Trust Me (31 page)

Max rose to his feet, and the Odyssey clattered to the floor. “Grandfather?” he said again, quickly. “Can you hear me?”

Henry gave no sign that he understood. His pulse rate had risen suddenly, and he was more agitated than Max had ever seen
him, moving weakly from side to side on the bed. “No…” he said, more clearly this time. “Help.”

Alarmed, Max pressed the button to call the nurse. “It’s all right,” he said, though his own heart was pounding, and he didn’t
know what was happening. It seemed to him that Henry, trapped in twilight sleep, was having a nightmare. Max took his grandfather’s
hand. “What’s wrong? Can you tell me?”

Henry groaned again, and his fingers gripped Max’s with surprising strength. His brow was furrowed, but his eyes were unfocused,
staring blankly at some point beyond Max’s shoulder. His body flexed slightly, as if he were trying to sit up, then fell back
against the bed. His mouth worked, and he mumbled something. The sound was distorted by the nasogastric tube in his throat,
but Max understood it, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled with sudden shock. It was a name.

“Carly,” his grandfather had said.

“Do you have any idea why he would be calling out her name?” Max asked Bill Sheaffer half an hour later. They were sitting
in the doctor’s office, and Max was nursing a cup of cafeteria coffee, still shaken from the encounter in Henry’s room.

“No,” Dr. Sheaffer said. “And frankly, you shouldn’t read much into it, Max. This is all good. Your grandfather is making
better progress than any of us could have hoped.”

Max wasn’t convinced. “He’s upset about something, Bill. He seemed as if he wanted… needed… to tell me something.”

Dr. Sheaffer nodded. “I’m sure it did seem that way. But this is a normal stage of recovery. The agitation, the confusion—it’s
completely by the book, and it doesn’t mean anything other than that the brain is healing and trying to recalibrate itself.”

“So you don’t think that he’s trying to communicate something about the accident?”

“At this point, I don’t think he’s
trying
to do anything at all.”

“But even if he’s not aware of what he’s saying, there has to be some reason for it,” Max argued. Henry had continued to mumble
for some time after the arrival of the nurse and Dr. Sheaffer. Most of it had been unintelligible, but they had all heard
him repeat Carly’s name several times. “When I was alone with him, I heard him call for help. He was moving his arms as if
he was trying to protect himself. It may be unconscious behavior, but so is a dream, right? And dreams generally reflect real-life
issues.”

“He’s not dreaming. This is completely different. At this point, there’s no reason to think that there is any meaning to what
he’s saying.”

“If it were random, I might agree,” Max said. “But I don’t understand why he’s focused on Carly.”

“Well, she has been here many times over the past few weeks.”

“So have I,” Max pointed out.

Dr. Sheaffer gave him a strange, thoughtful look. He steepled his fingers on his desk. “Max,” he said, “what you saw today
would have upset anyone who isn’t accustomed to seeing brain-injured patients. I think it would be a good idea if you made
an appointment to talk to Joanna.”

“Why?”

“You two are on good terms, and she’s very experienced with the issues that come up within families under these circumstances.
Feelings of guilt. Helplessness. It’s all very normal.”

Max frowned. “Are you suggesting that I consult her in her capacity as a rehabilitation therapist or as a psychologist?”

“You’ve shown admirable devotion to your grandfather, Max. If he were able, I’m sure that he would tell you how grateful he
is for everything that you’ve done. The fact that he’s talking about Carly Martin doesn’t reflect in any way on his relationship
with you—”

“Wait a minute,” Max interrupted. “You think that’s what this is about? That I’m upset because he was calling out Carly’s
name and not mine?”

Dr. Sheaffer looked uncomfortable. “Joanna really would be a better person to—”

“For God’s sake, Bill. I don’t need a shrink! This isn’t a case of jealousy. I’m trying to understand what happened to put
my grandfather in that hospital bed.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. I know that there have been some new concerns about the circumstances of your grandfather’s fall. I
already spoke with the police. There was a detective here a few days ago.”

“Gracie?”

“That was the name. Tough guy. He took the clothing that Mr. Tremayne was wearing when he was admitted.”

“Fine,” Max said stiffly. He was starting to feel as if he had turned a key and started the motion of a giant machine, one
whose heavy gears were grinding forward with no regard for his intention or direction.

“Max, I don’t mean to pry, but from the questions that the detective was asking me, and now from some of the things you’re
saying, I can’t help getting the impression that you think Carly Martin could have… that she might…”

“What?” Max asked.

Bill Sheaffer laughed nervously. “Well, you know…”

“Carly Martin might what?”

The neurologist took one look at Max’s stony expression and quickly sat back in his chair. “Uh… nothing, really. It was just
a crazy thought. Not one that’s worth discussing.”

Max’s face did not soften. “I agree.”

P
rofessor Martin raised his glass of homemade wine. “Your attention, please,” he said, to the assembled group.

The babble of voices continued without so much as a pause, and he began to scowl. He cleared his throat. “Your attention!”

No one listened. It was another perfect Sunday evening in Davis. The spring air was sweet and warm, and the late-day sunshine
poured over the surrounding fields like warm syrup. Carly had never been to Tuscany, but she didn’t think that the rolling
hills of the Italian countryside could be any more fertile or beautiful than the oak-studded grasslands around her parents’
home. But there was trouble in paradise, as evidenced by the look on her father’s face. There was nothing that Professor Martin
hated more than being ignored.

Carly sighed, picked up her spoon, and began to tap it on her water glass at approximately the same moment that her father
began to thump the tabletop with his free hand.

“Silence!” he thundered.

That did it. The seventeen people—including babies— seated at the long outdoor table turned to look at him. He smiled benevolently.
“Thank you,” he said.

Max, on Carly’s left, looked quizzically at her. She leaned toward him. “He’s going to make a toast,” she whispered. “It will
probably take a while.”

There was other murmuring up and down the length of the table, but even that stilled as Mr. Martin looked over his clan with
an eagle eye. “First of all,” he said, “let me officially welcome our guest, Professor Arthur Zimmerman, whose seminal work,
‘Phylogenetic Classification of Spatially Aggregated Wildflower Metapopulations,’ has been both a challenge and an inspiration
to me.” He nodded and gestured with his glass toward the short, balding man seated on Carly’s right.

Professor Zimmerman had already consumed several different varieties of the Martin homebrew with his dinner. “George, you
flatter me,” he said modestly, and hiccupped. “But I’ll gladly take compliments from the man who redefined the role of the
protoxylem lacuna.”

“Ah, yes,” Professor Martin looked misty for a moment. “So I did. Those were the days, Arthur. Graduate school, what a wild
and free time it was. Do you remember?”

“Do I remember? Like it was yesterday, George. Those nights with the mustards… pollinating, pollinating, until our fingers
were numb.”

Max poked Carly under the table. “What the hell is he talking about?” he whispered.

“They went to school together,” Carly whispered back. “Dad’s doctoral dissertation had something to do with the genetics of
wild mustard plants. Don’t ask me for details.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“They do this every time they get together,” Carly continued, “which, lucky for us, is less than once a year. In a minute,
they’ll do the poem.”

“Poem?”

Carly didn’t have a chance to explain before Professor Zimmerman began to giggle. “We always knew you’d go far, George,” he
said. “You remember the limerick, don’t you? Catherine! Catherine, have I told you about the limerick we wrote for George?”

“Poor Mom,” Carly said.

Professor Martin was making a show of looking stern, but he was obviously delighted. “Oh,” he said unconvincingly. “Not that
old thing.”

Arthur Zimmerman took another slug of his wine. “We came up with this when George was an undergraduate,” he explained to the
group, most of whom looked politely resigned. “Little did we know that his thesis would turn out to be the foundation for
a life’s work! Catherine, dear, you need to hear this. It’s a hoot.”

“Really,” Mrs. Martin said dryly. “I can hardly wait.”

“It goes like this.” Professor Zimmerman cleared his throat and began.

“When George was a senior in college, he

was studying mustard biology.

He thought it terrific

to continue specific

with a master’s in ketchup ecology!”

“Well, now,” Professor Martin exclaimed. “I’d forgotten all about that!”

Both men began to howl with laughter, and Mrs. Martin rolled her eyes skyward. Carly glanced apprehensively at Max, and was
relieved to see that he looked amused. He had been behaving strangely for the past few days. He seemed distant and distracted,
and he had developed an unsettling habit of watching her when he thought that she wasn’t aware of it. It should have pleased
her, but something in his face made her uneasy. She thought that he was probably worrying about Henry, but it was hard to
know for sure. Over the past week, Max had gone from reticent to almost totally silent on the topic of his grandfather and
the police investigation, and she had tried not to add to his stress level by asking him about it.

Most of what she knew about the investigation—which was almost nothing—had come from her own conversations with Detective
Gracie. He had interviewed her twice so far, once last week to take her statement about the night of the accident, and then
again on Wednesday, when he had come by the clinic to ask her for a few more details. Carly had liked the detective immediately.
He was taciturn, but he listened intently to everything that she said, and his careful questions told her that he didn’t miss
much.

“A toast,” said Mr. Martin, raising his glass. “To friends and family. Present and future.” To Carly’s horror, he winked at
Max. Max nodded back and raised his water glass. Carly did the same, gritting her teeth. She loved her father, but sometimes
…

“Such a lovely family,” Professor Zimmerman said with a sigh, draining his glass. Under the table, his other hand landed on
Carly’s bare knee. She jumped. She turned to look at him, and he smiled froggily at her. The hand began to creep up her thigh.

“Good grief,” Carly muttered, and reached down to seize it. “Professor Zimmerman.”

“Call me Arthur, my dear.” He squeezed her hand, apparently under the impression that she was holding it affectionately. “What
a lovely young woman you’ve become.”

“Thank you,” Carly said sternly. “We’re all very sorry that Mrs. Zimmerman couldn’t join us this year. You said that she was
traveling with a friend?”

“Yes. A friend. In… in Alaska.”

His hand was pushing steadily upward. Gripping it firmly, Carly pushed back. “How fascinating,” she said. “It’s early to be
traveling so far north, isn’t it? I thought that the tourist season there didn’t really begin until July.”

His hand suddenly went limp. “I’m not fooling you, am I?”

“What?”

“I can tell,” he said mournfully. “It’s no use.” He released her and tried to grab a nearby bottle of wine. It was just out
of his reach, and his arm collapsed like a wet sock onto the table. “She’s gone. Gone!” He slumped forward, and his shoulders
began to shake.

“What?” Carly said again. “Who, your wife?”

“Darlene. She left me. She went to Alaska with Bill Bayette. Do you know what he does?”

“No…” Carly said.

Professor Zimmerman shook his head bitterly. “He’s a dolphin researcher! How could anyone compete with that? Women, damn them
all… fickle… damn them.” He reached again toward the bottle and promptly knocked it over. Wine splattered in every direction.
Carly jumped up and began to blot the bloody-looking puddle with her napkin, and Professor Zimmerman moaned and buried his
head in his hands.

“Oh, my,” said Mrs. Martin in surprise. “Arthur?”

“Here, now,” exclaimed Mr. Martin. “Carly, what have you done?”

“Me? I haven’t done anything,” Carly said indignantly, mopping. Max, standing next to her, leaned in with his own napkin and
finished the job. Carly looked gratefully at him, and noticed that his shirt was covered with a fine spray of red droplets.

Mr. Martin hurried around the table. He clapped Arthur Zimmerman jovially on the back. “Well, Arthur,” he said. “Well. Whatever
it is, it can’t be that bad.” He paused, frowning. “Can it?” He looked at Carly.