Don't Go (8 page)

Mike wondered if he should tell Jim about the drinking, but let him keep talking.

“I’m like, she’s
dead
? You have to be kidding me, this is impossible, this woman was perfectly healthy, so full of life, you know, we all loved her, even the kids. Remember she taught Courtney calligraphy and I had to buy that two-hundred-dollar calligraphy set from Tokyo or wherever?”

“Kyoto.”

“Whatever.” Jim rubbed his face, making faint marks. “Chloe was way too young to die, and it’s just so weird the way it happened. I know this is hard to hear, but if I were you, I’d get ahold of that damn autopsy.” He raised an unruly eyebrow, his reddish-gray hairs a tangle. “I’d want to know
exactly
how it happened. I swear, she musta had a hairline fracture, something pre-existing, for a knock on the counter to do her in. Maybe an earlier concussion, one she didn’t know about, or even an aneurysm. What do you think?”

Mike needed a sounding board and he would swear Jim to secrecy, even from Laura. He was just about to tell him when Jim’s phone rang.

“Hold on a sec.” Jim slid his BlackBerry from the pocket of his lab coat and pressed the
IGNORE
button. “Sorry, day from hell. Go away.” He looked back up at Mike. “Anyway, so, where were we, hey, what do you think about the place?”

Mike changed his mind about telling him, at least for now. The moment had passed. “What gives? So we renting to this Lyon guy or what?”

“Okay, so Rick Lyon, he’s a good guy, outta D.C., I’d introduce you but he’s giving a seminar, beating the bushes. Anyway, I met him a couple months ago at Parents’ Night, his son’s in Alex’s class, and he starts telling me that kids’ sports injuries are blowing up, especially with the travel teams and everybody wanting scholarship money in the economy, the girls, too. I’m like, how do we get in on that, because our business is dropping off.”

Listening, Mike realized that Jim was just another Chatty, a superhero in charge, and he was the second banana here, too. The funny thing was, he didn’t mind. Maybe that was why he felt comfortable being the understudy, as a father. He didn’t like the spotlight. He didn’t want to be the sun.

“And of course, I’m seeing a problem down the line, because my mama didn’t raise no dummy, that people are putting off the bunionectomies because of the money.” Jim barely took a breath. “Lyon’s telling me he needs room in the western subs to expand, and I’m like, I got room and we can do that with our eyes closed, it’s the same procedures in a sports-medicine wrapper. So now the cases are through the roof, and the system administrators in Philly are starting to take notice…”

Mike zoned out as Jim went through the metrics about how they made so much the past quarter, on top of base shares. He sensed that Jim was just trying to avoid any silences, and all of it used to be so important to Mike. It mattered less to him now, and maybe that was called perspective. Chloe had died because he wasn’t here, and on the other side of the world, soldiers were dying because he wasn’t
there.

Jim touched his arm, in a final sort of way. “But you don’t need to know all this now. We can talk about it when you get back.”

“Okay, but why did you let Lorene and Marilyn go? If money’s a problem, I won’t take my base cut.”

“Stop, St. Michael.” Jim waved his meaty hand. “It wasn’t the money. Marilyn was slacking, and Lorene asked for a raise, which so wasn’t happening, then she gave me attitude.”

“Are Tony and Dave on board, with all these changes? They emailed me that the practice is down.”

“Sure, they’re fine, both making bonuses over base. Now tell me you’re safe over there.”

“I’m safe.” Mike thought of the yellow ribbon on the door. “What’s with the sign, Dr. Mike, all that?”

“What? Why?” Jim recoiled. “We’re proud of you, man.”

Mike remembered that Jim found a way to let the media know when he was deployed and the local newspaper had done a feature on him. “And it’s good for business.”

“So, why not?” Jim shrugged it off jovially. “We are proud of you, really, but if you don’t like it, I’ll take it down.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“So what’s it like over there? You gotta take care of yourself. I mean it, you better come back in one piece, for my sake. I don’t have a lot of friends. I’m straight-up annoying.”

“I know.” Mike rose, and so did Jim, touching him again on the back.

“You get to shoot anybody or they chain you to the table? I’d love to go over there and light up the Taliban. Hoo-ah!”

“The docs don’t say hoo-ah, Jim.”

“Why not, man? I would. I’d go over there like Rambo, saying hoo-ah all the time. Hoo-ah to my heart’s content. Say it for me, soldier boy.”

“Hoo-ah,” Mike said, to humor him. “Last question. Why the orange?”

“You mean on the walls?” Jim smiled. “The orange was chosen because no local high school team has orange in its school colors. I figured that out myself. We can’t play favorites, these kids take this seriously, and the parents do, too. One kid told me the worst part of the game is driving home in the car with his
mom.
Anyway,
orange
. It was my idea.” Jim pointed to his chest proudly. “Not just another pretty face, this one.”

“No, not at all,” Mike said, and they laughed. It felt good to be silly for a minute.

Because Mike knew where he had to go, next.

Chapter Thirteen

“I’m Mike Scanlon,” he said to the young funeral director, who materialized from a side door. The entrance hall was otherwise empty and quiet, with navy blue carpet and blue-and-gold-flecked wallpaper.

“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Scanlon. Scott Beeberman.” The young man extended a slim hand. He was of slight build in a dark suit, with a patterned tie and jelled hair. “My father told me to expect you. My condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you, and for your help with my wife.”

“Of course, your brother-in-law was here today, selecting one of our caskets. The Embassy, a cherry model. He said you would be fine with that, but if there’s a problem, please feel free to inform me. Here, come with me.” Scott started walking, and Mike fell into step beside him, down a hallway lined with cushioned benches and tasteful landscapes. Scott kept talking, in a quiet tone. “We have set aside a room for you on the lower level, and you can stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” Mike realized that he and Chloe were under the same roof for the first time in six months.

“In addition, if you’re unhappy in any way with your wife’s appearance, please feel to let me know that, as well. We did use a photograph that your brother-in-law supplied to us, which was very helpful.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Mike glanced over as they passed a podium with a padded guest book, next to a white pen molded to look like a quill.

“We find we get better results and our families are generally pleased. Do you have any questions?”

“Yes, a few.” Mike swallowed hard. “She was autopsied, correct?”

“Yes.” Scott didn’t bat an eye. “But I think you’ll be pleased with her appearance, and it’s absolutely fine to have an open casket. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Can I get the results of the autopsy?”

“We don’t have the report, but I can make you a copy of the death certificate.”

“Thank you. Is there a police report, too?”

“There would be, for a fatality, but we don’t have a copy of that, either.”

“I see.” They reached a landing and descended side-by-side, and Mike reached for the polished banister, suddenly weak in the knees. They reached the lower floor, which he realized was a euphemism for the basement.

“Please, this way.” Scott walked him down a hallway lined with closed doors, stopped at the middle one, and gestured to a cushioned bench against the wall. “Please have a seat, and I’ll get that information you requested. This way, I won’t interrupt you, later. My office is on this level, and I won’t be a moment.” Scott glided off, and Mike tried to get his act together. He couldn’t believe he was sitting outside the room where Chloe lay, in a casket. He felt oddly as if he were waiting for her, a sensation that wasn’t unfamiliar.

Are you ready yet?
Mike was in the bedroom, switching off the TV. Chloe was in the bathroom finishing her makeup, but they were late for dinner with his partners.

Chloe had come out finally.
Well? How do I look?

Her eyes were as blue as forget-me-nots, and a light tan tinted her fine nose and high cheekbones. Her face was the shape of a heart, and her lips smiled a Cupid’s bow, glossy pink. Her dark blonde hair hung wavy to her shoulders, and she had on her favorite white dress, which showed off slim, tan legs. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he had ever seen, like some wildflower.

“Dr. Scanlon, here we are.” Scott reappeared and handed Mike an envelope. “Your wife’s death certificate is inside, and so is her cell phone. Your brother-in-law must have left it. Shall we go in now or would you like a moment?”

“I’m ready,” Mike answered, though he was anything but.

“Allow me.” Scott opened the door into a medium-sized room with the same blue rug and wallpaper, and a walnut credenza. “There’s a house phone and bottled water, for your convenience. I’ll check on you in twenty minutes, but if you finish sooner or need me, please pick up the phone. Any other questions?”

“Yes.” Mike faced the credenza, because it was easier than facing the front of the room with Chloe’s casket. He still couldn’t look over at her body. “I know there was a knife wound. Can you give me some details?”

“I think you’ll be pleased with the repair. You shouldn’t be able to see anything.”

“I mean the details.” Mike wasn’t overly concerned with Chloe’s appearance, but Scott lifted an eyebrow.

“Pardon me?”

“How deep was the wound, how long was it, how did you repair it? I want to know everything, as much as possible.” Mike wanted to know what he could because there was so much he’d never know, like about the drinking. “Did you see any old injury on her head, by any chance?”

“I don’t usually have a discussion like this with a surviving spouse, but if you feel it’s appropriate, I will.”

“I do. Please, I’m a doctor.”

Scott pursed his lips. “The knife wound was about a quarter-inch deep, but approximately five inches in length. We sutured it closed with a baseball stitch, sealed it with PERMASEAL, then added a layer of cotton web roll towel.”

“Why do you do that, the towel?”

Scott frowned, plainly uncomfortable. “To prevent leakage of embalming fluid or staining of her garment.”

Mike swallowed hard. “She was exsanguinated when she came in, right?”

“Yes, but as you may know, exsanguination sufficient to cause death is incomplete. Unlike doctors like yourself, who measure blood in liters, we speak in terms of blood weight, and your wife had three pounds of blood when she came to us.” Scott gestured at the coffin, but Mike didn’t look over. “Your wife is lying in repose, and since the wound was interior, we positioned her arm against the body, so the sleeve of the dress would hide the towel.”

Mike thought of the white dress, then oddly, the underwear. “I’m sorry that we didn’t give you any, uh, underwear.”

“That was no problem. We keep a supply of fresh packs in that event. Now, if you have no other questions, I’ll give you some privacy. Again, my deepest condolences.” Scott left the room silently.

Mike walked over to a chair, sat down, braced himself, then made a conscious effort to raise his eyes to the casket. At the sight, his chest tightened with anguish, and tears came to his eyes. He heard a gasping sob and realized it came from him. He covered his mouth, holding in whatever he could. Crying, shouting, emotion. He looked at Chloe’s body, making himself see her.

Her face was an inanimate mask of the memory he’d just had, a mannequin of herself. Her hair had been brushed in soft waves, her eyes were closed, and her eyelids lightly lined. Her lovely mouth was a glossy pink and curved into a sweet, natural smile, evidence of the mortician’s skill. She had on the white dress and brown shoes he’d picked out this morning. Profound sadness swept over him, and he hung his head, slumping in the chair.

He had no idea how long he sat that way, collapsed. The envelope sat in his lap, and he opened it, mechanically. Inside was a white paper, and he pulled it out. It read
DEATH CERTIFICATE
, and he scanned the information: Decedent, Chloe Voulette. Sex, F. Date of Death, December 15. Age, 32. Date of Birth, July 13. Marital Status, Married. Surviving Spouse, Michael Scanlon. It sickened him to see his own name on Chloe’s death certificate. He felt horrified to be a Surviving Spouse.

He read the Time of Death, between 5:30
P.M.
and 6:00
P.M.
, and realized that he had been asleep when she died, half a world away. He didn’t wake up the moment she passed, like in the movies. He didn’t know she was gone. He didn’t even know she drank vodka. He didn’t know anything, anymore.

He slid the certificate into the envelope and took out Chloe’s phone. It was a BlackBerry, and it was turned off. He pressed the
ON
button, and the phone came to life. The photo on her home screen caught him by the throat. It was of him, and he remembered the day she had taken it, a Sunday afternoon in early June, a week before his deployment. He’d been working in the yard with his shirt off while Chloe sat in the sun and Emily slept in her carryall, in the shade. Mike hadn’t realized Chloe was taking his picture until he happened to look up and ask her.

What are you doing?

What’s it look like I’m doing?
Chloe snapped the photo.
You’re hot, for a Dad. Nice smile, nice shoulders, nice abs. And that butt, break me off a piece of that!

Stop it, lady. I’m married.

Who cares? I’m more fun than your wife.

I bet you are, but I love my wife.

Mike looked at himself in the photo, because he was looking at her, with love. Chloe always said he was handsome, but he thought he looked regular, like a million other guys, straight nose, long face, brown hair, brown eyes. He didn’t know she had made him her backdrop photo, because when he left for Afghanistan, it was the baby. It touched him so deeply that she’d switched the photo, consciously choosing his picture, as if it were proof that she loved him, above all.