Sleepless Nights (29 page)

Kent had got out his dog-eared notebook again and was scribbling away. He looked up now at his adversary, unabashed. “I see. It was her mistake, then. And what about all those trips out to the house in the days before the baby died?” he went on. “Did you suspect Reye’s syndrome then? Why didn’t you get the kid admitted to the hospital?”

Dr. Reid put his head on one side and contemplated Kent rather as a blackbird examines a worm that’s not worth the trouble of pulling from the earth. “My dear man, I only saw the child once, when she first got sick with a cold,” he said, with a hint of exasperation. “There was no reason whatsoever to suspect Reye’s syndrome at the time; she had a touch of nasal congestion, it was a minor respiratory illness. The next time I saw the baby, she was dead. Reye’s syndrome sets in in the
aftermath
of a respiratory infection; when I saw her that one time, the disease had not taken hold. The young mother was all over the place, she obviously didn’t notice that an entirely new condition developed after our meeting. She was too young and inexperienced to spot the signs. To be fair, it can be hard sometimes. But what on earth makes you think I went there more often?”

“The fact that that’s what Emmie Cormier told us herself,” I interjected. I held Dr. Reid’s gaze.

The doctor had an expression of mild surprise on his face. “Did she really, Mrs.—er—? Well, I can only say her memory is failing her, then. And if she wants to release to you copies of her daughter’s medical notes, you will see that I’m right. Or you can ask the medical examiner for his report—it will contain full details of the circumstances surrounding the death. I went to the Vaughan house to see the child once, and once only. Of course people in grief remember strange things, I’m not saying she’s deliberately making up claims, of course…” He lifted his shoulders gently, as if to say,
I’m
not the person making wild accusations.

“Yes, well,” said Kent, clicking his pen closed, “Ms. Cormier will certainly want us to see copies of those notes. And the medical examiner’s report as well. You’ll be hearing from us again soon,” he went on,
“very
soon, Dr. Reid. Good-bye.”

“One last thing, doctor,” Tom said suddenly, his hand resting casually on the doorknob. “Just for our records: do you happen to remember the name of the detective who attended the scene of the baby’s death?”

Dr. Reid was writing something on a large piece of card, and he did not look up. “Driscoll I believe,” he said coolly. “Good-bye.” We filed back down the corridor and out of the offices. Kent paused to blow a kiss discreetly to Elizabeth on the way out.

“Good thought, that one,” he said judiciously to Tom when we were back in the car. “Driscoll, eh? Driscoll. Hmmm.”

“Isn’t that the detective Emmie said was friends with Ryan?” I asked, and Kent nodded.

“It’s a small police force, there’s only a handful of them, it had to be Driscoll or—what’s his name?—Johnson, but Driscoll is the younger man, and he’s known all around as a bit of a pushover. If only we could get our hands on the report he filed…could be tricky, he’s unlikely to just hand it over…”

“We should start with the medical examiner’s report,” Tom pointed out, “we’re entitled to a copy of that.” Kent agreed.

“Sure, but ultimately the responsibility for filing it lies with Reid; it’ll be just Reid’s official version of events. Still, I’ll talk with Emmie and see if I can get a copy faxed to my offices today, before the weekend. It’s a good place to start.”

When we arrived home, Jeanie delivered Samuel into our arms with a small smile, a rare sight these days. “He’s been very good, actually,” she told us, stroking his cheek. “No trouble at all. He barely cried once. Now what would you two like for dinner?” she went on in a bracing tone. “I was thinking of making a stew. Or perhaps a pie, I could take whatever’s left over to Quiet Lanes, show them what English baking tastes like—?”

49

Jeanie

I
produced the first fifteen pages of polysyllabic nonsense in a mere two hours. I took my computer to Quiet Lanes the next morning, where Mrs. Forrest read through the document with an expression of admiring astonishment. “You know what this all means?” she asked eventually, wildly gesticulating.

“Of course not,” I explained briskly, “but neither will Andrew. Now, in the meantime, I have an idea: let’s think seriously about what you’d
actually
like to do at Quiet Lanes in the next year. We’ll put it in the kind of language he wants, and see what we can wrangle for you and the Home.”

So we sat down together, and she sketched out her wish list. More tea parties (“economically low-impact opportunities for dynamic collaborative interaction”). More visits from outside speakers (“focused interdisciplinary events developing skills in patients and health professionals alike”). And “I’d—I’d love to be able to take them all for a day by the sea,” Mrs. Forrest remarked wistfully, clutching her hands dramatically to her chin. “Sue-Ellen just loves lobster, and Ken was saying the other day he’s been dreaming of fresh oysters. And Joel loves reading on the beach.” After referring back to my course notes, and a few of the essays that Sibelius Mordaunt actually liked, I typed:

“And that means—?” Mrs. Forrest pondered, after reading this aloud carefully.

“We’d like to go to the seaside, please,” I finished, grinning, and she stared at me with gratifying admiration.

“Does it really?” she asked, turning her head this way and that, as if reading upside down would make the whole thing clearer. And then, with a reluctant sigh, “Words
are
funny things, Jeanie!”

She bustled off into the day room to start lunch; I sat in her pot-pourried office with my computer and a plate of Twinkies editing, moving things around, and then—as a final touch—adding serious-sounding subheadings in different typefaces. By the time I was finished, the document was, I must admit, quite impressive. I printed it out on her little workhorse printer, adding a title page and a list of chapter headings (1: Introduction: Implementing Mandate in Quiet Lanes Setting. 2: Socializing Care Workers: An Overview. 3: Collaborative Enterprise Revisited. 4: Business Plan: Projecting Future Goals in Uncertain Times). I walked into the day room and presented Mrs. Forrest with the fat little bundle. She waved her arms around so much I thought she was going to take off.

I was walking out through the front hallway when I became con
scious, suddenly, of a presence behind me. I turned to see Sue-Ellen, hovering strangely in her own shadow. There was something more insubstantial about her than normal; her hair was wispier, flatter, not its usual magnificent golden edifice. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said softly. “Don’t want you to hear it from one of the others, I guess.” She reached out, and adjusted a seashell collage on the wall, which had slid fractionally to the side; with great attention, she touched it this way and that with her finger, until she had it exactly, perfectly straight. I waited, wondering.

“My cancer is not—well, it’s not curable, Jeanie,” she said at last, standing back to examine her handiwork. “Doctor confirmed it a day or two ago.”

For a moment I couldn’t think quite what to say. The news should not have surprised me—Mrs. Forrest had told me about her mastectomy on my very first day—but somehow Sue-Ellen seemed like one of those people that death can’t touch. She had a timeless quality to her, a simple, peaceful elegance that had nothing to do with being sixty or seventy or ninety.

She did not look up at me now but stayed where she was, rearranging a few poems and a Childe Hassam reprint. “So I’ll be moving out of Quiet Lanes in a few weeks’ time,” she went on, her voice quiet and level, profile impassive. “I’m going to go into a hospice in Old Saybrook, unless I get worse before that, of course. Cancer’s spreading, so I guess it’s just a matter of time.” Unconscious hands stole upward to her breast. “But I think I have a few weeks here left to enjoy. I like it here, Jeanie. I like the folks.” She smiled briefly, turned around, and started to walk away.

“Sue-Ellen!” I called, and she turned hesitantly to face me.

“Yes, honey?”

“Sue-Ellen, I’m so—so very sorry.”

She reached up and patted her golden hair. “Yes, my dear, so am I,” she replied, and walked back into the day room.

50

Q

T
he next morning Samuel was surprisingly peaceful, so I decided to risk giving him a proper bath. (We’d mostly given up on these, since the water appeared to drive him to distraction; we’d been making do with an occasional quick rub-down instead.) He was obviously not thrilled at the idea of the tub. Every time I touched his feet to the water he squealed worriedly, so after giving the matter some thought I stripped off my clothes and got in with him, propping him up on my stomach. Much better, he gave me to understand, waving an experimental leg in the warm soapy water. “This little piggy…” He observed me solemnly, head on one side, as I counted each tiny toe and finger, then crinkled up his chubby little neck to stop the piggy finding its way home under there, and giggled.

After lunch, I left him sleeping—a peaceful sleep, one he drifted into contentedly at my breast—and accompanied Tom on his way through the slow-moving Saturday traffic to Kent’s office at Cheasford. My shoulder muscles felt unusual, and it took me a while to understand why; ah yes, I realized, with a sensation of shock, I haven’t actually had to carry the baby
all morning.

“Jeanie’s being very helpful at the moment, isn’t she?” I said brightly to Tom; he’d been irascible at times about what he persisted in calling her “adolescent” schedule (“I mean, who the hell sleeps
until noon? Seriously?”). He agreed vaguely, although I could tell her visit was losing its appeal for him. “She’s okay with Samuel—not great, though—and her cooking is good—when she bothers to do it. But it never seems to cross her mind we’re footing the bills. I mean, does she never think about money? Has she never thought to contribute something? To give us a gift, at least? Would it
hurt
to get a box of cookies?”

“You looking for
him
?” There was a sharp tap on the car window; it was Luna Lilly jerking her Alice-banded head in the direction of Kent’s office. We nodded.

“He won’t be down today, not if I’m any judge,” Luna remarked, leaning into the car, a trace of triumph in her voice. The smell of sandalwood flooded in around her, hot and heady, laced with an acrid tang of sweat. “I heard him yesterday afternoon. Singing, banging about. After you left. I called up to him, I said, you’ll party on your
own
tonight. Don’t you come looking for me, I know what you’ve been up to with that cleaning assistant.” She nodded sharply in the direction of the dry cleaner’s shop. “I mean, who needs their goddamn socks dry-cleaned? The drunk, cheating, two-timing bastard—! I could still hear him when I left for home, yelling, shouting, carrying on. He’ll be dead to the world today. Dead, dead,
dead.”

She was clearly pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings; her small mouth was twisted into an angry smile, her eyes needle-bright. “Just thought you should know,” she finished righteously, then, pausing only to peer curiously into the backseat of our car, her eyes taking in the baby seat and the mess of stuffed toys, she waddled back to her office. Tom got out and went after her, loudly jangling his keys; I followed behind.

“You ignoring me?” Luna turned around, hands on her cello hips. “Fine. But you’ll see. There’s not much you can do to help him, he’s past it now. And you won’t need
those;
he won’t have locked his office door, never does. Anybody can take anything they want from
his place, any confidential documents. You can get anything you want out of those big filing cabinets.” (“We’ll see about that,” Tom muttered.) “Not that
I
ever go snooping, you understand, through people’s private affairs. Well, you do what you want,” she finished, watching us wend our way up the blue-carpeted interior stairs, “he won’t get up for you today unless you’re a glass of whisky sour.”

We pushed open the door to Kent’s office, which was, as Luna had forecast, unlocked. The place reeked of booze, vomit, and cigarettes; the curtains were drawn, and it took us a while to make out Kent’s form collapsed in a chair. The phone lay next to him on the table, cable pulled out of the wall, an empty glass upturned beside it.

“Kent—Kent, wake up,” Tom said, crouching down and taking the lawyer’s thin white hand in his. Kent’s hair was loose and half-covering his face; I kneeled over him and pushed it away from his nose, eyes, and mouth. “Kent, are you okay?”

He groaned, opened his eyes, and said something like “rrrm-mmf.” His unbuttoned red shirt exposed his too-thin chest, the lines of his ribs, his dry, mottled skin. “I’ve got a bottle of water in my bag,” I said. I rustled through half a dozen tissue pouches to find it. “Here, Kent, take this. It’s just a little water…”

His arm shot out, suddenly and unexpectedly, and he pushed the bottle out of my hands. Half of it slopped out onto the carpet; I grabbed it a second before the entire contents were lost, then looked hopelessly at Tom. “What are we going to do?” I hissed, sitting back on my haunches.

Luna Lilly, we suddenly realized, was standing just behind us, arms akimbo. “I told you, there’s nothing you
can
do,” she said gleefully. “He’s a low-down dirty drunk, has been for years, there’s nothing anyone can do. It was bound to happen, always does, he can’t stay off the stuff, specially not when a bill comes in. He’ll sleep it off, then as soon as he can lift a glass to his mouth he’ll start on the next bottle. Leave him to it, that’s my advice.”