Mark couldn’t let go of his curiosity. “What do you mean the hotel you were staying in? What happened to your room?”
“My wife is staying in it.”
Mark laughed heartily. “That’s funny.” He looked over at Emily, who wasn’t laughing at all, and then back at the old man. He took in a deep breath and then exhaled. “I don’t know.” He looked back at Emily. “Do you mind if he stays?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m only a guest here.”
“Right. Okay. You can stay,” he said to the man, “but only tonight. Tomorrow, I’m afraid you’ll need to come up with another arrangement or make up with your wife.”
The old man nodded eagerly. “I’m making up with her right now.”
“What do you mean?” Emily asked.
“Where there is a reconciliation, there must first have been a sundering.”
“Huh?” Mark said.
“I’m getting away from my wife,” he said. “A sundering, a separation . . . .Ulysses? No? Just a play on a famous—well, maybe not. Sorry, I get to read more now that I’m retired. My wife never laughs at my jokes either. Highbrow humor.”
Mark pointed at Emily. “As you can see, we only do half-brow humor here.”
The old man chuckled.
Emily glared at Mark with her visible eye. “Yes, that’s right, only lowbrow humor here.” A smile crept onto her face. “Mark can demonstrate his goofy-walk if you’re interested.”
“You don’t mean silly walk, do you?” the old man said.
Her grin wilted.
“Yes!” Mark affirmed.
“Is this place Fawlty Towers?”
“Ugh,” groaned Emily.
“Ha!” Mark nodded gleefully. “She’s never seen it. Can you believe it?”
The old man shook his head pityingly.
Mark approached and extended his hand. “I’m Mark.”
“George.”
“Pleasure to meet you, George.”
Weakly raising her hand, Emily said, “I’m Emily.”
“I’m glad to meet both of you.”
Mark grabbed the suitcase.
“Where’s Manuel?” George asked, smiling.
Mark chuckled. “He’s done for the day.”
“Who?” Emily asked.
Mark shook his head. “No one.”
“Well this is a fun hotel,” George said. “I like you two better than the curmudgeons I’m traveling with.”
Mark paced himself up the stairs, letting George keep up. He didn’t exactly know what had gotten into him, letting the man stay. But what was one more guest for one night? “Are you part of that casino tour?” Mark asked.
“Yes, that’s right. Bunch of grumps,” George replied, slightly out of breath.
Mark laughed. When they reached the top, he asked, “How many days are you folks staying in Manistique?”
“Just two nights. We leave tomorrow morning for St. Ignace.”
“Where are you all from?”
“Milwaukee area.”
Mark entered the room next to Emily’s and set the suitcase on the bed.
“Nice room,” George said.
Mark nodded agreeably as he surveyed the room. He slipped the key from the knob and handed it to George.
“Thank you. I never asked you about a rate. How much is it here per night?”
“It’s twenty-five dollars. I hear it’s a good rate.”
“Twenty-five? I would have stayed here last night if I had known that.”
“It’s a special rate. I’m charging Emily the same. Actually, you have similar situations.”
“She got into an argument, too?”
Mark smirked. “No, only that you’re both stranded with nowhere to go. She got into an accident a couple miles from here.”
“Oh really? That’s too bad. What happened?”
“Deer-car.”
“She ran into a deer?”
Mark chuckled. “Sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s adamant that the deer ran into her. Apparently it was the deer’s fault.”
“Isn’t Michigan a no-fault state?”
Mark laughed. “Anyway, she’s touchy about it. So whatever you do, don’t bring it up.”
George shook his head. “No, I won’t mention it at all.” He groaned as he sat down on the bed.
“Do you need a ride back to the hotel in the morning?”
George nodded. “If you could. The bus leaves at ten thirty sharp.”
“I can give you a lift, but it’ll have to be a little early. I’ve got to be somewhere by ten o’clock. Gives you plenty of time to finish making up with your better half.”
George smiled. “That works for me. I’m very grateful to you.”
“Sure. No problem.” He checked his watch. It was eight o’clock. “I’m going to open up a bottle of wine downstairs, if you’re interested.”
George yawned and shook his head. “No, but thanks for the offer. Doctor says I should avoid alcohol. I think I’ll just read for a bit and turn in.”
“Just as well. I have a feeling the wine I got isn’t that great. Well, have a good night, then.” Mark started to leave.
“By the way, is Vivian your wife?”
Mark shook his head. “No, my aunt. This is her place. I’m only helping out for a short bit.”
“Where did she go?”
Mark turned, preparing to tell him that she was simply “away,” but he paused. The old man reminded him of a venerable actor whose name he couldn’t remember. Mostly black-and-white movies. Always played forthright roles. Mark couldn’t lie. “Yes, about that . . ." He lowered his voice: “Can you keep a secret?”
George nodded. “Sure.”
Mark pushed the door mostly closed. “She passed away a couple days ago.”
The folds in George’s skin recessed into deep grooves, and his lips fell flat, colorless. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” His sorrow seemed genuine. “But why is it a secret?”
“Emily doesn’t know.”
“Who’s Emily?”
“The one-eyed girl downstairs.”
“Oh, right. Emily.” George scratched his head. “Why can’t Emily know?”
“Because I don’t run this bed and breakfast. I’m only here because my aunt died.”
“Then why are you letting guests stay?”
Mark smiled. “I had no intention of letting anyone stay, but Emily had nowhere to go and I felt sorry for her. As for you . . ."
George grimaced a tacit apology. “So Emily doesn’t know you’re not the owner.”
“I am the owner.”
“You know what I mean.”
He briefly glanced down. “She thinks my aunt left me in charge—in a sense, that’s exactly true. I am in charge. She just doesn’t know the rest, and she doesn’t need to know. She’s the type who’d get all uptight about it. She’ll be gone tomorrow, anyway. No harm, no foul, right?”
“Take it from me, son. Be careful. I know all about getting in trouble with women.”
“Like I said, she’s leaving tomorrow. She’ll be no worse for the wear.”
“So we’re spending the night at a stranger’s house.”
Mark gave him a wry smile. “All three of us, really. But how’s that different from any other hotel?”
George shrugged and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. And I appreciate you taking me in. I had nowhere else to go.”
“We all have the same goal: to leave Manistique. You’ll be heading for the next casino in the morning. Emily will get her car fixed and be on her way. And I’ll meet with a real estate agent tomorrow and be on my way soon too.”
“You’re not thinking about keeping it?”
Mark smiled. “What would I do with it? I live in Chicago.”
“Run it.”
He laughed. “That’s funny. I don’t know the first thing—”
“That’s clearly not true. You have two guests.”
M
ark shook his head. “Ask Emily what kind of host I am.”
“What’s your occupation? When you’re not pretending to be running hotels, that is.”
“I’m an independent financial planner.”
“Sounds interesting.”
Mark chuckled. “It’s not. It’s mostly dull. How about you? What are you retired from?”
“High school shop and PE teacher.”
“If I could do it all over again, I’d be a high school history teacher.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Kind of ironic though, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“You wanted to teach history but instead you plan for people’s futures.”
“Hmm. Never thought of it that way. You’re right,” Mark said. “Well, have a good night. Breakfast will be ready by eight.”
“Breakfast? See, you are good at running this place.”
“Wait until after you’ve had breakfast before you rate me.”
“Okay. Good night.”
“Good night.” Mark closed the door behind him.
Chapter Twelve
The magazine lay open on Emily’s lap, though she stared dazedly into the dim fire. She tried to remember something—anything—about Sarajevo, but nothing came to her quickly. She was so young when she left there.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She leaned to one side, wriggling her hand into her jeans to dig out the phone. John. She was wrecked again—she supposed she could still go to Mackinac, one day late, but the image of the dead deer kept popping into her head. An accident or a sign? The road ahead was empty and lonely. The road back was full of angst and insecurity. The phone stopped.
She soothed herself with controlled breathing. The phone went off again. She exhaled and answered.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi, John. How are you?”
“I won’t lie,” John started, in a vulnerable tone he only ever used over the phone. “I’m a little lonely.”
“Sorry.”
“How about you?” he asked. “Where are you?”
“I’m at a hotel for the night.”
“What town are you in?”
“Oh, some small town, an hour or so away.”
“So you still think they’ll have your car fixed in the morning?”
“First thing, is what they told me.”
“So you should be on the island before noon.”
Emily’s stomach twirled. “I suppose.”
“I can’t wait to see you. You’ll be so excited with my news. But it has to be in person.”
She heard steps and said, “Okay. Listen, I’ve got to run. Bye.”
“Miss you,” was the last thing Emily heard as she removed the phone from her ear and ended the call. She buried the phone back in her pocket.
Emily lifted the magazine and watched over the top of it as Mark slowly came down the steps. His feet, legs, torso, then head.
“Hey, your patch is off!” Mark exclaimed at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you upset because I called you Cyclops?”
“No, but thanks for that. To tell you the truth, I didn’t really ever need it.”
“I don’t understand.” He glanced over at the fireplace. “I should add a log,” he said to no one. “So why were you wearing it in the first place?”
Emily shrugged. “Because it makes the doctor feel good if he thinks he’s made the patient feel better.”
He picked up a log and threw it on the fire. “You didn’t tell the doctor that you’re a doctor?”
Emily shook her head. “When you stay at an inn, do you say, ‘Hey, I run a bed and breakfast in Manistique?’”
Mark laughed. He picked up the poker and shoved the logs. The fire briefly erupted. “No, because I don’t run a bed and breakfast.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“All I can say is that it’s a good thing you had the patch on when you showed up. Otherwise I wouldn’t have felt so bad for you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean I probably wouldn’t have let you stay if you didn’t look so . . ."
“So what?”
He shrugged. “So pitiful.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Don’t take it personally.”
“No, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
“You know what I mean,” he said, then pressed his lips together.
“You let George stay, and he’s not wearing a patch.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because you told him you were a guest here. I couldn’t refuse him after that.”
Her eyes shot back up to him. “So it’s my fault? He let himself in!”
“You’re right,” he admitted. “It’s my fault. I should have locked the door. In fact . . ." He rushed to the front door and locked it. “There. That should keep guests out.”
Emily laughed incredulously. “You are the strangest hotel manager I’ve ever met. You’re supposed to want guests.”
“I told you, my aunt runs this place. I’m only babysitting. Would you like a glass of wine?”
Emily shook her head at him.
“No?”
“No, I do want wine. I was just shaking my head at you.”
“Because I don’t want more guests?”
“Yes!”
He waved her off. “Do you want white again? I got a Chardonnay.”
Emily put up her best endearing smile. “Yes, please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Emily pulled up the magazine, UP Traveler, and began reading an article about Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore on Lake Superior. When Mark returned, he carried two empty wine glasses in one hand and an opened bottle in the other. He set the glasses on a tray on the coffee table and filled her glass two-thirds of the way.
“Wow, thank you,” she said.
He poured a smaller portion into his glass.
“Is George in his room?” She knew the answer but wanted to make conversation.
Mark nodded and sat down across from Emily. “I asked him if he wanted some wine, but he said he was done for the night.” He looked at his watch. “It’s not even eight. Arguing with your wife must be exhausting.”
“Wonder what they argued about.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then he smirked. “Maybe she let a stranger into their room.”
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“I know, I know.” Looking away, he added, “Nothing ever seems to be your fault.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing—just kidding.”
Emily shifted her body slightly toward the fire and watched it. She downed a large amount of wine. “I make mistakes,” she blurted.
“We all make mistakes.”
She gazed at Mark, who looked away. “But have your mistakes ever caused a death?”
His eyes seized back on her. “What?!”
“Of course not,” she said evenly. “You manage people’s money. No one dies if you make a mistake.”
Mark stayed silent. She drank more wine, and then stared at the fire once again.
They sat in silence, the incomplete confession lingering in the room. She drank in small sips and only saw Mark out of the corner of her eye, imagining what he thought of her. Crazy. Unstable. Fraudulent.
Emily slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet under her—gauche or not, she only barely considered it. “It happened a few months ago,” she said without looking at him. “On New Year’s Eve.”
After performing hernia surgery on a ten-year old boy, Dr. John Bulcher gave Emily some instructions. This disappointed Emily bitterly. She believed he had planned the surgery in order to surprise her—that he would relieve the resident on duty that night so they could watch the ball drop together. Though it would have been unusual for John to stay, the surgery’s timing was unusual too
, and it would have provided sufficient cover. Instead, before leaving, Dr. Bulcher asked Emily to keep an eye on the doctor running the floor that night, Dr. Greg Olsen, known to the medical staff as an unconfident resident, regularly second-guessing himself and frequently paging the attending for advice. Dr. Bulcher planned to be at a party that evening and wanted to have a couple of drinks without worrying about Olsen calling him. Emily complained that she was just an intern and couldn’t be expected to babysit Dr. Olsen, but Dr. Bulcher simply reiterated his trust in her.
It was later that night when the boy, Nicholas, started complaining about pain. Dr. Olsen quickly increased the prescribed pain medication to the maximum dosage. Emily relaxed. Perhaps Olsen had finally matured into his role.
Not long after Emily shared a glass of sparkling apple cider with the nurses, Nicholas’s mother came out of his room. The boy’s intense pain had returned. Emily followed Olsen back to the room and watched him intently as he wrung his hands. He couldn’t increase the dosage again, so Emily spurred him on, enumerating the pertinent clinical questions, the ones Dr. Bulcher surely would have asked him. How was his blood pressure? Normal. Temperature? Normal. How did the incision look? Everything checked out fine. Emily suggested a different pain medication. Olsen agreed.
Two hours later Nicholas’s mother came out to the nurses station, worried that something was really wrong. Nicholas’s intense pain was back, and it was worse. Dr. Olsen and Emily conferred. He discussed paging Dr. Bulcher, but Emily—imagining him inebriated—asked what they could do without disturbing the attending. Olsen suggested an increase in the second pain medication, but he still felt that Dr. Bulcher should be consulted. Emily steered him to wait, and he agreed that if this medication didn’t work, they would immediately page Dr. Bulcher.
At seven in the morning, with no other disturbances in the night, Emily and Olsen met at the nurses’ station ready to begin the morning rounds. They shared a smile and headed for the first room when an alarm went off. Alarms went off regularly. But Emily sensed that something was wrong. She looked at the monitors. Nicholas’s blood pressure was low.
When Emily arrived at the room, the boy was unconscious. She tried waking him up, but nothing. Olsen put the cuff around the Nicholas’s thin arm and did a manual reading, then yelled out, “Code Blue!” By the time the emergency crew arrived, Nicholas had flatlined. Emily, who was performing CPR, was pushed out of the way as the emergency crew attempted to resuscitate the boy. They carted him to surgery, but Emily knew. It was all too late.
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