Left for Dead

18

7:00 A.M., Sunday, April 11

Patagonia, Arizona

Phil Tewksbury crawled out of his warm bed and started in on his Sunday chores. He went into the kitchen and turned on Mr. Coffee. Then he unloaded the dishwasher and got his weekly wash under way by loading that week’s dirty uniforms into the aging Maytag. The uniform load went first. While the next load—bedding and towels—was washing, he’d get the uniforms ironed.

He checked the freezer. He had a selection of microwave dinners, enough to make it through the week. Next weekend he’d have to go shopping. Once he had made a real effort to cook decent meals. Now he barely bothered. Why should he? Microwave dinners worked fine for him. As for Christine? Oatmeal was what she wanted—that was all she wanted, three meals a day, 365 days a year.

Oatmeal with skim milk and brown sugar. Phil could hardly stand to look at the stuff anymore, but that was what she wanted and what she ate, so he cooked up a big batch every morning, dividing it into three separate containers—one for breakfast, when she bothered to get out of bed; one for lunch, which she ate usually while he was out delivering mail, and one for dinner. She often ate the third batch long after he had gone to bed. God forbid they should sit at the same table during dinner and actually talk.

When he was working, people knew him. Everybody nodded at the mailman. Little kids waved at the mailman, though they didn’t know him particularly well because he avoided talking about himself and his difficult home situation as much as possible. Phil had broken his silence with Ollie because she was different and because she understood. As far as other people were concerned? The details of his life were nobody else’s business. As far as Phil was concerned, explaining Cassidy’s death to others and admitting what her loss had done to his marriage was far too painful.

A few months ago, with Ollie’s encouragement, Phil had broached the subject with one other individual—his own physician. He had finally broken his self-imposed silence. Worried about the long-term effects of Christine’s oatmeal-only diet on her overall health, Phil had mentioned the subject during his own annual physical.

Dr. Patterson was Phil’s doctor rather than Christine’s. Doc Manning, who had been her doctor once, had been dead for seven years. Since Christine refused to leave the house for any reason, finding a new doctor for her or even taking her to a dentist for a simple and much-needed cleaning or filling wasn’t exactly an option.

Which was why Phil decided to ask his doctor for advice. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about my wife.”

“Wife?” Patterson asked, looking dismayed. “All these years I thought you were a widower. I noticed you wore a wedding ring, but since you never mentioned having a wife, I assumed she was deceased.”

“Not exactly,” Phil said. “But she does have issues. For one thing, I’m worried about her diet. The only thing she eats is oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal?” Dr. Patterson repeated. “As in oatmeal three meals a day? No protein? No vegetables?”

Phil shook his head. “Nothing but. Whenever I try giving her anything else, she tosses it in the garbage.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Years,” Phil admitted. Fifteen going on sixteen, like it says in the song, Phil thought, but he didn’t say it aloud.

“So tell me,” Doc Patterson said. “What’s the deal with the oatmeal?”

Phil took a deep breath before he answered. “It’s what we used to eat for breakfast on Christmas morning, before Cassidy opened her stocking or her presents.”

Dr. Patterson gave Phil a quizzical look. “Cassidy?” the doctor asked. “Who’s Cassidy?”

Phil knew he was in for it now. That was the main reason he avoided talking about Christine—so he wouldn’t have to go over the painful details of Cassidy’s death, which had led, inevitably, to everything else. This time, though, more for Christine’s sake than for his own, he told the whole story.

“So your wife blames you for your daughter’s death?” Patterson asked when Phil finished.

Phil nodded. “Every day and in every way.”

“And you’ve kept the same Christmas tree up and lit for fifteen years? Isn’t it dirty?”

“She dusts it sometimes,” Phil says. “When I’m out of the house or when she thinks I’m sleeping. She wipes off the ornaments and brushes off the cobwebs.”

And replaces some of the bulbs, Phil thought.

That was the first time the bulb-replacement scenario had surfaced in his mind as a coherent thought, when he was talking to Dr. Patterson. He’d thought about it a lot since, but he hadn’t said the words aloud—not to Doc Patterson and not to anyone else, either.

“Have you considered having a psych evaluation?” Patterson asked.

Phil grinned ruefully. “For her or for me?” he asked. “Because I’m probably as much of a nutcase as she is for putting up with it all this time. Seriously, the only way I could get her out of the house is by force, and I’m not going to do that. At first people told me she was grieving and that it would take time. Then they told me she was depressed. Now I think most people have forgotten about her. If they think about her at all, it’s like, ‘Oh, you know, the crazy lady who keeps her Christmas tree up all year long.’”

“Everyone has forgotten about her but you,” Dr. Patterson said.

Phil nodded as tears stung his eyes. “It’s my fault,” he said. “That makes Christine my responsibility.”

“So it’s like that movie Groundhog Day,” Patterson said thoughtfully. “Every morning she wakes up, eats her oatmeal, and thinks that your daughter is going to come out into the living room and open her presents. Are they still there, too?”

“All but one,” Phil answered. “The rest of them are wrapped and unopened.”

Patterson blew out a breath of air and considered for a moment before he spoke again. “It’s a little difficult to diagnose a patient without ever seeing him or her. Would you say your wife is overweight?”

“No,” Phil answered. “More like too skinny than too fat.”

“Any mobility issues?”

“She can walk when she wants to. And I know she does when I’m not around. At night I hear her pacing in her room, but during the day she mostly just sits in the recliner in the living room and stares at the tree. I try to get her to shower once a week.”

“She sounds depressed,” Dr. Patterson said.

“I think so, too.”

“Would she take medication if you offered it to her?”

Phil shook his head. “Probably not,” he said. “I had some leftover antidepressants my old doctor had given me. I tried giving them to Christine. She accused me of trying to poison her.”

“What about her teeth?”

“She’s lost several so far. I begged her to go to the dentist. She says that since I’m the only one who sees her, what does it matter?”

“Presumably, your wife isn’t in the best of health, but then neither are you,” Patterson said. “Your blood pressure is off the charts. So is your cholesterol. If we don’t get a handle on those, chances are she’ll outlive you. Then what will happen to her?”

Patterson had posed that question aloud for the first time several weeks earlier, and Phil had been grappling with the issue ever since. They had no kids—no surviving kids—who could be called on to help out in the face of a long-term health crisis. As Christine had turned into more and more of a hermit, the people who were once their friends had slowly drifted away. So had their relations. For now this was Phil’s fight and nobody else’s.

That was what had prompted him to bite the bullet and replace the windows. It was why he was painting the exterior of the house and garage. His next plan was to redo the kitchen and replace the appliances. Next up after that would be the bathroom. And finally, the living room. If Christine was ever left alone with a caregiver, it would be in a house that was in the best shape Phil could manage.

Lost in thought, Phil absently stirred the pot of oatmeal. Once it was finished, he divided it into the three microwaveable plastic bowls and set them on the kitchen counter before putting the dirty saucepan in the dishwasher to run with yesterday’s dishes. Then he moved the uniforms into the dryer and loaded the bedding into the Maytag. Glancing up at his grandmother’s antique teapot-shaped clock, he saw that it was ten to seven—time for his one bit of daily self-indulgence.

Every morning before work and on weekends, too, Phil stopped by the San Rafael Café to have a leisurely breakfast and shoot the breeze. His breakfast choices at the café tended to include crisp bacon and over-easy eggs, something he had no intention of mentioning to Doc Patterson.

After breakfast, he’d come home, do the ironing, paint the garage trim, and do the rest of his chores, all the while hoping that Ollie would be waiting to see him when he delivered her mail on Monday afternoon.