Unbreathed Memories (17 page)

“Scott’s taking me to interview him tomorrow afternoon, but I need your help.”

“Oh?”

“Could you watch Julie for me?”

“How about the boys?”

“They’re in school. I’ll only need you to pick them up if we’re running late.”

Tomorrow would be Friday. I would have to miss my morning at St. John’s. I thought about telling her to get
a baby-sitter, but I didn’t want to do anything to discourage her from seeking treatment. Besides, I adored my niece, and it wasn’t Julie’s fault her mother wasn’t always playing with a full deck. “OK, what time?”

The relief in her voice was apparent, even over the bad connection. “Thanks, Hannah! I don’t know what I’d do without you. Can you come around ten-thirty?”

I said I’d see her then and hung up.

I sat there for a while, thinking. One woman had found her way to Dr. Sturges’s group via a notice in Fresh Fields. Georgina got there through Dr. Voorhis. Some of the women were undoubtedly church members. But then I remembered something Mindy had said about a tent revival. Tent revivals didn’t sound very Anglican to me. I wondered how Mindy’d gotten involved. I trotted upstairs to the entrance hall, found my purse, and rummaged through it, looking for the business card Mindy had given me.

Amanda Glover was CEO of a management consulting firm in Towson. After two intervening gatekeepers, one of whom must have been paid extra for her mellifluous British accent, Mindy came on the line.

“Hi, Hannah. I’m glad you called.”

“Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I was wondering about something.”

“What?”

“Who recommended Dr. Sturges’s group to you?”

“Our pediatrician. Why do you ask?”

“I, uh, I just realized that I didn’t know anything about her, except what Georgina told me. I guess I just wanted to make sure the methods she used with the group were, well, orthodox.”

Mindy chuckled. “You can be certain of that. Diana was licensed by the state of Maryland.”

“So,” I asked, “is someone else qualified going to take over?”

“I should think so. Joy is trying to find another therapist by the end of the month.”

“Who is your pediatrician, by the way?”

“Dr. Voorhis. You got kids? He’s absolutely the best.”

Bingo! Two votes for Dr. Voorhis
. “If I were in the market I’d sign up right now, Mindy, but my daughter is twenty-two and lives in Colorado. I have a one-month-old granddaughter.”

“No way! You? A grandmother?”

“Yup.”

“Honestly, Hannah, you don’t look old enough to be a grandmother.”

“Sold my soul to the devil in exchange for eternal youth,” I quipped.

There was a long silence, and when Mindy spoke again, her voice was cool and measured. “A word to the wise, Hannah.”

I wondered how I had stepped on her toes.

“Don’t mention the devil in group session.”

“Sorry.”

“You had no way of knowing. It’s Gwen. Her parents were involved in a satanic cult.”

I gulped. “The dairy farmers?”

“It takes all kinds.” While I was digesting this, another line began to buzz, saving me from having to come up with a coherent reply. “Look, gotta go,” Mindy chirped. “Thanks for calling. Will I see you on Wednesday?”

“Probably.”

“Good!” She sounded like a cheerleader. “Keep journaling!”

“I will.”

After I hung up, I stared at the wall for a while, then
looked at the yellow pad in front of me. I’d written
Dr. V
in big, square capital letters and drawn several circles around it. What connection did the pediatrician have with Diane Sturges? Not her husband. I’d read in the
Sun
that Sturges had been married to an architect. That certainly explained the geometric roofline and cantilevered wings of their fashionable Lake Roland home. Was Dr. Voorhis her lover? Or was it just a case of one medical colleague helping out another? I sat there, puzzling, idly drawing additional boxes around his name and decorating the results with superfluous circles and arrows. How was I to know that in less than twenty-four hours I’d be face-to-face with the man, under totally unforeseen circumstances?

chapter
12

At a few minutes after ten-thirty, I finally
found a parking space for my car near the cul-de-sac at the end of Colorado Avenue. I strolled up the sidewalk on the sunny side, savoring the sensation of warmth against my cheek while the rest of me was freezing in the inadequate windbreaker I’d tossed over my jeans and T-shirt.

At Scott and Georgina’s, I reached over and unlatched the gate, then hurried up the walk that bisected the front yard. Ragged remains of summer flowers waved desultorily in the crisp breeze. I passed an overturned tricycle, probably Julie’s, a basketball squashed flat, and a plastic softball bat that, judging from the crack along the seam, might have been used to squash the former.

I pulled open the screen door and rapped sharply with the knocker.

“Come in.” Scott sounded so close, I thought for a minute that he’d hollered at me through the mail slot.

I turned the knob and pushed the door open with two fingers, nearly bumping into my brother-in-law, who
was shrugging into a khaki trench coat. He snatched a wool golf cap from a hook near the door and laid it flat on his head, like a pancake.

Unlike the last time I saw him, Scott was positively charming. He had changed so much, in fact, that I wondered if he’d had a personality transplant.

“Thanks, Hannah. You are a gift from heaven.” He kissed the air next to my cheek.

I cringed. After what he’d said about my parents the other day, I didn’t feel like having anything to do with the jerk.

Scott waved vaguely. “The boys are at school and Julie’s in watching TV.”

“Fine,” I snapped, and hung my coat on a hook next to Georgina’s familiar green one. It swung in the breeze like a ghost, reminding me of the day I had found Georgina at Dr. Sturges’s. I turned to face him. “And when may I expect you, Scott?” I hoped he’d notice my icy tone, but the man was oblivious.

“We’ll pick the boys up at school and be back around four.”

I looked around. “Where’s Georgina?”

“I’m coming!” Georgina appeared in the door of the living room looking radiant. Her auburn hair was piled up on her head in an elaborate twist and her makeup was cover-girl perfect. I’d dressed in five minutes that morning and didn’t dare pass a mirror for fear that I’d die of fright. Or shame.

I grabbed both of Georgina’s hands in mine and squeezed. “It’s
great
to see you looking so well, Georgina.”

She smiled weakly. “I’m a mess, Hannah, but I’m hoping that this new doctor can help straighten me out.”

I had to agree, Georgina
was
a mess. A beautiful
mess, like a freshly painted Victorian house consumed by termites and riddled with dry rot. I pulled her to me and hugged her hard. “God, I hope so, baby!”

“C’mon, Georgina!” Scott had opened the door. A cold breeze whistled up my pants legs and a dry leaf skittered across the hardwood floor.

Georgina grabbed her coat and handed it to Scott, who draped it carefully around his wife’s shoulders. She stepped out onto the porch, turned her head, and graced me with a Mona Lisa smile. “Wish me luck!”

“Good luck.” I waved and stood in the doorway until Scott started his engine. As I closed the door, I heard the SUV roar away.

“Hey, Julie!” I called. “Where’s my favorite niece?” There was no answer, but I could hear the TV blaring. When I entered the TV room, Julie appeared flushed and listless, curled up on the sofa with Abby. The blue-gray afghan Mother had crocheted for Georgina two Christmases ago was tucked loosely around her knees. Sally Jessy Raphael was interviewing a former stripper. Clearly no one did any prescreening on the cable box in this house. I found the remote and clicked over to Channel 22.
Arthur
was just ending and
Wishbone
would be coming on soon.

Julie took her thumb out of her mouth and glared at me contemptuously. “I was
watching
that, Aunt Hannah!”

“That’s a grown-up show, Julie. Not for kids.”

“But it was in-ter-rest-ing,” she whined, pronouncing every syllable. “That lady’s a proseltude.”

I tried hard not to laugh. “What does Abby like to watch?”

Julie lifted her toy rabbit and stared at her, nose to nose. “What do
you
want to watch, Abby?” Abby’s whole body nodded, and Julie looked at me with serious eyes.
“Silly Jessy,” she translated. “Abby wants to watch Silly Jessy.” She clicked back to the network show.

I sat down on the sofa next to my niece. One of her taffy-colored ponytails had come loose; the other was bound with a fat green rubber band like the kind that holds celery stalks together in the grocery. I reached out to tuck her hair behind her ear and was surprised to find that she had a fever.

“Ow!” Julie’s mouth was a rosy “O” that declined to release her thumb. “My ear hurts, Aunt Hannah.”

“Well, no wonder. You had the TV up so loud.” I grabbed the remote and punched the volume control until an advertisement for snow tires was reduced to a dull roar.

Julie laid her left palm flat against her ear. “It
really
hurts, Aunt Hannah.” A big tear coursed down her cheek and dripped onto Abby’s nearly bald head.

“Did you tell Mommy?”

She shook her head.

“Daddy?”

“Uh-uh.”

A diabolic plan was beginning to take shape in my head. I, her concerned and compassionate aunt, would take Julie to the pediatrician. To Dr. Voorhis. I was ashamed of myself, but only for a moment. What is the greater good, I thought? And after all, even if the earache was a false alarm concocted by a bored, neglected four-year-old, how could it hurt? I knew one way to find out if the child was faking. “I’m going to take you to the doctor, Julie,” I said.

Julie wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a shiny streak. Her eyebrows knit with worry, then she surprised me by saying, “OK.”

I held out my hand. “Let’s get your coat.”

Julie squirmed off the sofa without using her hands, her thumb still in her mouth, Abby clamped under her arm as though it were in a vise.

While helping Julie into her jacket, I noticed my sister’s key ring hanging on a hook near the front door. I had my own house key, of course, but was curious about one of her keys, a flat brass key to which was tied a white disk labeled “AH.” All Hallows? Nowhere was the key stamped “Do Not Duplicate,” so, thinking it might be useful someday, I tucked the key ring into my pocket, intending to get a copy made. I knew I could put it back before Georgina ever noticed it was missing.

A few minutes later, as I strapped Julie under the seat belt of my Le Baron, I wondered what I would say to the doctor. I should have called for an appointment, but had decided to chance it. They could hardly kick a sick child out of the office.

A quick look in the telephone book told me that Dr. Voorhis had his office at Greenspring Station near the intersection of Joppa and Falls Road. Soon Julie and I were zipping up 83. I made the complicated exit and parked in front of a fake Colonial Williamsburg complex of upscale shops and professional buildings. Julie’s eyes, level with the window, caught sight of a shop. “Can I have an ice cream?”

“Later, love, after we see the doctor.”

Hand in hand, we strolled into the building and checked the directory together. Dr. Voorhis’s office was on the second floor. Once there, a receptionist dressed in a mint green suit with matching shoes and hose looked up when we entered. Julie’s hand was clasped tightly in mine as she lagged shyly behind. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an appointment”—I checked the nameplate on her desk—“Mrs. Care.” I fought to control a laugh.
What a name for a nurse! “I’m taking care of my niece.” I dragged Julie out from where she was hiding behind me. “Julie Cardinale. She’s a patient of Dr. Voorhis’s.”

Mrs. Care’s face brightened and she beamed in Julie’s direction. “Hi, Julie. It’s nice to see you again.”

Julie, her thumb still planted firmly in her mouth, studied Mrs. Care through suspiciously lowered lashes and gave no sign that she recognized the woman. Mrs. Care returned her attention to me. “What seems to be the matter with her?”

“She’s got a raging ear infection, I’m guessing. My sister mentioned that she has had them before.”

“The doctor’s not in yet, Mrs. …?” She raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Ives. I’m Julie’s aunt.”

Mrs. Care jotted my name down on her telephone message pad. “As I was about to say, Dr. Voorhis has been delayed at the hospital, but I expect him any moment. If you and Julie will just have a seat in the waiting room, I’ll let you know just as soon as he comes in.”

Julie and I planted ourselves in a couple of overstuffed chairs by the window and spent the next ten minutes thumbing through an old
Smithsonian Magazine
, learning about what was in the Smithsonian’s “attic.” Julie’s thumb never left her mouth. It must have been shriveled up like a prune by then. Another patient, a girl I judged to be about fourteen whose mother was nowhere to be seen, worked diligently on her math homework. Two mothers with infants sat opposite us, and a little boy about Julie’s age hid behind his mother’s chair and peeked out at Julie from time to time.

I expected to see the doctor when he walked through the front door, so I was surprised when Mrs. Care announced that the doctor would see Linda Parsons now.
Dr. Voorhis must have had a private entrance. The older girl slammed her math book shut, stuffed it into a tattered bookbag, and disappeared through a door behind the receptionist’s desk. Julie and I had made it completely through two more
Smithsonians
and a
Highlights
magazine before it was our turn.

“Ordinarily I’d take Julie right into the examining room,” Mrs. Care said as she escorted us to the doctor’s private office. “But since you aren’t the child’s mother, I suspect he’ll want to talk with you first.” We sat down before a desk completely clear of papers except for one file precisely in the center, a brass lamp with a black shade, a crystal clock, and a pen and pencil set—I tilted my head to read the inscription—presented to the doctor by the Baltimore Rotary Club.