Grace picked up something about their granddaughter getting ready to leave for college. She imagined they were always present in the child’s life, serving as a second set of parents. Just as Mark made his way back to the table holding a plastic cup of cheap red wine and a colorful drink with an umbrella, his eyes settled on the couple as they were paused in conversation, smiling at him.
“Sorry, we were just talking about how you two remind us of ourselves so many years ago,” the woman said as Grace turned around to face them.
“Except a lot better-looking.” The guy let out a gentle laugh with a warm smile that landed right on Grace.
“Speak for yourself.” The woman let out a roaring laugh. She leaned forward, almost falling off the barstool and losing her glasses. “I’m Angie, nice to meet you.” She extended a hand while letting out the last few giggles and adjusting her black and pink leopard print glasses. “And this is Mike.”
“I’m Mark, and this is Grace, otherwise known as your younger selves.” Mark pulled Grace into a side hug. “So, you guys come here often? You don’t look like the average patron.” Grace was grateful for Mark’s forward approach; she didn’t have the talent to get down to business in these situations.
“Well, I guess you could say that.” Angie let out another giggle as she looked over at Mike, who joined in on the laughter like they were in on some sort of secret joke.
“See, the thing is we come here every Saturday night, ever since we met here…ohhhh… What are we up to now?”
“Don’t play dumb…forty years ago. It was forty years ago that he picked me up and told me he was going to marry me.” Angie raised her hands before her, palms facing outward. “I just wanted a one-night stand, and this guy…he got all serious on me.”
“Well, you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Touché.”
“So, you must’ve seen this place change quite a bit over the past forty years.” Mark tried to move the conversation forward.
“Oh, big time. When we first started dating, this was the ‘it place,’ I mean, people from Boston would trek across the bridge to come here. They used to serve food…known for the best lobster roll east of Boston. And then, well, like most places, it got run-down, brought in a bad crowd and soon the yuppies were finding other places to frequent. Now, it’s pretty much a watering hole, but I’m sure I didn’t need to tell you that.” Mike waved his hand toward the bar at a man with a long, gray beard and white eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead like an albino caterpillar. In slow motion, the man turned, waved back, and refocused his eyes on the shelf of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. Most of them appeared empty with caps missing from the tops, as if they were simply on display and not intended for consumption.
“Did you guys engrave your names on the wall, like all the others?” Grace pointed to the wall behind them filled with scratched-in names, hearts and years. Every now and then along the wall, there was a pop of color where someone had taken a permanent marker to it.
“Are you kidding? I think we must’ve marked up this wall multiple times.” Angie turned around to face the wall, searching for something recognizable amongst the many creases in the old, paneled wood. She guided her hand along the surface, looking intently. “Ha!” Here we are…this is the one from 2001. Aw, we were just youngsters then.”
“We were 50 then!” Mike interjected. “But I guess compared to now, yeah we were youngsters. “
“I can’t believe how many names there are.” Grace stepped forward, hoping to find some type of clue.
“Yep, lots of memories… Lots of drunken nights,” Angie laughed and took a sip of her red wine, leaving behind a little excess color on the glass from her red lipstick.
A surge of heat passed through Grace when her eyes landed on Stephen Cassidy’s name. The s’s looked like two number 5’s side by side, but the name was clear as day.
“This one is so deep; this guy must’ve been an expert at carving wood.”
Mike leaned in closer to see the name. “Stephen Cassidy…oh yeah, do you remember him, Ang? He was that surfer dude.” Mike mimicked a hang ten sign with his hand just as Angie’s voice rang out in recognition.
“Oh, I remember him! In fact, I had a big crush on him! I think all the girls in the bar did. He was always so calm and cool. Whatever happened to him?”
Grace tried to hide the excitement building up inside her. She could possibly solve this case tonight if these two kept talking.
“Gosh I don’t know… It’s like one day he just stopped coming here. Hasn’t been here for a couple of years, at least. What did happen to him?” Mike rubbed his chin.
“Beats me. He was always such a free spirit, flitting from one place to the next. He never really got close to anyone. Was always friendly though. Ohhh, and those eyes. They were this ocean green.”
“Enough!” Mike teased Angie. “I’m glad he’s not here anymore so you can’t ogle him.”
“Are there any other regulars you guys see in here a lot?” Grace tried to push the conversation forward, hoping they wouldn’t pick up on her natural tendency to talk like a cop.
“Yeah, tell us some other stories about crazy regulars,” Mark said. He knew when to step in and save Grace from her awkward conversation tone.
“Well, everyone is a regular here. There’s Clarence and Will Dubois over there, and then Jeff Whittaker, Ilene Heald, and….” Angie tried to list the row of patrons at the bar, the peaks and valleys of their heads, as some sat while others leaned heavily against the old slab of wood.
One woman stood out to Grace. She had salt and pepper hair pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. The woman wore a stained, white tank top that revealed a pair of elbows resting on the bar, one flabby arm holding a bottle of Bud Light with half the label peeled off. With her other hand, she picked at the remaining bits of sticky paper wrapped around the sweating bottle.
“What about her? She looks like a regular.” Grace gestured nonchalantly to where the woman sat.
“Oh, she’s a regular alright. That’s Judy McNeil,” Mike twisted in his seat, stretching out his back muscles. His facial features crumpled as he moved, as if he was in pain.
“What’s she all about?” Mark asked. “She looks sad.”
“None of us really know. She’s been coming here for thirty years, at least, and she sits in that same spot, drinking that same drink over and over. She doesn’t talk much.” Angie massaged Mike’s neck with one hand, and he released a sigh of relief.
“Interesting. Is she always by herself?”
“Always. I even tried to get her to come sit with me and some girls on a ladies’ night, but she just smiled and declined the offer. She was clearly missing out ‘cause when me and my girls get together, it’s nothing but fun.”
“Fun induced by wine, lots of it.” Mike said.
“Do you guys dare me to go talk to her?” Grace had a sudden burst of confidence and felt compelled to act on it before it went away.
“I dare you!” Mark was shocked by Grace’s sudden playfulness, and one side of his lips lifted into a crooked smile.
“Here goes nothing.” Grace walked toward where Judy was sitting, feeling three sets of eyes on her back. There was just enough room for her to slide in between Judy and the man propped up on the bar stool next to her.
“Hey, what brings you here this evening, detective?” Marty said before she could stop her.
“Oh, you know, just an off-duty date.”
“What can I get you?”
“Red wine and whatever these two are having.” The words came fast, but she had to find a way to engage.
“Well, that will be red wine and two Bud Lights.” Marty popped the bottle tops off and slid them across the bar, one to Judy’s hands and the other to the man sitting next to her. “They are on this lovely lady.”
“Thanks.” The man on the other side tipped his bottle toward Grace, and she turned toward Judy before the man could enga
ge her in conversation.
“Thank you.” Judy looked straight ahead and angled her elbows so they faced slightly away from Grace.
“How are you doing this evening?” Grace tried again.
“Good?” the woman turned toward her, her eyes darting around in confusion before settling onto Grace’s eyes, leaving behind a blast of images. The face of a girl with messy black hair, whom she could only assume was Annabelle. Dirt was smudged on her pale skin in dried-up patches, her lids peacefully closed, revealing long, dark lashes that delicately rested on the half-moons below her eyes. A dirt-covered pink turtleneck sweater with purple sleeves and ruffles along the shoulders flashed before Grace. Dirt was everywhere, caked into Annabelle’s hair and piled thick on her neck, where the sweater met her skin.
“That’s good. Do you come here a lot?” Grace forced herself to look away before the haunting visions could show in her facial expressions. Before she could get an answer, she lost all sense of normalcy and for the first time ever, she felt scared. Scared of this woman, scared of not knowing what she did to that poor, innocent, four-year-old girl. She took a sip of her wine and turned away from the bar, nearly bumping into a customer behind her. She navigated her way through the thick crowd and returned to where Mark was fully engaged in a conversation with Mike and Angie. “Let’s go, we have to go,” she demanded, tugging on Mark’s wrist and leading him through the crowd.
“Hey, leaving so soon!” She could hear Angie shouting in the background as Grace pushed through the thin metal door that led to the back alley. Her legs felt like they were giving out by the time she made it outside because she was so overwhelmed with emotion. She stumbled forward, grabbing onto a green dumpster for support.
“What is it, Grace? What did you see?” Mark rubbed her back as she attempted to take deep breaths and work through the horrors she’d witnessed. It was always hardest when it was a little kid. Rarely did Grace find herself on the receiving end of visions involving children, and when she did, they sucked the life out of her and left her breathless, like she was the victim for a brief time following the vision, complete with the loss of breath and lifeless limbs.
“Annabelle, it’s Annabelle,” Grace erupted in sobs, her emotions pouring out in tears.
Chapter Eleven
It took many promises to convince Ellen to visit Dr. Wexford, and Grace felt compelled to use the child safety locks on the car doors when she finally got Ellen in the car.
“I swear, if any of my yoga friends see me visiting a geriatric doctor here in town, my reputation will be toast.”
Grace unlocked the passenger side of her Jeep and guided Ellen out of the car and into the building that housed Dr. Wexford’s office, a holistic healing center, and a Weight Watchers.
“Mom, you sound like a teenager.”
“Well, I practically am one. I’m only 62 and you are accusing me of having Alzheimer’s.” Ellen adjusted her big, black sunglasses and the baseball cap she borrowed from Grace to use as a disguise on her trip to the doctor’s office. It was like the roles were reversed and Grace was the mom and source of embarrassment for her teenage daughter.
“Look at it this way, mom: if Dr. Wexford finds something wrong with you, then he will treat you and catch it early. There are so many things they can do with drugs today.” Grace stopped herself but it was too late. She knew exactly how Ellen felt about drugs; she despised them and thought they were a pharmaceutical company’s way of taking over the world, one prescription at a time.
Ellen slipped into a chair in the waiting room while Grace checked them in with the bubbly woman at the reception desk.
It was ten minutes before their scheduled appointment, but the twenty-something who introduced herself as Lucy told Grace that Dr. Wexford was ahead of schedule and would be out shortly.
“See, mom? He’s even on time and we will hopefully be out of here a few minutes early.”
Ellen still wasn’t convinced. She sat angled away from Grace with one leg crossed over the other as she flipped through an Oprah magazine, letting out sighs every few seconds.
“Ellen McKenna.” Grace recognized Dr. Wexford’s friendly voice from the phone call, but his friendly voice didn’t do him justice. When Grace looked up, she saw what she always pictured in her mind when she thought of a handsome doctor, and in that moment she knew Ellen’s coercion would be a lot easier, as Ellen was a sucker for a good-looking man. It took Ellen a moment to adjust to the change of scenery and mood, but she pulled herself off the chair and, with one fluid motion, pushed her hat off her head and slid her glasses up while she reached to shake the hand he offered. Dr. Wexford had a full head of dark hair with silver streaks peppered throughout. His face was as tan as if he’d just returned from a cruise or some other vacation filled with sun and relaxation. His eyes were the shape of two brown almonds and a deep shade of brown, but the longer Grace stared, the more tiny flecks of yellow appeared in them. It was obvious he kept in shape, and Mark’s personal training sessions were making him hold on to his looks in a way that always seemed to work for men but rarely for women.
“Well, as I’m sure you must imagine, Dr. Wexford, my daughter is being a bit dramatic about my recent memory loss.” Ellen walked alongside Dr. Wexford as he guided them to his office, Grace following behind like a sudden third wheel.
“Please, call me Peter.” Dr. Wexford held open the door and let Grace and a now-giddy Ellen walk into his office.
Dr. Wexford made comfortable conversation with them as he took Ellen’s blood pressure and read her vital signs. He brought up Mark’s talent for training and his dedication to keeping the community healthy.
“So, Mark is who I have to thank for this?” Ellen asked the question as she sat obediently for the doctor.
“Well, today we are just going to have a little chat about your recent happenings and maybe you can answer a few questions about your genetic history, and then we can move on to some problem solving and go from there.”
Dr. Wexford went to work asking Ellen about her health history and any genetic disorders that ran in her family. Grace always questioned her ancestor lines and, having never met her father, she never knew what diseases or health issues she could be susceptible to. Ellen lost both of her parents a long time ago and seldom shared the details of their deaths with Grace.
“Okay, Ellen, we are gonna have you do a little problem-solving test here, and then we will send you on your way. I’m going to give you three objects and I want you to repeat them back to me in the order I gave them to you. Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Ellen looked serious for the first time since Grace broached the subject about her memory loss, and her facial expression filled Grace with concern.
“Ball, pencil, marker.”
“Ball.” Ellen hesitated, her eyes searching the room as if she was looking for an answer. “Marker, pencil.”
“Okay, let’s try another.” He slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of Ellen. “I want you to draw a clock with all the numbers, and then when I tell you the time I’m thinking of, I want you to draw the hour hand and the minute hand on the clock. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Twelve-thirty.”
Ellen drew the hour hand on the twelve and hesitated for a few seconds before drawing the minute hand on the six to reflect the half-hour.
“Very good.” He got up and grabbed a clipboard, before he circled something and handed the paper first to Ellen, then stopped himself. “Should I give this to you? I would like to send you to Mass General for a brain scan. You can go through the front desk to schedule it.” More dialogue
“Will do.” Grace didn’t need to ask questions, and the defeat on Ellen’s face was evident. She had no choice but succumb to admitting to the memory loss she’d been having. “Mom, do you want to head to the front desk to make the appointment?” Grace looked at Dr. Wexford. “This lady has got one heck of a busy schedule, so it’s probably best if she makes the appointment. I’ll meet y
ou out there, mom.”
Ellen looked like a little girl who’d just had her favorite toy taken away as she turned on a foot and headed down the hallway to the waiting room.
“Dr. Wexford, while I’m here, can I ask you a couple questions about memory?”
“Well, we won’t know until we get the scan back…”
“This isn’t about my mother, I just have a few basic questions about memory in general.”
“Oh sure, shoot.”
“Well, can memories just sporadically come back, like when you see the person for the first time after they were a part of a certain memory from, say, a couple of years before?”
“Well, that depends. Sometimes people have flashbacks when they see a person or an object that was in their past. It also depends on the person’s age and the state they were in when creating the memory. Early childhood memories are different because the memory of a child under five is immature, and the emotions in the brain at this age are very different than, say, your average 50-year-old. But if that person is older than five, then yes, I believe seeing a person can drum up a memory or two.”
“What if that person was under the influence of alcohol?”
“Oh boy,” Dr. Wexford stood with one hand across his chest as the other rubbed the stubble on his chin. “That’s a whole other ballgame. If you’re referring to a blackout, you never really get the full memory back, but you will have bits and pieces of that memory. This is why a person who imbibes too much will typically rely on others to tell them what happened the night before. When you’re dealing with kids under, say, six or seven and drunks, memory gets pretty challenging.”
“But it is possible to have a memory triggered by the sight of a person?”
“Yes, I believe so. I believe everything is possible when it comes to the memory.” Dr. Wexford rested a hand on the back of Grace’s shoulder as they walked out. “It’s for that reason that I love my job and why I always eat my dinner cold at night.” He leaned down and whispered in Grace’s ear, “My wife’s not a big fan of my being at the office at all hours.”
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