The Missing Year (18 page)

Ross surveyed the makeup-covered dashboard as he relayed the story of his near-perfect thug impression to Camille who had made herself at home in the passenger’s seat of his rental.

“You did
what
?” She painted her cheeks pink, not yet recovered from her White Coat Syndrome shade of pale. Even with the freshly applied makeup, she looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

Ross typed Ruth Wheeler’s address, which Jeremy had been kind enough to give him, into the GPS and waited while it calculated the route.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Ross said.

“You pretended to hold a man at gunpoint.”

“I thought you’d be proud.”

“Proud? I’m a nervous wreck. Why aren’t we moving? Is he calling the police?”

Ross shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“The only thing I hate more than the doctor’s office is a police station.”

“I’m sure there’s a story there.”

“Not one I want to talk about.” Camille kept an eye over her shoulder, as though expecting them to both be arrested on the spot.

Ross pulled into traffic, studying the elusive pink line on the GPS that was directing him to one of three places. “Where does this thing have me going?” He entered the first of three roundabouts.

“There.” Camille pointed. “Then follow that blue car.”

The electronic voice said, “Recalculating”

“These things are impossible.”

“
You’re
impossible. I still can’t believe you. You had a problem with Adele Clements having an STD, but no issues turning Cletus into a mobster. Mind telling me where we’re going?”

“I have to fill up and talk to one other person before we leave town.”

“You’re not going to hold
them
at fake gunpoint are you?”

Ross shook his head. “That shouldn’t be necessary.”

According to the GPS, Ruth Wheeler’s home was less than a quarter-mile away. Ross pulled into the first gas station he saw and parked at the pump.

“You want anything?” Camille took her wallet out of her purse.

“No. I’m good.” Ross swiped his credit card, opened his gas cap, and stepped away when the phone rang. He didn’t necessarily believe using his cell phone at a gas pump could light him on fire, but he’d have hated to be wrong. The caller ID said “Mattie” and he became instantly excited.

“Camille, wait.” Ross held up his phone. “Can you help?”

Camille shook her head as she made her way back across the lot to take care of the refueling.

Ross moved out of earshot before answering.

“Mattie?”

“Ross, is that you?” A familiar man’s voice came on the line.

“Tim? What are you doing with Mattie’s phone?” Dr. Tim Manning, Carebridge’s Chief Medical Officer, had graduated from the University Of Illinois College Of Medicine two years ahead of Ross. They had come up together, and their paths intersected again when Ross admitted his mother to Carebridge. Tim had been her physician, as well as Mattie’s boss. In a sense, he and Ross were friends, though Ross used the term loosely. He had never confirmed his relationship with Mattie out of fear that she’d be fired for dating the per diem on-staff psychiatrist. The fact that Tim was calling said he didn’t have to.

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

“What’s wrong? Is Mattie okay?”

“There’s been an accident.”

“What kind of accident? Is Mattie all right?”

“She’s fine. She was rear-ended on South Chicago Avenue and is having some neck and back pain. She was admitted to Southeast Memorial for observation, but it looks like she might be here for a couple of days.

“A couple of days!”

“She asked me not to call, but you’re listed as her emergency contact. There’s some swelling—”

“Let me talk to her, Tim. Please?”

“She’s on pain medication, asleep. That’s how I got her phone. I know how hard you can be to get a hold of, but I figured you’d answer if you saw her  number.”

“Tim, I should’ve been up front with you about things.”

“It’s fine, Ross, and
Mattie
is fine.”

“I have a few loose ends to tie up, but I’m coming home. You don’t have to tell Mattie if you don’t want to, but know that I’m on my way.” Ross thought about Sarah’s birthday and the promise he’d made to Camille. “I’ll be there by the time she’s discharged.”

“That’s up to you. I just thought you should know what’s happened. Mattie’s on pain medication, but her hospitalization is more or less a precaution.”

More or less.

Ross didn’t like the phrasing.

“I’ll be there within forty-eight hours.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Ross thanked him and hung up the phone.

Camille leaned across the driver’s seat and waved the gas receipt out the partially open window.

Ross snatched it from her hand and tucked it into his pants pocket. “We’re going to have to hurry things up a bit.”

“Why? What happened? What’s the matter?”

“It’s Mattie. She’s been in a car accident. She’s in the hospital.”

“Is she going to be all right?”

“I think so, but I should’ve gone home, Camille.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this.”

“Can’t I? Everyone around me seems to get hurt. Are you sure you don’t want me to let you out at the curb?”

Camille reached across and hugged him. “I’m positive. Is there anything I can do?”

Ross started the car. “Not unless you want to book me a flight to Chicago.”

“Today?”

“Tomorrow night or first thing the next morning. I said I’d be with you for Sarah’s birthday and I meant it.”

“I don’t want you to stay here for that if—”

“Mattie’s on observation, but more than likely she’s fine. I’d go right now if I thought otherwise, but I have it on good authority that her being held is a precaution. I want to stay, Camille, at least until tomorrow night. It’s taken me too long to visit Sarah already.”

Pulling into the driveway of Ruth Wheeler’s split-level home, Ross questioned whether or not he was doing the right thing. Judging by the pulled drapes on every window, Ruth preferred to be left alone.

Camille changed the radio station and pushed back her seat. “This place doesn’t exactly look welcoming.”

“No. No, it doesn’t,” Ross said. “I’ll be out as soon as I can.” He headed up the flagstone walk and knocked softly on the front door. A small dog, Princess he guessed, barked and howled behind it. “Hello? Mrs. Wheeler.” He glanced over his shoulder at Camille, filing her nails in the passenger’s seat. “Mrs. Wheeler, please open up.” Ross cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the frosted glass, attempting to see inside. The furniture took on strange shapes, distorted by the swirling glass pattern. He couldn’t make out anything other than the kaleidoscope light of a stained glass Tiffany lamp on the narrow entranceway table. He rang the bell. “Mrs. Wheeler?”

Princess scratched at the inside of the door, trying to claw her way through from the other side.

Small dogs, in Ross’s experience, were the most vicious per pound.

He expected the same to be true about Ruth Wheeler, who had finally responded.

“I’m coming,” she said. “I’m coming.”

Ross braced for inevitable confrontation.

“Can I help you?” A five-foot tall woman aged beyond her years answered the door with an overweight pug mix tucked under her arm. Ross had estimated Ruth to be around sixty based on context—her son and husband’s ages—but the woman in front of him easily looked seventy-five. Makeup settled in deep wrinkles on her face. Her narrowed, slate-colored eyes pierced him with their glare.

Ross cleared his throat, sufficiently intimidated. “Mrs. Ruth Wheeler?”

“Who are you and what do you want?”

The dog growled.

“I’m sorry to show up unannounced, but I was in the area for an appointment with Dr. Davis.”

“Jeremy sent you?”

“Not exactly.” Ross wasn’t comfortable lying to a woman holding a dog with bared teeth. “May I come in?”

“I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of inviting strangers inside. Mind telling me your business?”

“I’m here on behalf of your daughter-in-law, Lila. I’m Dr. Ross Reeves from Lakeside. We spoke on the phone.”

“Is that so?” Ruth scowled. “I thought I’d been clear. I have nothing more to tell you, Dr. Reeves. Good day.” Ruth slammed the front door, the sound followed by the click of the deadbolt.

“Mrs. Wheeler, please open up. It’s important that we talk. I understand you’re upset, but there’s something I have to tell you. Please, open the door.” He knocked one last time. “I need to talk to you about Blake.”

Ruth opened the door, clutching a cordless phone for dear life. “What do you know about my son?”

“I don’t want to have this conversation on your doorstep.”

Ruth eyed him as if she found him threatening in his sweater, chinos, and windbreaker. She looked past him to Camille, who waved from the car. “Who is that?”

“A friend.” Ross summarized the otherwise complicated answer.

“You may come in, Dr. Reeves,
after
you show me identification. One wrong move, I call the police.” She wagged the phone at him, enforcing the threat.

Ross dug his wallet out of his back pocket and handed her his driver’s license. “Oh, and here.” He showed her a laminated miniature of his medical degree, which he carried as much for posterity than anything else.

Ruth handed him back his things and backed away from the door.

Princess wouldn’t stop growling.

“Princess, be a good girl.” Ruth gently nudged the dog’s butt with the toe of her slipper, sending the overweight ball of fury scampering across the room.

“Cute dog.”

“She was Blake’s.” Ruth showed Ross to an outdated sitting room with a wood burning fireplace that appeared more decorative than functional. Cobwebs covered a stack of birch logs sealed behind the pristine glass doors that showed no sign of anything having ever burned behind them.

Ross sat in a chair whose seat was covered in plastic. It was a trick his grandmother had used to keep the new furniture clean. Thirty years later, the chair was out-of-date as hell, but in museum-quality condition. He smiled at the thought. Ruth would have liked her.

“What’s funny?”

Ross wasn’t sure the story would be as charming in context.

“Nothing,” he said. “You have a lovely home.”

Ruth’s stoic expression said she couldn’t be won over with flattery.

Ross took in the room, garnering a brief history lesson on the family.

Photographs covered the length of the mantle, honoring years of one life well-lived, and two cut far too short. Several black and white pictures captured a young couple, Ruth and her husband, Ross supposed, though the rigid crone glaring at him barely resembled the vibrant beauty in the pictures. Blake, whom Ross recognized immediately, appeared in each of the color photos, from childhood to his graduation from medical school. Despite the feud between Lila and Ruth, Ruth hadn’t taken down Lila and Blake’s wedding picture.

“Did I miss a spot dusting?” Ruth said.

“I’m sorry?”

“You were staring at the mantle like I missed something.”

“I was looking at your pictures. You have a handsome family. You must be proud.”

“
Had
,” Ruth said matter-of-factly. She sat in a wide wing-back chair and patted the seat for Princess to join her.

Ruth was ice, but the way she remained closed up in her sad, dark house surrounded by pictures and an overzealous dog that seemed the center of her attention, said there was more to her than mourning.

Ross knew a thing or two about women’s need to pretend. He thought about his mother, and about Mattie, and how strong both of them could appear, even when they were breaking.

“I understand you lost your husband when Blake was a teenager,” Ross said. “My father died in a construction accident when I was young. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I for yours.” It was the first kind thing Ruth had said to him.

“There’s a unique relationship between a single mother and a son, isn’t there?”

Ruth nodded. “Blake was everything to me.”

“You know, my mom was the most important person in my life. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do to make her happy, or keep her safe. I bet Blake was protective of you.”

“Your point?”

“Sons step up, Mrs. Wheeler. And they keep secrets when they have to, when a lie feels more right than the truth.”

“Blake wasn’t the secretive type.”

“Wasn’t he? Lila told me about the day you brought Princess to her at the park.”

“Their anniversary. Blake had wanted to surprise her.”

“They had decided never to get another dog. If Blake had asked permission, do you think Lila would have given it to him?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Lila came to love Princess, even though she wasn’t planned. Blake surely knew that would happen. That it was better to wait until Lila couldn’t refuse. Some secrets are kept for good reason. I think Lila would be glad to know Princess is being well taken care of.”

“I don’t think Lila would be happy about a single thing to do with me, Dr. Reeves. I’m sure you’re aware of the friction between us.”

“Yet you’re the one paying the bill for Lakeside.”

“With estate money. Blake would have wanted her taken care of. Lila should have never let him die. I know it and she knew it when she asked me to take Princess the day of Blake’s funeral. Some mistakes are unforgiveable.”

“You took Princess the day of the funeral? Did you know Lila meant to hurt herself?”

“I’m sorry to say that I suspected.” Ruth looked down at the pale blue carpet. “Lila had asked me if I’d take Princess for a while. Of course I agreed to. I had always watched her when she and Blake needed someone, but when she said, ‘Even if it’s forever?’ I knew something was the matter.”

“And you didn’t try to stop her?”

“I was angry, Dr. Reeves. I
am
angry, but I didn’t believe for a minute Lila would go through with hurting herself.”

“That was enough for you?”

“Grief changes people. I figured taking Princess would be for a couple of days until Lila got her bearings. At the time, I honestly hated her.”

“You realize she was only doing what Blake wanted, right? His advance directive shut off the machines.”

“There was no way Blake would have ever signed such a thing. Lila, she—”

“She what?”

“Lila knows what she did and it’s between her and God. Guilt made her lock herself in that garage. I’m not the villain here.”

“What if I told you that Blake’s death was inevitable?”

“
Everyone’s
death is inevitable, Dr. Reeves.”

“But not all of us carry a deadly gene, do we?” Ross had intended to break the news more gently before Ruth’s attack on Lila, and the news about Mattie that had him completely stressed.

“What are you saying?”

“Huntington’s research has come a long way, but there’s no treatment and no cure. What if I told you that Blake carried the Huntington’s gene, that he tested positive a year before the shooting? Would you believe Blake might have signed the advance directive then?”

Ruth’s eyes returned to their former steely gray. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“I think you’re right about that, but before I go, there’s something I need to say on Lila’s behalf. Call Jeremy Davis. Ask him to tell you the whole story, and when he confirms what I just told you, that Blake was terminally ill, see if you can’t find it within yourself to absolve Lila. She did a selfless, difficult thing, letting your son go and you left her to die. Whether you leave her at Lakeside, or take her out like you’ve been threatening, know that removing her from medical care is as good as killing her.”