to expect a call from Judith. At seven-thirty, I checked on Phoebe, who was sleeping still. I left her a note, propped it on the kitchen table, and set off for the varsity course.
The high school parking lot had a sprinkling of cars now, more than last week, fewer than next week. By then, if we continued to run at eight, we would be seen. Of course, James had no choice but to run at that hour. I understood that now. He couldn’t leave the house until Mia’s nanny arrived.
Skirting the cars in the lot, I drove to the back and rounded the corner. James’s SUV was there. The man himself was stretching on the grass.
My pulse gave a hitch, then raced on ahead. I parked, climbed from the car. He shot me a small smile, which I returned. Then I joined him stretching.
You are such a coward, Grace declared. He is the man to talk with. Are you going to stand there and stretch, when he has answers you need? ‘My pulse gave a hitch, then raced on ahead.’ Oh please!
Whoa. Weren’t you the first one to tell me how sexy he is?
I never slept with the enemy. For that matter, I never slept with men I didn’t love. But all that is beside the point. The point is that the man stretching right over there is someone to challenge. His family is bad. You need to talk to him about this.
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