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Wednesday, October 14, 2015

The Deep Places

You won't find answers until you dive in.


There was a storm coming.  The seawater had turned a steely gray, a dangerous color.  The runnels of foam dragged at Lee’s bare feet, tugging him toward the surf.  He turned and looked outward, toward the horizon, as a violent wave dashed itself to pieces, and he tasted salt.

This was where it had happened, a year ago.  Whatever it was that actually had happened.  All Lee knew was that Jane had vanished, without a word to him, no clue as to why.  She was there one day, missing the next.  Her clothes were found, neatly folded on a piece of driftwood, as if she’d stripped and just… swam away.

Nothing in her actions during the weeks preceding her disappearance had seemed odd.  Her wry smile, her habit of brushing back a lock of dark hair from her forehead, her kind touch, all were as usual.  Even in the days that followed, when mourning spouses think thoughts of “If only I’d paid more attention at the time…”, there were no clues to be found in memory.  Lee puzzled over everything, what she had said and done, places she’d gone, overheard scraps of telephone conversations.  There was nothing, not the least hint of what was to come.  Her disappearance was a subtraction; she simply wasn’t there any more.  

The police suspected foul play, of course, but nothing about that made sense.  Why would a murderer strip his victim and leave the clothes behind in a trim stack?  The Coast Guard was called in, divers searched likely spots in the bay, but no trace of her was found except for the t-shirt, shorts, and underwear, placed on a log beyond the reach of the waves, as if she had thought, I won’t need these any more, but no sense ruining them.  Lee realized with dull surprise that the police were probably investigating him, seeing if there was any reason why he’d wanted Jane dead.  But when no body turned up, and it became clear that he was what he seemed to be – a spouse devastated by his wife’s presumed death – they gave up and moved on to more straightforward cases.

Five weeks after Jane’s disappearance, the dreams started.

Lee had gone to Colorado, far away from the ocean, to get away from the hateful, incessant pounding of the waves.  Deprived of their reality, they invaded his sleep, and he woke up tasting salt and still feeling the water coursing over his body, seeing Jane swimming, her naked body, so familiar, now subtly… changed.  He awoke desperately, terrifyingly aroused, needing her, but full wakefulness just brought him back to the empty bed in a motel in the Colorado Rockies, the bedsheets tangled around his bare legs.

So he had come back.  His return felt inevitable.  And now he stood there, the storm coming in, the seawater curling around his ankles.  The wind ruffled his hair; thunder growled in the distance.  He pulled his shirt off, tossed it to the sand; no neat folding for him.  He unsnapped his shorts, pulled them and his boxers off together, threw them aside, and strode forward into the water.  He remembered what she’d said to him, in the dream: it will feel cold at first, but not for long.

Lee plunged headfirst in, and the ocean received him like a lover.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Bad Blood

Don't piss off Melba Crane's ex-husband.


Melba Crane looked up as Dr. Carlisle entered the room.  She smiled, revealing a row of white and undoubtedly false teeth, and said, “Hello, doctor!  I don’t think we’ve met yet.  How are you today?”

Dorian Carlisle looked at his new patient.  She was tiny, frail-looking, with carefully-styled curly hair of a pure snowy white, and eyes that were the color of faded cornflowers.  “I’m fine, Mrs. Crane,” he said.   “I’m Dr. Carlisle – I’m looking after Dr. Kelly’s patients while he’s on vacation.”

Mrs. Crane nodded.  “My, you look so young,” she said.  “It’s hard to believe you’re a doctor.”  She laughed a little.  “I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Carlisle said, lifting one of Mrs. Crane’s delicate wrists and feeling gently for a pulse.  “I take it as a compliment.”

“It will be even more of a compliment when you’re my age,” Mrs. Crane said.  “I just turned 87 three weeks ago.”

“Well, happy belated birthday,” Dr. Carlisle said.  “I hear you had kind of a rough night last night.”

Mrs. Crane gave a little tsk and a dismissive gesture of her hand.  “Just a few palpitations, that’s all,” she said.  “Nothing this old heart of mine hasn’t seen a hundred times before.”

“Still, let’s give a listen,” Dr. Carlisle said, and pressed his stethoscope to her chest.  Other than a slight heart murmur, the beat sounded steady and strong – remarkable for someone her age.

“How long will Dr. Kelly be away?” Mrs. Crane asked, as Dr. Carlisle continued his examination.

“Two weeks.  He and his family went to Hawaii.”

“Oh, Hawaii, how lovely,” Mrs. Crane said.  “Such a nice man, and with a beautiful wife and two nice children.  He’s shown me pictures.”

Dr. Carlisle nodded.  “They’re nice folks.”  He pointed to a small framed photograph of a somewhat younger Mrs. Crane with a tall, well-built man, who appeared to be about thirty.  The man was darkly good looking, with a short, clipped beard and angular features.  He wore a confident smile, and stood behind Mrs. Crane, who was seated, her legs primly crossed at the ankle.  The man had his hand on her shoulder.

“Your son?” Dr. Carlisle asked.

Mrs. Crane nodded, and smiled fondly.  “Yes, that’s Derek,” she said.  “My only son.”

“Do you get to see him often?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.  “He visits me every day, especially now that I’m here in the nursing home.”  She paused, and sighed a little.  “His father was Satan, you know.”

Dr. Carlisle froze, and he just stared at her.  She didn’t react, just maintained her gentle little smile, her blue eyes regarding him with grandmotherly fondness.  He thought, I just misheard her.  What did she say?  His father was a saint.  His father liked satin.  His father was named Stan.  His father looked like Santa.  But each of those collided with his memory, which stubbornly clung to what it had first heard.  Finally, he just said, “I beg your pardon?”

“Satan,” Mrs. Crane said, her voice still mild and bland.  “That’s Derek’s father.  Lucifer.  He used to visit, too, quite often, when Derek was little, but I expect he has other concerns these days.”  She giggled a little, and said, “And I’m sure he’s had dalliances with other ladies since my time.  Quite a charmer, you know, whatever else you might say about him.”

“Oh,” Dr. Carlisle said, a little thinly.  “That’s interesting.”

“Well, of course,” Mrs. Crane continued, “you couldn’t ask him to be faithful.  He isn’t that type.  I did have to put up with a great deal of disapproval from people who thought it was immoral that I had a child out of wedlock.  But after all,” she said, and gave a little titter, “what else could they have expected?  He’s Satan, after all.”

He cleared his throat.  “Yes, well, Mrs. Crane, I have to finish my examination of you, and see a couple of other patients this morning, so…”  He trailed off.

Mrs. Crane gave her little wave of the hand again.  “Oh, of course, doctor.  I’m just being a garrulous old woman, going on like that.  I’m sorry I’ve kept you.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Dr. Carlisle said, giving her a smile that was a little forced.  “And I wouldn’t worry about the palpitations – usually they’re not an indication of anything serious, especially if they don’t last long, as in your case.  Your blood pressure is fine, and your last blood work was normal, so I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

“I tried to tell the nurse that,” she said.  “But she insisted that I see the doctor this morning.  I’m sorry I’m keeping you away from patients who need your help more than I do.”

“No worries, Mrs. Crane,” he said, hanging his stethoscope around his neck.  “Take care, and have a nice day.”

“You too, doctor,” Mrs. Crane said.  “It’s been lovely talking to you.”

Dr. Carlisle opened the door, and exited into the hall, feeling a bit dazed.

He stood for a moment, frowning slightly, and then seemed to come to a decision.  He walked off down the hall toward the nurses’ station, and set his clipboard on the counter, and leaned against it.

“Excuse me, nurse…?” he said, smiling.  “I’m covering for Dr. Kelly this week and next.  I’m Dr. Carlisle – my office is up at Colville General.”

The nurse, a slim, middle-aged woman with gold-rimmed glasses and short salt-and-pepper hair, gave him a hand.  “I’m glad to meet you,” she said.  “Dana Treadwell.  If there’s anything I can do…”

“Well, actually,” Dr. Carlisle said, “I do have a question.  About Mrs. Crane, in 214.”

Dana smiled.  “She’s an interesting case,” she said.

Dr. Carlisle nodded.  “That’s my impression.  She’s here because of advanced osteoporosis, but is there anything else that you can tell me that might be helpful?”

“Has periodic mild cardiac arrhythmia,” Dana said.  “She had a full cardio workup about six months ago, showed nothing serious of note.  Some tendency to elevated blood pressure, but medication keeps it in check.”  She paused, gave Dr. Carlisle a speculative look.  “Some signs of mild dementia.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.  Is she… delusional?”

“That depends on what you mean,” Dana said.  “Mentally, I hope I’m as with it when I’m 87.  But she is prone to… flights of fancy.  Particularly about her past.”

Dr. Carlisle didn’t answer for a moment.  Should I mention the whole Satan thing? he thought, and decided against it.  “She does seem to like telling stories,” he finally said.

“That she does,” Dana said.

The following day, Dr. Carlisle was making his rounds, and passed Mrs. Crane’s room, and heard a male voice.  Curiosity did battle with reluctance to talk to her again, and curiosity won.  He stepped into the room.

Mrs. Crane looked up from a conversation she was having with a man who was seated at the edge of the bed, gently holding her hand.  When the man turned toward him, Dr. Carlisle immediately recognized him as the man in the photograph – noticeably older, perhaps in his mid to late fifties, but clearly the same person.  He still had the same carefully-maintained short beard, the same dark handsomeness, the same sense of strength, energy, presence.

“Oh, doctor, I’m so glad you’ve stopped by!” Mrs. Crane said.  “This is my son, Derek.”

“Dorian Carlisle.  Nice to meet you.  I’m going to be your mother’s doctor for the next two weeks, until Dr. Kelly returns.”

Derek got up and extended a hand.  “Derek Crane,” he said, and they clasped hands.  Derek’s hand jerked a little, and a quick flinch crossed his face.

“Sorry,” Dr. Carlisle said, almost reflexively.

“It’s nothing,” Derek said.  “Three weeks ago, I hurt my hand doing some home renovations.  I guess it’s still not completely healed.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Dr. Carlisle started, but Derek cut him off.

“It’s nothing,” he said.  “Mom has been telling me about your visit yesterday.  It sounds like she talked your ear off.”

Dr. Carlisle smiled.  “Not at all.  It was a pleasure.  I’d much rather chat with my patients and get to know them a little – otherwise, all too easily this job starts being about symptoms and treatments, and stops being about people.”

Mrs. Crane beamed at them.  “Well, it’s so nice of you to take time from your busy schedule to stop in,” she said.  “I haven’t had any more palpitations.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Carlisle said.  “I just wanted to see how you were doing.  Nice to meet you, Derek.”

“Likewise,” Derek said, and smiled a little. 

Was there something – tense? speculative? about the smile?  Don’t be ridiculous, Dr. Carlisle thought.  His mother just primed me to be wary of him because she’s delusional.

Dr. Carlisle exited the room, and then stopped suddenly, his face registering shock.  He looked down at his hands.  On his right ring finger he wore his high school class ring, from St. Thomas More Catholic Academy.  He raised the ring to his eye, and saw, on each side of the blue stone in the setting, a tiny engraved cross.

That night, Dr. Carlisle told his girlfriend about Mrs. Crane over dinner.

“Now I want to meet this lady,” Nicole said, grinning.

“Can’t do that,” he said.  “I can’t even tell you her name.  Privacy laws, and all that.  I probably shouldn’t have even told you as much as I did.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to go and tell anyone,” she replied.  “And I have to hear about your job.  It’s a big part of your life.”

He took a sip of wine.  “And this one was just so out of left field.  I’ve dealt with people with dementia before; but they always show some kind of across-the-board disturbance in their behavior.  This was like, one thing.  In other respects, she seems so normal.”

“You didn’t talk to her that long,” Nicole said.

“No,” he admitted.  “But you learn to recognize dementia when you see it.  There was something about the way she looked at you – you could tell that her brain was just fine.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow.  “So, you think she really did have a fling with Satan?”

He scowled.  “No, of course not.  But I think she believes it.  But then…” he trailed off.

“But then what?”

“Her son jumped when I shook his hand, like he’d been shocked, or something.  Then he made some excuse about how he’d hurt his hand a couple of weeks ago.  But I noticed afterwards – I was wearing my high school ring.  It’s got crosses engraved on it.  And it was probably blessed by the bishop.”

“You’re kidding me, right?  I thought you’d given up all of that religious stuff when you moved out of your parents’ house.”

“I did.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” she said.

“All I’m saying is that it was weird.”

“And you’re acting pretty weird, yourself.”

“I just wonder if it might not be possible to test it.  See if maybe she’s telling the truth.”

“You do believe her!  Dorian, you’re losing it.  Satan?  You think she screwed Satan?”

He sat back in his chair.  “I dunno,” he finally said.  “All I can say is, she believes it enough that it made me wonder.”

The next day, other than a quick walk down the hall in the early morning hours, Dr. Carlisle avoided that wing of the nursing home until after lunch.  When he finally went down the hallway toward room 214, he found that his heart was pounding.  But he was stopped in the hall before he got to Mrs. Crane’s room by the nurse he’d spoken to two days earlier, Dana Treadwell.

“You missed some excitement,” Dana said.

“What happened?”

“A bad spill.  Broken leg, possible fractured pelvis.”

Dr. Carlisle swallowed.  “Which one of the patients?”

“Not a patient,” Dana said.  “Mrs. Crane’s son.  Slipped on wet tile right outside his mother’s room, and fell.  Hard to believe you could be so badly hurt from a fall.  They brought him to the Colville General – I heard he’s still in surgery.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Mrs. Crane was really upset.”

“I’m sure,” Dr. Carlisle said.

Dana seemed to pick up the odd tone in his voice.  She raised one eyebrow, and said, “Yeah.  She was completely distraught.”


Dana nodded.  “Especially after her ex-husband came by.  We finally had to give her a sedative.”

Dr. Carlisle tried to think of something to say, and finally just choked out, “That’s too bad,” and turned away, hoping that Dana wouldn’t notice the ghastly expression on his face.  He stuck his hand in his lab jacket pocket, and fingered the small glass bottle, now empty, that he’d filled early that morning at the font in the nursing home’s chapel.

“Oh, and Dr. Carlisle?” Dana said, and he turned.

“You might want to know that before we finally got her to go to sleep, your name came up.”

“Me?” Dr. Carlisle squeaked.  “What did she say?”

“Something about your ‘needing an ocean of holy water.’  You might want to let Dr. Bennett handle her case from now on.”  She smiled.  “Just a suggestion.”