Stuck in Manistique Page 11

  Emily told Mark this story, except the part about her relationship with Dr. Bulcher. “He was my close mentor,” was her full description. Mark had remained silent throughout, but now he said, “That Dr. Butcher shouldn’t have forced you into such an awkward situation.”

  She turned to him with tight lips. “It’s Bulcher, and he—”

  Mark’s cell phone rang. He glanced at it and said, “Sorry, do you mind if I get this?” He got up before Emily could answer. He dashed toward the door, pulled on it, sighed, and unlocked the bolt. As soon he opened the door, he answered, “Hey,” and shut the door behind him.

  This was the first time she had told the story to anyone—to a man she barely knew, who briskly abandoned her at the ring of his phone. The heaviness of the storytelling caused an ache in Emily’s chest. And now that morning played over and over in her head again. . . . She hid in the stairwell, in shock, trapped in an unreal world hoping that a series of Why didn’t I? questions might result in time travel if tried enough. She was eventually found and summoned to the surgery room. There, she was left alone for several minutes. It was impossible to reconcile the lifeless body under a thin sheet with the boy who’d had his whole future in front of him just a couple of hours earlier. All of it gone in an instant. Something fell over her like hot goo from her head all the way down to her feet. Nauseated, punch drunk, she summoned all of her strength to hold herself together, to stop herself from wishing that she were gone, too.

  Emily quickly downed the rest of her wine. Edging toward a precipice of depression, her mind jumped to Sarajevo. . . . Sarajevo and Vivian, and the driver, Ratko, who had just dropped Vivian off at a bullet-hole-riddled door.

  Feeling sufficiently reckless, Emily got up, determined to retrieve Doctors on the Borderline from the basement. The getaway magazine in her hand, she strode to the front door and peeked between the panels of sheer curtain. Mark was at the bottom of the stairs talking. She softly locked the door and walked briskly to and through the kitchen. At the basement stairs, she eased up, her head whirling enough that she needed to cling to the railing on the way down. In the bedroom she grabbed the book and hid it, pinched inside the magazine. It wasn’t until she was climbing the basement stairs that she heard knocking on the front door.

  As she approached the door, the knocks grew louder with shouts of “Emily!” When she finally opened it, Mark gave her a probing look. “Did you lock the door?”

  Emily nodded, the book and magazine tucked tightly against her body. “I didn’t want to be blamed for any other guests staying here.”

  He shook his head. “Nice.”

  Emily shrugged and forced a smile. She turned, a bit too quickly, and wobbled.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she returned, dashing toward the stairs. She felt as if she were keeping her balance on an angled plank.

  “Wait. Where are you going? Sorry, I had to take that call.”

  She continued without looking back at him. “Don’t worry about it. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Good night then.” His tone was softer.

  “Good night.”

  Emily reached the top of the steps, and after entering her room, she locked the door and eagerly fell into the bed, searching for where she had left off . . ."The Gang.”

  My lucky flashlight illuminated the way through the dark hall to the front lobby. There was a close-knit confluence of people talking/smoking in dim light, and automatically I felt out of place. A few eyes fell my way . . .

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mark woke up a little after six, the cold glow from the narrow basement window prodding him. Sitting up on the couch, he rubbed the slight ache in his neck. He yawned twice and eagerly yearned for a bed—his own bed and his own perfectly stuffed pillow back home. Sleeping in Vivian’s bed wasn’t an option he’d considered and sleeping in one of the guest rooms upstairs had struck him as odd. He got up and dressed for a run. A run, a shower, a shave. Make breakfast for the guests. And then get rid of them. He grunted a laugh, groggily wondering how he had gotten to this point, where he was sleeping on the basement couch and had two guests upstairs.

  The stairs creaked as he climbed to the kitchen. He felt uneasy moving through the quiet house, whose walls and reverberations were still foreign to him. About to walk out the back door, Mark caught the faint smell of coffee. He noticed a soft blue glow from the coffee machine. Emily or George?

  In the dining room, he found George sitting at the table with a small flashlight in his hand and a book and a mug in front of him.

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

  “I have a flashlight,” he answered defiantly. He flung the light in Mark’s eyes.

  Blocking the beam with his hand, Mark said, “I mean, why don’t you turn on a light? Or better yet, there’s a den over there with a comfortable chair. It’s full of old books.”

  The old man pointed the flashlight at the ceiling. He shook his head adamantly, with a slightly pouty grimace—at least that’s how he appeared in the dim light.

  “Why not?”

  “The smell of old books makes me want to go.”

  “Go where?” Mark asked before he got it. “Oh. Really?”

  He nodded. “If I walk into a library, I head straight for the restroom.”

  Mark didn’t understand this, but it was much too early for this topic, so he let it go. “What are you reading?”

  Flipping the book to the cover, he shined the light on it. Speak, Memory.

  Mark nodded. Nabokov. “You like Russian authors?”

  “Sure, but what’s that got to do with Nabokov?”

  “I thought he was Russian, no? Nyet?”

  “Dostoyevsky. Tolstoy. Chekov. Pushkin. Those are Russian authors. Nabokov wrote most of his novels, at least his famous ones, in English.”

  “I see.”

  George lifted the mug. “I hope you don’t mind. I used the coffee machine and made myself a cup. I have one just like that at home.”

  “Great. Later you can show me how it works.”

  At the sound of a crackle, Mark surged toward the fireplace. “I totally forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  “The fire.” There were a few embers left, mostly buried by a pile of ashes. He stuck his hands out. It’s still warm, he thought. That’s all it needs to be. A little warm. He threw on another log. “I was supposed to get up in the middle of the night—it doesn’t matter.”

  “I was perfectly warm all night,” George said.

  Mark smiled. “Good, good,” he said, breezing by George into the kitchen to fetch paper bags.

  When he returned, the log had already started burning. He didn’t think the embers had been hot enough to get it going again. He tossed the bags into the fireplace anyway and watched them smoke, flash, and burn rapidly.

  “I like that vase,” George said pointing his flashlight at the mantel.

  Mark nodded. “So you ready to leave Manistique?”

  George shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s kind of nice here. I could stay.”

  Mark laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “I guess I should wait to see what breakfast is like.”

  “Oh you mean stay here. I thought you meant stay in Manistique.”

  “Couldn’t really say. I haven’t seen much besides the casino and the little downtown. But it seems like a quiet community. Lakeside. I heard there’s a new hospital being built. What else does a man my age need?”

  A cemetery . . ."If you really want to stay in this house, you can just buy it. I’ll give you a great price.”

  “Are you selling it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m fairly certain I’m not up for running a hotel.”

  “You don’t have to run it as a hotel. You can just live here.”

  He craned his neck and stared up at the ceiling. “You know, I don’t really remember how it all started with her.”

  “What? Oh, your disagreement?”
>
  He answered with a slow, steady, pensive nod. “I mean how am I supposed to apologize? For what?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t remember either.”

  George grinned. “You’re right.”

  Mark shrugged. “I guess you’ll know soon enough.”

  “Yes. By the way,” he said, pointing up, “that bed is very comfortable. More comfortable than the bed at the hotel. You should mention that in your promotional materials.”

  Mark laughed. “Sure, I’ll do that. Do you want the light on?”

  George shook his head. “I kind of like the quiet of the dark.”

  “All right. I better go for my run so I can be back in time to make breakfast. It is a bed and breakfast after all. I’ve got to play the part, right?”

  “Maybe I’ll go for a walk myself.”

  Mark returned to a quiet house, too hot after his hard run. He had run east until he reached the lake, then along the lakeshore trail to the Manistique River. He pushed himself on the way back. Almost four miles, most of it along the lake, all of it under a gray sky. For about two miles, he obsessed over Emily. He had no physical attraction to her, yet he yearned to be with her, to talk to her, to fill the hole from the night before—the quick ending between them had disquieted him. She’d revealed something quite personal and had certainly expected some kind of sympathetic embrace. The implication was clear: Emily felt at fault for the death of the boy. He regretted taking that call from Frank Walters. But how to revive last night’s conversation with Emily now? Before she left for good. It’d be nauseatingly difficult. Like serving cold pop and cereal for breakfast.

  George was not in the dining room, and Mark figured the old man had gone for a walk after all. With the fire burning gently around the log, he headed down to the cooler basement to get ready for the day.

  It was a little after eight when Mark returned to the main floor of the house. There was still no one around, though he heard floorboards creaking up above. After tinkering with the single-serve coffee maker for a minute, he brewed a cup. At the sound of a series of quick, soft steps down the stairs, Mark walked out of the kitchen to greet Emily, who was wearing a robe and socks. Her hair was tamed, and her cheeks glowed crimson on an otherwise blanched face.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she said, yawning. “Excuse me.”

  “Did you sleep all right?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, really well. I don’t usually get up this late. That bed is awfully comfortable.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  Emily pulled a chair from the table and picked up a book on the seat. “Is this yours?”

  Mark shook his head. “No, George’s.”

  “Why is it on the chair?”

  Mark shrugged. “Maybe he’s saving a spot for breakfast.”

  She tossed it on the table. “I hate Russian writers.” She moved to the chair at the head of the table.

  “I don’t think Nabokov is really considered to be a Russian writer.”

  “Isn’t he Russian?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So he’s a Russian writer,” she snapped.

  “You always this cranky in the morning?”

  She glared at him. “Only before I’ve had my coffee.”

  “In that case . . ." He stepped into the kitchen, grabbed the mug, and came back out. “I got a fresh cup for you right here.”

  She took it, eyeing him a little suspiciously before sitting down.

  “I just made it a minute ago—do you want cream or sugar or something?”

  “No.” She closed her eyes and angled her face toward the cup. She took a sip, then hummed an ecstatic sigh. “I guess I’m the last one up.”

  “Yep. George has been up since—I don’t know—before six.”

  Mark stood there in silence for a moment, Emily drinking her coffee. He clammed up, desperately wanting to make amends for the previous night, but he didn’t want to bring it up, either.

  “What time is checkout?” she asked.

  “Checkout?”

  “Yeah, you know, when people have to leave their rooms.”

  “Yes, I know what checkout is. It’s just that I’m leaving here around nine thirty—I’m dropping George off at his hotel, and then I have an appointment.”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Eight fifteen.”

  “I better go get ready then.”

  “Don’t rush on my account. You can leave whenever you want.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  She thought for a second. “Yeah, that would be great, actually. Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Just don’t let any other guests in, he wanted to say jokingly, but he withheld it.

  “Where is George, by the way?”

  “On a walk, I think. I haven’t seen him since I went for a run. He’s been gone for a while—tell you the truth, I’m a little concerned.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Small things, I guess.”

  “Like what?”

  Senility. But he couldn’t say that to Dr. Emily. She’d retort with some kind of medical jargon. “Like, he can’t remember what he and his wife were arguing about?”

  “People forget why they started arguments all the time.”

  “An argument where you left the hotel you were staying in?”

  A thin frown emerged. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Maybe he’s in his room.” He started for the stairs. Emily followed him up, stopping in front of her room as Mark continued down the hall. He knocked on the partially open door to George’s room. “Hello?” he said, reluctantly entering. “George?”

  He wasn’t there. Mark did find the old man’s clothes hanging neatly in the closet.

  “Not there?” Emily asked when he stepped out into the hallway.

  Mark shook his head, “No, but . . ."

  “But what?”

  “He unpacked all his things. Should I be worried now?”

  “Maybe he likes it here so much he wants to stay,” she said with a grin.

  He frowned. “Not funny. The tour bus is leaving this morning.”

  Emily pointed behind her. “Well, I’m going to go get ready. I’ll be down in half an hour.”

  “I’ll go make breakfast.”

  But breakfast was not on Mark’s mind as he rushed down the stairs and out the front door. He worried that George had wandered off and wouldn’t be back in time to catch the bus. Under the morning sky, still gray with clouds that gave no sign of retreat, he looked about the street, end to end. Where had the old man gone?

  Emily finished packing her toiletries and closed her suitcase. From the nightstand, she grabbed Doctors on the Borderline, hidden beneath the UP Traveler magazine as if it were a banned book. She flipped through to find her place, skimming until she got to the point she had left off, mid-chapter, and quickly read:

  I kept busy the rest of the day, gathering information on the other clinics in the city. My sources were mainly hotel employees and locals, like Rijad, who came and went either assisting journalists or trying to sell something. Eventually I made my way to the second floor to see the journalists. I wanted to hear their opinion of how safe they thought it would be for medical staff. (“A good doctor is one who is breathing,” my boss at MSF headquarters always liked to remind me.)

  Overall I had a fairly complete rough sketch of the medical situation and safety issues. Both were bad and getting worse. But I wanted to work in the hospital for a few days before reporting anything back to MSF. The next morning I’d be starting a twenty-four-hour shift at the hospital—hell inside hell, as Rijad called it.

  I awoke the next morning thinking for the first time about the siege and the Serbs inflicting pain. The night had been filled with rumbles, just intermittent enough to startle and frighten and terrorize people all night. The insanity of this place was taking hold as reality. It’s strange how the hyperawareness doesn’t al
low for reflecting—only surviving and being more hyperaware, as if there is only so much a mind can take and reflecting takes a backseat. Like watching a movie, then reflecting on it later. I was able to think about it now as I lay in bed: The Serbs lobbing mortars into a city of civilians, sniping at people trying to get food and water, destroying thousand-year-old libraries and landmarks.

  Emily shut the book for now, figuring she could read freely after Mark left for his appointment. It was nearly nine o’clock when she headed downstairs and found no one about. The book from that Russian writer was exactly where she had left it. There was no breakfast out. She called for Mark before entering the kitchen. She went to the edge of the basement stairs and called again. No reply.

  Back at her room, she found a Post-it note stuck on her door. “Went looking for George. If he comes back, call me.” And he’d left a number underneath.

  “That’s a stupid place for a note,” she said aloud, yanking the note off the door.

  She got out her cell phone and dialed his number.

  “Is George with you?” Mark asked anxiously.

  “No, I—”

  “I’ve been driving around for half an hour, and I can’t find him.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know. Not far. I’m going in and out of streets here—Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  “I’m being pulled over.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Gotta go.”

  Emily hung up and stared at the phone for a second. Then she went to George’s room and stood in front of the closed door. The Indian Lake room. Violation of privacy, she thought. But if he was really lost, her prohibited entry was for good reason. She opened the door and crept in. She checked the bathroom. Nothing on the counter. She pulled on the mirrored medicine cabinet. Inside she found two pill bottles. The first one was a statin. High cholesterol. The other was a memantine. Emily immediately got out her phone and dialed Mark.

  Emily heard laughter over the phone. “Hello?” she said.