Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  Chapter Seventeen

  Emily had last left Vivian’s story as she arrived at the scene of a mortar shell attack, where victims had been blown to pieces while standing in line for water: Violence unfurled, the furious grotesquery of Guernica in sound and color. Emily opened the book again.

  I nudged Dr. Divjak, but I felt what he certainly must have felt: overwhelmed. We couldn’t help everyone; about thirty bodies and body parts were strewn across an area about the size of a high school gym. We started triage, providing immediate care if it would help; otherwise, we moved on. I approached the closest person, a man lying on his back . . . in cases like this, the only thing to do is to stop the bleeding.

  A paramedic yelled out for help. I heard his distinctive voice above the crying and screaming. Dr. Divjak was working on a woman whose arm was barely attached to her body. I finished applying two tourniquets on the man’s legs, and I ran over to the paramedic. I realized why he had called me. The woman was pregnant. She was barely conscious, but she had no outward bleeding. I feared internal bleeding. “Take her back to the hospital,” I told him. “Right now.”

  He called out for the other paramedic, and I moved a few feet over and treated a woman lying prone and crying in pain. She was grasping at a piece of metal lodged in her abdomen. Knowing that this was no place to remove anything, I moved her hand, but she became angry and pushed me away. I tried to explain that she needed to leave it alone, that she could bleed to death if she pulled it out. I checked her pulse, which was strong enough. I forcefully pushed her arms away once more and promised her that I’d be back.

  Triage is a difficult prospect in any situation, and deciding who to help in a chaotic situation with a language barrier makes it even worse. There are no good answers. Another car arrived, and I could have told them to take this woman, but I pointed them to the woman Divjak was working on, if only to get him to move on to others.

  Apprehensively, I left this woman and went over to a man a few feet away who was missing his right arm. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t making any sound. I checked his pulse. Dead. Next to him, another man was groaning faintly.

  Journalists arrived ten or fifteen minutes after us, Claude and Eva among them. One photojournalist was taking pictures of the scene, and the bloody mess would be reported in the news and in magazines in the days and weeks to come. I called Claude over. His eyes were glued to the massacre in disgust and shock. Again I called him over.

  “Can you take a couple people in your van?”

  He blinked several times and then nodded.

  “Okay. Good,” I said, and I had him take two of the ambulatory victims.

  The ambulance returned, and I immediately thought of the woman with the metal in her abdomen. My stomach dropped when I saw her. She had pulled out the metal and had bled out profusely. Yelling for a paramedic, I dropped down and checked her pulse. It was very faint. “Take her now!” As the paramedic ran back for the stretcher, I got a blanket and put it over her. She said something, faintly, “Em-e-la.” But I didn’t understand what she meant; she was going into shock. We put her on the gurney and rushed her to the ambulance.

  I looked over at the field of bodies, some dead, some dying, some living with concussions and missing limbs. I wanted to go with the ambulance, to see this woman through, but there were too many left here. “Go,” I said, my voice cracking, thinking that I shouldn’t have left her alone. I had asked too much of her.

  The ambulance left, and I felt like screaming. But I dove back into the blood-guts-limbs-pain-death strewn out in front of me and took care of as many as I could.

  When I returned to the hospital near the end of the day, I first checked on the woman with the metal shard injury. I didn’t know her name, but when I described the wound to one of the nurses in the emergency room, she immediately shook her head.

  In a room where fifteen bodies were lying, waiting to be taken to the makeshift morgue at an adjacent building, I found her. The nametag on her toe was blank. “I’m so sorry,” I told her.

  I got a bucket of cold water and added a drop of detergent. I dunked my head, holding my breath for as long as I could. After washing my hands and arms thoroughly, I went back to work.

  The pregnant woman survived, and the pregnancy was fine too. Yes, some good. A miracle really—the man standing next to her in line had died. Still, stamped in my mind was the panicked face of the nameless woman I didn’t save.

  Emily shut the book and set it down on the bed. Commiserating with Vivian, she felt an ache weighing on her chest. She held onto it, strengthening the connection they had. Not only the shared experience of being doctors and losing patients, but of being in Sarajevo at the same time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  She was sitting under the balsam fir facing away from the street, her back against the trunk, her legs outstretched, elongated over the tall green grass. Barefoot. Emily had legs, Mark thought, staring for a long second as George walked up the porch steps ahead of him. She didn’t seem to notice that the two were back. Deep in thought or lacking thought, Mark couldn’t tell.

  After dropping off George’s suitcase on the porch, Mark strolled onto the lawn. Then he noticed the white wires leading to her ears, her shut eyes. He slowed his pace, staring at her profile, her hair, her arms, her legs. Her peach dress covered only half her thighs.

  She opened her eyes and turned toward him.

  Mark awkwardly jerked, jauntily raising his hand. “Hi!”

  The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “Hi,” she said, pulling out the earbuds. “I didn’t hear you.”

  He pointed behind him. “We just got back.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Not sure. George seems sad.”

  She gently shut her eyes and nodded. “So what do we do now?”

  We. That was endearing. “Figure out where the tour went next, I guess.”

  “I know where they went,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Marilou told me.”

  “Who’s Marilou?”

  “Your competition,” she answered, smirking. “The lady who manages the Cozy Inn.”

  “Competition,” he sneered. “Would Marilou have driven George to St. Ignace?”

  “No. Because she knew that was the wrong direction.”

  He waved his hand dismissively at her. “So where did the tour go?”

  “Harris. She said it’s the next casino west of here, about an hour-and-a-half drive.”

  Mark sighed. “I don’t know if I can do another three hours today.”

  “Why don’t I just take him tomorrow? It’s on my way.”

  “You’d do that?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Mark smiled. “That would be great. Can I repay you with dinner?”

  She didn’t answer. She held out her slender hand and bent her legs. “Help me up?”

  Mark extended an arm and pulled her toward him. Her hand was warm, smooth. She was light.

  “Thank you.” Brushing off the back of her dress, she asked, “What time is it?”

  Mark looked at his watch. “Almost four thirty. A little early for dinner, I guess.”

  “Actually I need to stop by the dealership. Do you mind if we go there now? I got a call that the windshield was on its way, but I’m a little more skeptical of things now.”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “So Bear Foot figured out the electrical problem . . .”

  “Yeah, took him like ten minutes. He’s versatile. He can ward off evil spirits and fix electrical problems.”

  “Yeah, quite the handyman. So the Hintons charged their car and left?” Mark asked.

  Emily nodded. “I want to say hi to George. I’ll let him know we’re going out.”

  “See if he wants us to bring him something back.”

  When they got into the car, Mark snapped his fingers at Emily. “I forgot to tell you!” He recounted meeting Doris at the casino, mistaking her for George’s wife, and finding out she had qui
t the show.

  “Quit? Why?”

  “She’s tired of the bickering.”

  “But that’s what makes it fun to listen to.”

  “That’s exactly what I told her!”

  “You did? You actually told her that?”

  “Well—yeah, I guess I did. But that’s when you called. When I went back to find her, she was gone.”

  “Maybe she felt insulted.”

  Mark shrugged. “I sure hope not.”

  At the dealership, Barbara led Emily and Mark into the shop and showed them the windshield on the floor. She confirmed that an installer would work on it first thing in the morning.

  “I guess this means it’s your last day in Manistique,” Mark said.

  Emily, with her arms folded and lips pressed together, nodded, though not convincingly, as if doubts about that lingered.

  “Didn’t you say Marilou was your cousin?” Emily asked Barbara as the three of them walked back to the lobby.

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I met her today.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “No, she dropped off a wallet for a guest.”

  “Oh yes, she told me about that. The man who got left behind, right?”

  “Yes,” Emily answered.

  “You’re staying at that bed and breakfast I told you about?” Barbara asked.

  Emily pointed at Mark. “His.”

  Barbara turned to Mark, eyeing him suspiciously. He smiled, gestured without words, then answered, “Well, um, not mine, my aunt’s.”

  “Where’s your aunt?”

  Mark stumbled, then got out, “She’s not around right now. I’m just filling in.” He clasped his clammy hands together and said to Emily, “We should get going to dinner now.”

  “Where are you two going?” Barbara jumped in.

  Mark had gotten used to the easy probing that went on in this small town. “Diner 37.”

  “Oooh, lucky you,” she said, patting Emily on the back. “They have great pies.”

  Emily smiled.

  Mark had driven by Diner 37 on his way to and from Indian Lake, so he knew exactly where it was. He’d started getting familiar with the town, knowing where things were and how streets met up. That encounter with Barbara was too close, and an idea nudged at Mark: tell Emily the truth about Vivian.

  “You’re quiet.”

  Mark smirked. “No—well, yes. I’m just thinking . . ."

  “About what?”

  “George,” he said.

  “You’re worried about him?”

  “I think it might be worse than we think.”

  They pulled into the parking lot of Diner 37.

  “Why? What did he do?” she asked.

  “Just something he said.” Mark turned off the car. He faced her. “He apologized to his wife.”

  “So?”

  “He said, ‘Sorry, Trudy,’ out loud in the car and then claimed she could hear him.”

  “Maybe he was pulling your leg.”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  As they walked from the parking lot into Diner 37, Bear Foot’s warning rang in Mark’s head: Don’t have the fish at Diner 37. Warning aside, a couple of people other than Bear Foot had praised Diner 37’s pie as the best in the whole UP, maybe all of Michigan. He wouldn’t warn Emily about the fish unless she decided on it, and even then, at least the food poisoning came with visions—well, visions of dead people.

  The decor inside was nicer than that of a typical diner, and once they got their menus, Mark saw the brief history of the restaurant written on the back. He read it as Emily paged through the offerings. “Diner 37 was originally a bakery, but interestingly, it doesn’t say what the thirty-seven means.”

  “Strange.”

  The waitress arrived, slightly out of breath, drawing her long hair into a ponytail. “Hello, how are you today?” Her hair was dark with streaks of white. Her face wasn’t smooth, but her lips had natural color. She was maybe in her late forties.

  “Doing great,” Mark said. “We were wondering what the thirty-seven stands for?”

  She shook her head. “No one really knows. I’ve heard it’s because the bakery opened in 1937, but I’ve also heard someone bought it from the original owner for thirty-seven hundred dollars. Other people think it’s because there was once that number of different pie recipes.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of pies,” Mark said.

  “We don’t have quite that many now, but we do have a good selection to choose from.”

  “I’ve heard the pies here are good,” he said.

  “All this pie talk. Pie sounds good for dinner,” Emily said.

  The waitress smiled, “Sure, dear. You could use a little pie.”

  Mark glanced at Emily. “You serious?”

  “Yeah, why not? I’m not really craving food.”

  “All right. Let’s just have pie then,” Mark said.

  “No, no, you eat something. I can wait.”

  “Nah, I’m with you. Pie sounds great. I’ll run an extra mile tomorrow. Let’s get a few different ones. What pies do you have?”

  The waitress left Mark and Emily to peruse the menu of pies. After arguing and negotiating—Emily wanting to try the more unusual versions (apple-cheddar), and Mark steering her back—they finally chose four: apple crumb, pumpkin spice, peach, and pecan. When the waitress came, they asked about wild thimbleberry pie. “It’s a berry that’s native up here, kind of like a raspberry, but better.”

  “Add that one too,” Mark exclaimed. “Why not?”

  “Sure. Any pies warmed up?”

  Emily and Mark both made sour faces and pronounced their hatred of hot pie, as if it violated some law of nature. After the waitress left with their order, they debated whether they could actually eat five slices of pie, working themselves up to the challenge.

  Mark fidgeted with his knife and fork. He smiled at Emily. Somehow she had grown on him. He liked her, but there was a barrier, a reluctance on his part for anything more. Maybe it was her age. Maybe it was a reluctance to find out that there was actually nothing there between them. He did wonder if she had any interest in him.

  “Maybe she’s dead,” Emily said.

  Mark’s head snapped to her. “Huh?”

  “George’s wife. That’s why he said she can hear him. She’s dead.”

  “What?”

  She gave an annoyed laugh. “Why are you looking at me like that? I’m kidding, of course.”

  “No—”

  “Why can you joke about people dying and I can’t?”

  “When did I ever joke about people dying?”

  “Yesterday when you made a joke about a room opening up.”

  “Oh yeah,” he chuckled before leaning in. “But what if she really is dead?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Think about it. That would explain a lot.”

  “You mean he came to the house after arguing with no one,” she said in a skeptical voice.

  “It’s better than believing his wife abandoned him in a strange town.”

  “I suppose.”

  “How about this? His wife is dead but he has a lady friend, and he got into an argument with her.”

  Emily shrugged. “Maybe. So how do we find out? We can’t just ask him.”

  “Why not?” he said sarcastically. “‘Hey, George, are you demented? Is your wife actually dead?’”

  She shook her head. “You’re awful.”

  The waitress brought out Emily’s milk and Mark’s coffee. “Pie’s coming right up,” she said.

  Mark took a sip of his coffee. “You seemed upset or, I don’t know, skeptical at the dealership.”

  She sighed. “Barbara showed us a windshield, but how am I supposed to know if it’s the right one until they put it on?”

  “I thought maybe you were upset because you have no more excuses to stick around here.”

  Emily snorted a little. “The truth is, you’re
going to miss me when I’m gone.”

  Mark smiled. “I’m sure.”

  She turned her head away and gazed into the restaurant. “To tell you the truth, in some ways this has been a good break. Getting away, you know?”

  “From medical school?”

  Emily nodded indecisively. “Yeah, that, and . . ." But she said no more.

  “Being a doctor is tough. I remember several doctors coming around to see my mom.”

  “Your mom?—Right, you said she was a psychiatrist.”

  He nodded. “They’d come to the house and see her. Off the books, so to speak.”

  “Off the books?”

  “Yeah, they didn’t want anyone to know. I’d occasionally overhear some of the conversations. Accidentally, of course.”

  “Of course. What did you not hear?”

  He made a wry grin. “Mostly it was more like they just wanted someone to confess to.”

  “Confess what?”

  “You know, the usual stuff. Admitting a medical error that was covered up. Or having affairs, multiple affairs. Even doctors who hated their practice but felt trapped. They’d want to quit but they couldn’t, either because of their loans or because they felt unprepared for any other career.”

  Emily’s face had blanched and her eyes intensified “Really?”

  “You think every doctor has it all together like you do?”

  “No—I mean, I get it. Doctors don’t like to admit mistakes."

  As if to prove some insider status, that he was a knower of secrets of the medical profession, he pressed on, even though he could see that she was slightly disturbed. “Some even talked about suicidal feelings. And, as my mom would always say: There’s no such thing as attempted suicide when it comes to doctors.”

  “What do you mean by that? Oh, you mean doctors don’t get it wrong.”

  Mark nodded. “And it’s totally underreported.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well unless it’s egregious, like someone shooting himself in the head, it’s covered up by other doctors.”

  “I’ve never heard that.”