North of Boston (16 page)

The next link goes to a tabloid newspaper. Headline: “Fairy Tale Over for Billionaire and Princess Bride.” Turns out Jaeger's wife was diagnosed with schizophrenia after she set fire to their house, and went off to a life of close supervision in a mental hospital.

The rest looks like boring business stuff. I put my phone away. Mrs. Smith has made her way to the left side of the Gauguin by now. She is staring at it with rapt attention and finally breaks away to rejoin me on the bench.

“I hope Dustin didn't play golf with Jaeger,” I say.

“Really? Why?”

“He cheats. Mrs. Smith, think. What else can you tell me about him?”

She frowns. “Let me see. Uh, no . . . I'm sorry. If I remember anything more, I'll let you know.”

“I need to find out where the
Sea Wolf
's been going. There's got to be a way.”

“Well, you obviously can't ask Dustin or Lou or any of the crew members. The only other way would be to get ahold of the ship's logs.”

“Where would I find them?” But my heart's sinking even as I ask the question. If reports do exist for the
Sea Wolf
's voyages, it's not likely they'd be accurate.

“In Fred Jacobsen's office. He's the director of operations. Third floor, next to Dustin. There's a file cabinet in the corner. I used to file the logs in there according to vessel.”

“Aren't there electronic versions?”

“Oh, no. The logs are always written by hand on board ship. I know it sounds old-fashioned, but fishing is a very traditional business. The only changes fishermen like are ones that have to do with safety or productivity.”

“What does Fred Jacobsen use them for?”

“If he ever consults them at all, I'd be surprised. The logs are just archival information. Even so, they seem to be the heart and soul of the company. The story of every voyage, kept for posterity.”

Mrs. Smith and I leave European Art and pass through the rotunda. I'm wearing a black cowl-neck sweater dress with a green suede belt and a houndstooth newsboy cap. My hair is gathered in a clasp at my left shoulder and falls loosely to my waist. A lot of people look at me, especially men. No one looks at Mrs. Smith. They look past her, through her, around her, to get to me. She doesn't notice, of course. The curve in her back is not too pronounced, but it keeps her head angled down a bit, failing eyes on the humble floor.

It occurs to me that I haven't asked why she's seen fit to offer me so much possibly incriminating information about a company she still seems loyal to—that, in a way, I haven't noticed her either. As we step into the crisp late-September afternoon, our light coats draped over our arms, I ask.

She looks up and smiles when she hears my question. “One doesn't ever really know, does one? Why we do things? But I can say that, with this business, there are things . . . , I mean,
ways
 . . . No, there are
things . . .
” A sigh. “Oh, blast it. The truth is, one holds on to what one can. One learns to cherish what's left. Of ourselves, I mean, when the rest is stripped away.”

She looks at me for confirmation, and I try for a neutral expression, though what I'm feeling is a vague alarm at her confused and confusing answer.

My expression doesn't fool her. “I'm sorry, dear. I'm not all here anymore.”

I nod, and she pats my arm reassuringly, as if I'm the unfortunate one.

“But don't worry,” she continues briskly. “I don't leave pots on the stove or go walking through the streets in my pajamas. I just . . . well, sometimes I'm not sure exactly where I am. Or why. The doctors don't tell you how much you've lost. They just keep an eye on you. I try to exercise my memory to keep up what I've got left. But it doesn't seem to go very far. All the people I used to know—I'm not sure of their names anymore. Men I loved—and let me tell you, I had my loves. . . .” She drifts off. As her mind wanders even further afield, she smiles ruefully to herself and whispers, “Those were memories I would like to have kept.”

I wonder now if anything she told me about Ocean Catch is true. And as far as memories of men go, I wonder if she'd like to take mine.

“But what I meant to say is that, now that everything is going from me, I have learned to treasure what I think I know.”

I wait a beat. Two beats. “Which is . . . ?”

“Which is what you'll find out. If it's there to be found. If I'm not an old fool, and still count for something. Wait. I'll give you something that will help.” She rummages in her canvas tote, pulls out a pencil, and tears a strip of paper from an address book. She holds the pencil over the paper for six, eight, ten seconds—frowning deeper all the time. Finally her eyes pop open—the tight, dry eyes of terror. “You see? I've forgotten it, the password to the alarm system. It's gone.”

“I'm sure there's some way—”

“No, there's no other,” she insists. “They'll never give up the logs if you ask. You have to go at night when no one's there, and simply take them. If I had that password . . .”

As we walk down the museum steps, I take her hand and realize she's trembling.

“Eventually everything will go this way, won't it? I mean, my mind,” she says.

“Please, Mrs. Smith. I'm sure . . .” But I stop, tongue-tied.

“God bless you for doing what I can't,” she whispers.

Mrs. Smith lets me drive her home to Jamaica Plain. She lives on the first floor of a three-decker with concrete steps and an old glass-paned door in which a sweet lace curtain hangs. I hear Jasper greeting her with happy barks as she steps inside.

—

Twenty minutes later, I'm listening to her voice on my message machine. “Twice a month the Bay State Cleaning Company cleans the processing area and the offices at Ocean Catch. They've got a team of five or six, I think, who work most of the night. They have their own set of keys to a basement door on the side of the building and to all the offices. They come the first and third Wednesdays of every month. So the next time they'll be there is this coming Wednesday, October 2. Ha! I remembered that!” I can almost hear her smiling. “Good luck, Pirio.”

T
he morning after my sudden departure from Panama City, Eileen had called in a dither about the aborted experiment that was supposed to have taken place that Monday. I had apologized, citing a family emergency. She asked when I was going to return to complete the most important part of the test. I said I would when my family matter was resolved. She called my office on Wednesday right before the sniff party. I said things were still up in the air. When she called again the following morning, I had the office assistant tell her I was in a meeting. I didn't get around to returning her call, having more pressing matters on my mind. The truth is, I'd blocked out the whole Navy thing at that point. (Excuses: worrying about Noah, getting Thomasina out of jail, finding mysterious boat, uncovering false identity of so-called insurance investigator. Oh, and this one: not crazy about freezing to near death.)

But Commander Audrey Stockwell is not one to let a test subject get away, especially one that's already taken up a fair amount of the Navy's time and money. So Friday morning she herself called my home, office, and cell to invite me back to her emerald-oceaned city. Seeing caller ID on my cell, I didn't pick up, so she left a voice mail. Her manner was friendly, but her voice was a tart three-to-one blend of vinegar and sugar, and I got the feeling that if I didn't agree to show up at NEDU soon, armed enlisted men would appear at my door in the middle of the night, a black car idling in the street below. So I took a deep breath, dialed her direct number, got bumped to Eileen, muttered something not-untrue about having to attend a sudden funeral (for a hamster), and we got through the awkwardness. A half hour later Eileen e-mailed travel arrangements.

I'm leaving for Panama City today at noon, coming back tomorrow night. Two more days off work. Maureen's been handling my sick days and half days without complaint. She asks me endlessly how I'm feeling, whether I'm up to this or that perfectly ordinary task. I get the impression she'd be in favor of my taking a long PTSD sabbatical.

My flight's not for several hours, so I have some time to catch up with myself. Laundry, cleaning—that sort of thing. I don't dislike it, actually. The results are so lovely. Fresh smells, folded clothes, clean sheets. The toothpaste tube squeezed from the bottom, its top on, lying peacefully next to the toothbrush. Order and comfort have always been closely linked in my mind. What catastrophe can occur when there are fresh flowers on the table, beautifully arranged in a crystal vase?

I start in the living room—stack magazines, plump pillows, pull seat cushions off the couch. In the crease at the back where the pencils and crumbs hide, the edge of a metal object gleams. I pry it out a bit anxiously, because I knew as soon as I saw it that it wasn't mine. But it's nothing bad—just Noah's missing cell phone, which must have fallen out of his pocket when he came back here after Taffy's that day to play dominoes. I toss it on the coffee table, and make a mental note to call Thomasina to tell her I found it.

—

Tuesday, 7 a.m. A room in the Paradise Hotel. Not the one I was in before, but it might as well be. I put my toes on teal pile carpeting that feels like recycled plastic, shuffle to the bathroom, and observe my pale face under fluorescent lights that chronically pop and hum like mumbling schizophrenics abandoned in an insane asylum. Maybe I'm overreacting to the lights, I don't know. I'm terrified. The toothbrush shakes at the end of my hand, and my mouth feels dry as chalk, even when I'm brushing. I put on the Speedo Eileen gave me yesterday when she picked me up at the airport, then regular clothes over it, and tuck the green bathing cap into my purse. Still no flip-flops. It actually upsets me. It's easy to lose perspective when you've got a date with a tank of forty-degree water in an hour.

Eileen is waiting in the lobby to drive me to NEDU, but she is not nearly as friendly as she had been on my first visit. Her mouth is a stationary dash not more than an inch and a half wide. I am not the ideal test subject anymore, just the one she's stuck with.

Eight a.m. The gang's all present and accounted for at the Experimental Test Pool. There's a medical doctor, the sports scientist, a guy at the monitoring station, and a couple of people who are hanging around for undisclosed reasons. There's a Navy SEAL there, too. In a wet suit. I'm thinking he's my rescue squad. I'm 115 pounds, so one rescuer ought to be enough. He eyes me hungrily, not with sexual interest, more with ambition. Maybe he's eager to demonstrate his search-and-rescue capabilities to the top brass. I look around but don't see Commander Stockwell. I feel a bit hurt by that, as if it's my birthday party and the most popular girl in school decided not to come.

Eileen stands with me by the side of the pool. I've been fitted with a belt and harness that hold a round metal transmitter snugly against my chest. With a wan smile, I ask if I really have to don the bathing cap, and she looks at me as if I'm an idiot who should know better than that. So I put it on. I figure the cap will prevent my hair from clogging the filters as I lapse into shock or prolonged excruciating pain.

The water is darker than I remember it. No happy turquoise here. My toes curl over the concrete edge of the tank. Tender as pink flowers, homely and unwitting, they look like a line of plump toddlers who forgot their bathing suits. I suppose my toes are getting all my sympathy because I don't want to think about what's going to happen to the rest of me. I take Eileen's advice and do not dip any one of them in the water to test the temperature.

The sports scientist, a short brawny guy in a polo shirt, asks if I am ready.

I nod, inhale a shallow breath. I tell myself I'm back in Boston at the Y, that this is just a normal workout. I dive.

The water feels like a dozen jackhammers and a thousand pins. My brain contracts, as if running in terror from my skull. My fillings seem to expand in my mouth—bursting silver ice cubes along my aching jaw. The shock is exactly what I felt on September 7, except this time my head is filled with a different, more corrosive kind of fear. The kind that comes from knowing what I'm really doing to myself.

In seconds I'm disoriented. What world is this? I manage to get over to the float in the middle of the tank, grab hold of it, try to even my desperate gasps. It is hard to keep my right hand around the rope because my fingers are rapidly losing feeling. A long way away my bloodless feet dangle. My left hand slaps about ineffectively. Through the greenish water, my skin looks pickled and flayed.

When my breathing stabilizes, my fear abates a bit. I concentrate on drawing deep, even breaths, though my lungs feel as thin as tissue paper behind my ribs. My eyesight is curiously dim. The people on the edge of the pool seem to be miles away. They are facing me in a line, short and hunched, like penguins on an ice cap. Or seals, sea lions—I'm searching for the category of marine life they belong to. As if the fish in me is emerging and I only know how to recognize other aquatic creatures.

I don't know how long I hang on there until I experience a strange warming sensation. Like hot oil spilling from my core. I want to weep, I am so grateful. I am special! My body is fighting back! The grandiose impulse to swim comes over me. Letting go of the float, I roll onto my back, roll again like a revolving log, stroke down under the gentle waves I've made until I touch the bottom of the pool. Going up again, emerging into the air, my head butts forward, my shoulders and arms slope down.

The warming sensation was temporary. Violent shivering takes its place. I get myself back to the float somehow, barely keeping my flapping, chattering jaw above water. It feels as if my neck is trying to shake my head off. A strange compulsion to undress comes over me. I jerk off the bathing cap, and try to pull the strap of the Speedo off my shoulder, but I've got the harness and belt on and, in any case, my limbs are not coordinated enough to carry out this task. I do manage to wiggle one arm free, though. The people on the edge of the pool are gesturing and yelling to me, but I can't hear what they're saying.

My loosened hair floats around me like dark seaweed. This calms me for some reason, and I go a long way inside myself, to a restful place. My imagination begins throwing a lot of things my way. I am a worm in a wormhole pushing up through dirt, a leopard making crunching footfalls across a gleaming crust of snow. Then I'm a snake, armlessly contracting. There are other snakes around me, and they're all asking,
Where's the wind?
Strange, the lovely freedom that comes over me. To live instinctively like an animal, to be one among many, the burden of consciousness repealed.

Now the husky, unearthly barking of seals comes through my open bedroom window, and the thick, gauzy odor of drying stalks of Labrador tea wafts in from the kitchen. My bare feet pad across warm wood floors, turn a corner into a bright room. She looks up, smiles, pushes aside what she was doing. Folds me in her arms, sweeps me up to the sky, holds me close. I am special, loved.
Yes,
my heart replies.
It is so. Thank you for this life
.

Then it all goes black. No mother, no flowers, no barking seals. I'm all grown up, cold and alone, sick and weak. Around me shadows darken, lengthen, coalesce into jerking human shapes. Terrible people, cruel people. Encroaching from every angle. There, in the center. Someone I've met.
Mother? Isa? I'm frightened. He's here
.

I come to my senses on a bench by the side of the pool. The shivering is so violent that I'm afraid my ribs will crack. I lurch to a standing position and am pushed back, told to sit. A great deal of talk and commotion is happening around me. Things are being moved and pulled across my back. I am lifted, and my suit is pulled off; hot water bottles are shoved under each arm. A bathrobe is thrown around me, but it's not enough. I groan for more. A rational, well-regulated voice speaks to me in clear sentences: The test is over. I am not in danger. I have come through with flying colors. They will warm my body slowly so that the temperature of the blood in my extremities does not rise too quickly. In a little while I will be given heated water to drink. Then a shower. It has been decided that I don't need intravenous fluids.

Relief spreads through me. I want to hug everyone I see.

Eileen looks shaken. Maybe she's forgiven me. The terry-cloth robe feels luscious against my naked body, but my feet are still bare.

“Hey, am I ever going to get those flip-flops?” I say.

—

Several hours later, after a few more medical tests and a complimentary lunch consisting of a ham sandwich, cheesy corn puffs, Chips Ahoy!, and bottled iced tea, I'm ushered to a conference room on the second floor. Beyond the windows, sparkling sunlight pours onto a bright green lawn. Birds chirp, flowers bloom, palm fronds sway. It's hard to take war seriously in a geographic location such as this. But the Navy flag and the United States flag are standing together in a corner of the room like close fraternal twins, and three of the people at the table—Commander Stockwell, the medical doctor, and the sports scientist—are in uniform. There's a fourth person, too—a woman roughly my age in civilian clothes. She's introduced as Trudy Flanagan, a psychologist. There are folders at each place, donuts and coffee on a side table. I take the only empty seat.

The medical doctor begins. He is long and thin, as quaint as a Victorian lamppost with a big bulb of head on top. He goes over some of the things Stockwell already said. Reactions to cold vary widely among individuals, and all that. Some people's bodies start breaking down right away; others succumb to hypothermia at the normal rate; a select few are able to keep their core organs warm somehow. They're the ones who make it to the top of Mount Everest. My physiology, he informs me, is at the Mount Everest end of the spectrum.

He passes around a handout with the data. But before he goes over the results, he tells me sternly that I was not supposed to dive into the tank; I was supposed to enter the water carefully, so as not to dislodge the data-gathering equipment. As it turns out, the transmitter worked anyway, but that was luck.

Some people believe that postevent scoldings are their virtuous obligations. Those people are assholes who deserve cold, stony looks.

The data: After 20 minutes my temperature had slipped to 94°F—mild hypothermia. At 60 minutes I was at 90°F, shivering violently, and my extremities were blue. At this point, while my body's cooling was taking longer than normal to occur, I was still reacting as expected. At 90 minutes and a temperature of 82°F, pulse and respiration rates slowed significantly. I had entered the danger zone. They were just about to haul me out when something strange occurred. My temperature began to rise. Slowly. They checked the instruments, waited, conferred, made a judgment call. They decided to keep me in. Fifteen minutes later I was back at 94°F, still cool, but showing no signs of stress. In fact, I was calling the Navy SEAL perched on the edge of the pool a sissy for needing a wet suit.