Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  “Who was that?” Emily asked after he put down the phone.

  Mark lifted the phone back to his ear. “And bring extra clothes because you’re likely to get stuck here.”

  Emily spewed soda all over the table, and on Mark.

  He smiled and grabbed a napkin to wipe his face.

  “I’m so sorry! I haven’t done that in a very long time. I’m so sorry.”

  “You used to do this regularly?”

  “Ha! No, but—” She stopped and shook her head. “So who was that on the phone? Who’s coming?”

  “It was George’s niece. She’ll be here tomorrow.”

  She shook her head at him. “You’re too funny.”

  He smirked. “Seriously though, name one person who’s left this town?”

  “Yvonne.”

  “True.” He thought about Bear Foot driving her to Green Bay and wondered how that was going. “Maybe you need a local to escort you out.”

  She shook her head. “Let’s hope not, because that means we’re both stuck here.”

  They finished their pizzas, and after debating for a minute whether they wanted to stand in line at Nifty Treats for ice cream, they headed back to the house. It was a quarter to six when they arrived.

  “Lighthouse Lady should be here any minute,” Mark said.

  “Maybe she let herself in.”

  “That does seem to happen a lot at the Manistique Victorian.”

  “Will George’s niece be staying here too?” she asked as they entered the kitchen through the back door.

  “Only if she’s a one-eyed doctor,” he quipped.

  She shook her head. “You’re not funny.”

  “Hopefully the Cozy Inn has some rooms available tomorrow.”

  Mark halted as he stepped into the dining room, déjà vu reverberating, until Emily bumped into him.

  She exclaimed something, but none of it registered. “Wha—?” was all he could manage to get out. Yvonne was sitting on the couch, just like she had been the day before, when he’d first met her and Peter, except now Bear Foot was in Peter’s place.

  “Hello,” Yvonne said.

  Emily sidestepped around Mark. “What are you doing back here?” she asked.

  “We came back,” Yvonne replied simply.

  “Obviously,” Mark said.

  “We got to Menominee, and we turned around,” Bear Foot explained in a tired voice.

  “Yes, but why?” Mark asked.

  Yvonne’s big eyes, glistening, stared at him. “I felt bad about abandoning Peter here.”

  Mark scratched the back of his head. He wanted to ask, Why are you sitting here? but instead asked, “What’s your plan now?”

  “Wait for Peter to leave.”

  “Wait?” Mark turned to Emily as Yvonne nodded. “But that could be a few days, right?”

  “It could be. Could be tomorrow, though not likely. Really depends when he’s back on a normal cycle—and obviously, no episodes.”

  He turned back to Yvonne, who looked at him with those manipulative eyes. And though he knew she was playing him, he felt bad anyway. She had come back for Peter. Finally he relented. “Do you want to stay here tonight?”

  “Only if that’s okay,” she said.

  “Tonight, yes, and tomorrow night, but I’m leaving Monday morning, so you’ll have to figure out something else.”

  She nodded agreeably. “Thank you so much.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I thought you were leaving tomorrow,” Emily said.

  “I changed it to Monday.”

  “You did?”

  He nodded, then pointed to the door. “You said I’m supposed to answer the door when it rings.”

  She smiled, shaking her head gently.

  “Must be the Lighthouse Lady,” he said evenly. He turned to Bear Foot. “Is it true that the lighthouse is privately owned?”

  “Yes. Sold last year for fourteen thousand dollars.”

  Mark reached for the door and opened it.

  “Hello, I’m Ellen,” the woman said. She carried a box in her hands.

  “Hi, Ellen. I’m Mark. Please come on in.”

  The woman, who was perhaps sixty years old, stayed put. With her steel-gray hair and her rimless glasses, she came across as no-nonsense. “No, I don’t need a room after all. I just came by to thank you.” She handed over the box. “A pie. I hope you like apple.”

  “Wow, yes, I love it. That’s so nice of you. This was definitely not necessary, but thank you.” He took the box. “Diner 37?”

  “Yes. Someone told me they had the best pies.”

  “It’s true. Please, come inside.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Just for a moment.”

  “So where did you find a room?” Mark asked, closing the door.

  “Actually, a room opened up at the Cozy Inn. Apparently one of the guests left abruptly. They’re cleaning the room now.”

  “What?” Yvonne jumped off the sofa, a concerned expression on her face. “Sorry, did you say that a room opened up at the Cozy Inn?”

  Ellen looked over at Yvonne quizzically before replying, “Yes. That’s what I was told.”

  Yvonne turned to Bear Foot. “I wonder if it was Peter.”

  Bear Foot’s shoulders briefly inched upwards.

  “I’ll call the hotel and find out,” Yvonne said, desperation in her voice. She darted for the door, muttering an apology as she whisked by.

  Bear Foot had gotten up, his eyes chasing Yvonne as if deciding what to do. He appeared lost.

  “I won’t keep you,” Ellen said. “Looks like you have guests.”

  “Yes—well, no, it’s just . . ." The notion of explaining his “guests” in a simple manner left him tongue-tied. “No reason you have to leave,” he bumbled out.

  Emily approached and Mark introduced her to Ellen.

  “Look,” he said to Emily. “Ellen brought us pie from Diner 37.”

  “That’s awfully kind of you.”

  “Have a seat, please,” he said, extending an open hand toward the couch.

  While Ellen made her way to the living room, Mark headed to the dining room. “Oh, and that’s Bear Foot.” He set the pie on the table. “Ellen here is the one who owns the lighthouse.”

  Bear Foot bowed slightly as he shook her hand. He sat down.

  “Technically, yes, I own the lighthouse.”

  Yvonne burst back into the house. “No one’s answering,” she said to Bear Foot. “Take me to the Cozy Inn. Please.”

  Bear Foot hopped up and then sidled past Mark.

  Emily said to Yvonne, “Can you please call me if Peter really did leave?”

  Yvonne nodded. “What’s your number?”

  “It’s—”

  “Wait, do you have a pen? My phone just died.”

  Mark stood up to find a pen, but Ellen said, “I have one,” and quickly produced one out of her purse.

  “Do you need a piece of paper?” Mark asked.

  Yvonne shook her head, then proceeded to write Emily’s number on the palm of her hand. “Thank you,” she said, returning the pen. She waved and left with Bear Foot.

  “Do you think he took off?” Mark asked Emily.

  “I don’t know. He definitely had a cavalier attitude about his condition.”

  Mark turned to Ellen. “Sorry. Long story. Pie?”

  The three sat in the living room enjoying apple pie. They talked about the lighthouse. Ellen hadn’t known anything about it until after her whimsical husband had died. No, she really couldn’t paint it hot pink with purple stripes or do anything else except maintain it in its current state. And she wasn’t sure what she was going to do with it—half of her wanted to rid herself of the responsibility, but the other half felt guilty about it because of her husband. She had a few days to figure it out.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Emily woke early feeling an aura of vague anxiety. It took her a moment to remember whether it was justified or merely the remain
s of a bad dream. Had Peter Hinton left the Cozy Inn after all? She didn’t know because Yvonne had never returned to the house. Nor had she called. There was nothing to do about it, so she tried letting it go. She turned and lay on her left side, then a minute later on her right, but it was no use. She had exerted her mind too much and couldn’t ease herself back to sleep. She stepped gently downstairs, and reclining on the sofa under a low light from a side table lamp, she flipped the pages of Doctors on the Borderline to find where she had left off.

  She hadn’t read any more the night before. Ellen didn’t leave until after nine o’clock. Then she and Mark had stayed up talking for another hour before they went to their separate floors for the night. The more time she spent with Mark, the less capable she was of separating him from her brother, Kyle. This bothered her, not because she resisted seeing Mark that way, but because her brother was not as acutely defined to her anymore. His image was increasingly blurring around the edge. And then an unsettling fear came over her—that Kyle might disappear behind Mark.

  As she searched for her place in the book, she felt a little chill and shivered. The living room window had remained open all night. Instead of getting up and closing it, she leaned over and pulled down the crocheted throw blanket draped over the top of the sofa. The blanket fell softly onto her legs and then she unfolded it and pulled it up around her shoulders. A cozy morning snuggle. She blinked heavily. She would not stay awake for long, not without coffee and maybe a shower. As she raised the book from under the blanket, she heard a noise in the house. She waited, holding her breath, listening. A scuffling sound from the basement. Mark was awake. Her ecstatic morning moment was lost when she heard his steps. She straightened a bit, checked her pajama blouse, and smoothed her hair with her hand.

  “What are you doing up?” he asked, his tone much too lively for her pre-coffee condition.

  “Couldn’t sleep. You?”

  “I slept fine. Going for a run. Do you want to join?”

  “I don’t run,” she answered flatly.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m just going to sit here and read.”

  “Sure. Did Yvonne ever call or text?”

  She shook her head. “No, she forgot.”

  “Maybe she’ll remember when she goes to wash her hands.”

  It was way too early to exert a laugh, though she did manage to muster a smile.

  “All right, see you in a bit.” He waved and left.

  After a little while, once he had stopped stretching on the porch and when the sound of his footfalls had dissipated, the morning bliss returned to her. Her eyelids fell again, and before she could find her place in the book, she let it plummet onto her lap. Tilting her head against the soft cushions, she shut her eyes.

  Slam!

  Emily shot up dizzily. “Huh? What?”

  “Oh sorry,” Mark said softly. “I thought you were reading.” He began tiptoeing past her, but it was far too late.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Guess who I ran into at the lighthouse?”

  “At the lighthouse?” She didn’t care. She wanted to go back to sleep. “Who?”

  “Bear Foot.”

  “What did he say happened yesterday?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. So Peter was still at the Cozy Inn.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “But then he and Yvonne reconciled, and they left last night.”

  “Really? Yvonne drove, right?”

  “I’m assuming.”

  “I sure hope so. How about Bear Foot? How’s he doing?”

  Mark shook his head. “I don’t think he was so into Yvonne after their long car ride yesterday.” He chuckled to himself. “Maybe that should be a thing. Before you decide to get serious with someone, you have to do a two-hundred-mile road trip together.”

  “So what was Bear Foot doing at the lighthouse so early?”

  “He was trying to figure out why Vivian told him to go there.”

  “When did she tell him to do that?”

  “She didn’t. It was that vision he had, remember?”

  “Oh, right. So he’s not sad about Yvonne?”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, she’s Peter’s problem again.”

  “She wasn’t that bad.”

  He puffed out a derisive laugh. “I’m going to take a shower. Sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep. I promise to be quiet.”

  Too awake now, Emily found her place in the book. Dr. Kevin Sykes, unable to shake his guilt, continued to numb himself with drugs, especially after he heard about the husband. The husband believed his wife had died because she had been unfaithful. Suddenly he eyed his other children with suspicion. Sykes eventually looked for the man to tell him the truth, but he and his children had gone to another refugee camp.

  Emily pushed herself to read on, to learn how Dr. Sykes came to terms with his actions. Guilt-ridden, he returned to his job at a Cedar Rapids hospital. But he couldn’t shake the drug habit, and he feared committing malpractice once again, so he contemplated quitting medicine. But he didn’t know what else he could do. All he knew was being a doctor. He wrote a long letter to his family, hoping they would understand. Then he took a few pills and went to sleep.

  She turned the page expecting to finally read about Dr. Sykes’s road to treatment and redemption. Instead she found this:

  This story wasn’t written by Kevin Sykes. it was written by me, Cynthia, his sister. When I heard Kevin had died from an overdose, I couldn’t believe it. The thought of an overdose was absurd. Three days later a letter from Kevin arrived, and it was clear that he had killed himself. After a month of crying every day, I decided to trace his footsteps in Uganda and talk to the people he had told me about in his emails. Based on my interviews with locals, the emails he had sent, and his final letter, I wrote this story. I’m sorry if you feel betrayed, but everything in here is true as far as I know. —Cynthia.

  “No!” Emily cried out, tossing the book away. She flung the heavy blanket off her and sat up, nauseated.

  “Em? You okay?” She hadn’t heard Mark enter the room. “You look pale.”

  “Yes, fine.” She up from the sofa, barely holding herself together. ”I need air.”

  She stumbled to the front door.

  “What is it?” Mark asked in pursuit. “What happened?”

  She waved him off. “I need a few.”

  “Okay, sure.”

  Outside, Emily landed on the porch steps and bent down, her face to her knees. It was several minutes later before she stood up, all at once concerned with decency; she was outside in her pajamas in front of the Manistique Victorian for the whole world to see. No one was outside, but she hurried back in anyway. Mark wasn’t in sight—she’d half expected him to be waiting at the door. She’d gotten as far as the base of the stairs when he popped up out of the library.

  She sighed, then grimaced.

  He gave a wry smile of understanding and turned back around.

  Feeling momentary relief, she rushed up to her room, went to the bathroom and started a shower, leaving the knob to the far right. Without taking off her pajamas, she got in. The chill reached her bones and numbed her skin, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, she plunged her head under the stream. That always worked. A million needles stabbed her scalp at once. Anesthetizing pain.

  Mark couldn’t figure out what had disturbed Emily. A phone call from Butcher? Maybe. But she had looked suddenly ill. Pregnant? He hoped not. No. Regardless, he made sure to leave her alone.

  He spent the rest of the morning going through more of Vivian’s papers. Emily stayed upstairs. Something inside kept nagging him to go up and console her, be with her, whatever her problem. But that wasn’t where they were, so he stayed put.

  Past midday, Mark’s concern grew. Not a sound from upstairs, not a single creak from the floorboards in two hours. He stood at the first step, worried about Emily, yet bated by fear of meddling. He went to the living r
oom and was clumsily folding the blanket when he spotted Doctors on the Borderline, splayed on the floor. He threw the rumpled blanket on the back of the sofa and picked up the book. He flipped to Vivian’s story, skimming through the part about Emily—Emela—when she was taken to her new family.

  We were meeting Emela’s new family at the baggage claim at O’Hare. She was mesmerized by the dazzling colored lights and the moving walkway in the tunnel that went under the airport. I couldn’t help but think about the tunnel dug by hand that went under the Sarajevo airport where food and guns were passed through.

  Emela’s new family was a lovely couple with a friendly-looking twelve-year-old son. She took her new brother’s hand without protest. All was well, and I felt a special peace.

  He experienced that connection to Emily again, that tight feeling in his chest. Then he searched for the story she had been talking about over pizza. Dr. Kevin something. He found it: Kevin Sykes, page 99. He sat down and read.

  Chapter Thirty

  Mark gently knocked on the door. After a short time without any response or any noise whatsoever, he rested his ear on the door and listened. He heard nothing. Deciding he was fine with waking Emily up if she was napping, he knocked harder. Still nothing. Thinking she might simply be in the bathroom, he tried the knob. Locked.

  Tamping down a growing panic, Mark went downstairs. The keys weren’t inside the console drawer in the parlor. Hastily he checked around the house and finally found them in the kitchen. Back in front of Emily’s room, he knocked once more, and called out her name. No response. His hand shook as he carefully inserted the key. He slowly opened the door.

  Emily lay on the bed, wearing a robe, sprawled sideways as if she had stumbled and landed randomly. “Emily?” Fearing the worst, he scrambled onto the bed and shook her. She jolted, flailing, then kicking. She screamed, “Get away from me!” She sat up, her eyes wild, her arms up defensively.

  Mark backed away as the heat of embarrassment poured over him. “Sorry, sorry, I-I-I thought . . ."