Sing It to Her Bones

10

Because I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going, Bill joined me on Ellie’s front porch and pointed out the back of the old Chase house on Princess Anne Street. He told me that Frank Chase’s office was on the ground floor of the house he had inherited from his parents, but that the doctor actually lived in a luxury condo catering to young professionals on Ferry Point Road, not far from Hal’s marina.

“What’s on the second floor then?” I asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest. Files, I imagine. Boxes of paper gowns.”

I thanked Bill, waved good-bye, and backed my trusty Toyota out onto High. At the light at Church Street I turned left. As I prepared to turn left again onto Princess Anne, preoccupied with the questions I planned to ask Dr. Chase, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid an old man who was proceeding through the middle of the intersection, hunched over a walker.

“Damn fool!” I shouted before it came to me. I know that face. Old Mr. Schneider.

Oblivious of the traffic that was screeching to a halt all around him, Dennis’s father-in-law crept across the road, pushing the walker in front of him. An attendant shot out the back door of the nursing home and caught up with him. Mr. Schneider paused, glanced up, and studied my car as if wondering where he’d seen it before. I tooted my horn, and he lifted a shaky hand from his walker to wave, but he couldn’t have had any idea who I was. He probably waved at everyone. The attendant pointed Mr. Schneider in the opposite direction, signaling an apology to me and the three other cars waiting at the intersection. I smiled, and waved back, thinking he looked familiar, too. He might have been the same guy I’d seen on the porch the day of Katie’s funeral, but all the attendants looked the same to me in those ugly green uniforms.

Before Princess Anne dead-ends at the water next to Hamilton’s Seafood Restaurant, it winds through a handsome residential neighborhood and is lined with trees whose leaves were already beginning to form a canopy that by midsummer would shade the street so completely that you’d need a flash to take a photograph there. As I pulled up to number 37, the fleet of cars parked in front of the office surprised me. Maybe I’d arrived in the middle of a flu epidemic. Not wanting to catch anything from some sneezing, sniveling child, I considered not going in, after all, but was reminded by the pain that shot up my arm when I set the parking brake that that might not be such a good idea.

“Come on, Julie Lynn!” I held the door open for a young woman in her twenties dragging a reluctant toddler by the arm. Julie Lynn’s face was flushed, and she clutched a bright orange Elmo doll to her chest. Julie Lynn’s mother swiped with the back of her hand at a strand of hair that curled damply down over an eyebrow. “Thanks. It’s really packed today. We were here for two hours… but everything seems like hours when you’ve got a sick three-year-old on your hands.”

Inside, in what must have been the former living room of the house, I saw she was right. The doctor’s waiting room was full; at least all ten chairs were occupied. Several patients looked up as I entered, then returning to reading, knitting, or just sitting there listlessly, staring at the walls. In a corner near the reception desk a freckled blond-headed kid sat at a small table on one of two wooden chairs, an assortment of crayons and several coloring books spread out before him. Bits of discarded crayon wrapper littered the floor at his feet. As he colored, he experimented with a variety of humming noises combined with wetly buzzing his lips as if he’d just learned the trick and was trying to impress (or annoy) as many of us as possible. As I watched him work, I remembered, with a pang, that Emily had never liked to color within the lines, either.

The reception desk was waist-high and stretched the width of the room. No one was sitting behind it as I approached, but a nameplate, Nora Wishart, was propped up on the polished Formica. I stood there for a few minutes listening to the phone ring and looking for a bell to push, waiting for Ms. Wishart to appear. “Hello?” I warbled hopefully.

A voice somewhere behind me said, “He’ll be out in a minute. You’ll just have to wait. Nora’s not here, so things are a little backed up.”

The advice came from a very pregnant young woman, sprawled uncomfortably in the molded plastic chair, her feet stretched straight out in front of her.

“I see.” I lounged against the counter and watched in fascination as the blond kid colored Mickey Mouse green with an orange face. A red feather gradually took shape over the top of Mickey’s head. “That’s a nice hat,” I said.

He scowled up at me as if I were the stupidest grown-up in three counties. “That’s not a hat.” Tongue protruding with the effort, he ground the red crayon up and down a few more times over Mickey’s ears. “His hair’s on fire.”

I was imagining how the little monster would look with a violet blue Crayola shoved up his nose when Dr. Chase suddenly appeared, helping an elderly woman into her coat. “Don’t forget now. One of the white pills and one of the blue pills with each meal. Here, I’ve written it down for you.” He pressed a piece of paper into the woman’s hand, watched with patience as she transferred the paper to her purse, then opened the front door for her. Dr. Chase stood there for a few minutes observing the woman’s progress as she tottered down the sidewalk. When she had safely reached her car, he turned and addressed the pregnant woman. “I believe you’re next, Mrs. Quigley.

Mrs. Quigley struggled to her feet, but before the doctor could get away, I thought I’d better let him know I was there. I crossed the room, grinding one of the brat’s crayons into the carpet with my heel. “Dr. Chase, I’m Hannah Ives. I can see you’re very busy, but I just wanted to know if you would be able to see me today. I fell off my sister-in law’s boat-”

Dr. Chase ran a hand through hair that was thick and dark, except for a bald spot in the back the size of a pancake. “Of course, but I’ll probably be another hour or so.” He spoke to Mrs. Quigley. “Excuse me for a minute, will you?” The phone was ringing again, and he reached over the counter to answer it. With the receiver tucked between his ear and shoulder, he retrieved a clipboard with a blank form attached to it along with a ballpoint pen on a string. He made a scribbling motion with his fingers, then nodded in the direction of the waiting room. I gathered from this pantomime that I was to have a seat and fill out the darn thing.

I took the clipboard, mouthed a thank-you, and eased myself into the chair that had been well warmed by the mother-to-be.

Numbers! So many numbers. And boxes to check (both sides). Sometimes I could almost forget that I’d had cancer until something like this cropped up as a grim reminder. I hurriedly filled out the medical questionnaire and turned to more interesting matters, true facts that can only be gleaned by reading old issues of People and Time. I didn’t know that Loretta Young had had a daughter out of wedlock with Clark Gable! Amazing! Doctor’s offices can be such educational experiences, like standing in long checkout lines at the grocery, catching up with the tabloids. I was in the middle of an article about Fergie, Duchess of York, when the phone rang. Nobody picked up. It rang and rang and rang, insistent and shrill. I couldn’t stand it. I crossed to the counter, reached out, snatched the receiver off the hook, and said, “Doctor’s office.” Someone wanted to cancel an appointment. I wrote the information down on a slip of paper torn off a prescription pad, then returned to my magazine.

The blond kid was eventually dragged away from his artwork by a father with nerves of steel and the patience of Job, and the room gradually emptied until it was just me and the old fellow sitting next to me. By now his chin had dropped to his chest, and he was snoring loudly.

Dr. Chase appeared and waved a man dressed in overalls, like a farmer, out the door. “Sir?” I jiggled the old guy’s arm. “Sir. I believe you’re next.”

He awoke with a snort. “Hunh?” When he finally remembered where he was, he stood, patted both breast pockets of his tweed jacket and produced a brown plastic prescription vial. “Just need a refill.” He thrust the empty container in the doctor’s direction. “For this.”

Dr. Chase smiled. “I am sorry you had to wait so long, Mr. Finch, particularly when it wasn’t necessary. It says here on the label ‘two refills.’ Just take this bottle directly to the pharmacy next time. No need to wait here.”

“Oh.” Finch turned the bottle in his hands and stared at the label, looking forlorn. “Lucy would have known that.”

“I’m sure she would have. I’ll call the pharmacy for you, shall I? Then it’ll be ready when you get there.” Dr. Chase escorted Finch to the door with one arm encircling his shoulders. When the old man was safely away, Dr. Chase flipped a sign on the door from Open to Closed, pushed it shut, and leaned back against it with a sigh. “Whew! What a madhouse! My nurse is down with the flu, and my office manager was called out of town early yesterday on a family emergency. Phone’s been ringing off the hook.”

“Yes, I know. I took a call for you. A Mrs. Allen apologizes profusely and says she won’t be able to keep her appointment at ten tomorrow.” I handed him the scrap of paper along with the clipboard and the questionnaire I had filled out.

He studied the note first, then tucked it into the pocket of his lab coat. “Well, thank heaven for small favors.” He scanned my questionnaire. “Oh, right. You’re Paul Ives’s wife.” He appraised me over the top of his glasses, and I hoped he’d been too busy to watch the local news this week.

I shifted my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other and waited to be embarrassed, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes moved rapidly down the page. I could tell by the raised eyebrow when he got to the mastectomy part.

“You’ve had a rough week, haven’t you?” he said at last. “First finding the body. Now, what’s this about falling off a boat?”

“Well, I didn’t fall off… not exactly. I just sort of hung off. Pulled the muscles here.” I touched my left side. “It’s awfully painful.” I rotated my shoulder.

“Can you raise your arm?” He demonstrated by extending his arms to his sides like a football referee calling off sides.

I held my arms out from my body at a ninety-degree angle. “That’s as far as I can stretch without screaming.”

Dr. Chase grinned. “If you can do that, I shouldn’t worry. There’s probably nothing that a day or two of taking it easy won’t cure. Wait here just a minute.”

He disappeared down the hall and through a swinging door. He appeared again a few minutes later with a handful of colorful packets. “Here are a few painkillers. Should be enough to get you through the next couple of days.”

I cupped my hands as a few dozen packets cascaded into them. “Cute,” I said.

“They’re samples. Pharmaceutical companies inundate me with the stuff. Thought I’d save you a few bucks.”

I crammed the tablets into my purse. “Thanks, Doctor. What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing. You answered the phone. Remember?”

I shrugged. “No problem. It was self-defense. Ringing phones make me crazy.”

Dr. Chase began pulling down the window shades, preparing to close the office for the day. I didn’t want to leave until I had asked him about Katie, but in spite of all the time I’d just spent sitting in his waiting room thinking, I still hadn’t come up with a subtle way to phrase it.

“Connie tells me you inherited this practice from your father,” I blathered.

“That’s right.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and the Muzak went quiet in the middle of an orchestral version of “My Way.” “Dad and I began working together in the early nineties.”

“When did your father pass away?”

“Almost three years ago. He just seemed to give up after Mom died. You know, some days it’s hard for me to believe that they’re both gone.”

Dr. Chase continued turning out lights while I tried to think how I could ask my questions without betraying Angie’s confidence. “Was the body I found-was Katie Dunbar ever a patient of your father’s?”

Dr. Chase looked thoughtful. “Could have been, I guess. Almost everyone in town was at one time or another. I don’t exactly know. I was still in medical school when she disappeared.”

“I was just wondering if there might have been anything in Katie’s medical file that could have shed some light on her death.”

“I doubt it. But even if there were, it’s probably long gone. I had my father’s inactive files shredded last year.”

“Shredded? Don’t you have to keep medical files forever, or have them microfilmed, or something?”

“We’re only required to keep inactive files for seven years, thank God, otherwise…” He gestured toward the back of the office. “Here, let me show you something.”

Dr. Chase passed ahead of me through a swinging door that led into a dark hall. Within a few feet the hallway widened into a rectangular room that might originally have been an elegant dining room. Now, however, the room was filled with row upon row of lateral file cabinets, four drawers high and crammed with folders, enough, I thought, for every man, woman, and child in Chesapeake County, maybe even the state of Maryland.

Dr. Chase pointed to the desk, where a stack of charts teetered precariously in a standard wooden in box. Other files were fanned out over the desktop. “That’s just the patients I’ve seen since yesterday.” He tapped my questionnaire. “Don’t know when I’ll get your chart made up and filed if my office manager doesn’t return soon. I’m still waiting to hear back from the temporary agency. The woman they sent yesterday was a disaster.”

I had a brainstorm. “How much were you paying for the temp?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. I suppose that sounded a bit nosy, but I didn’t intend it to be. I’m in between jobs at the moment. I’d be happy to fill in, but just until Nora gets back.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Don’t think I’m volunteering to do it for free! Just pay me whatever you were paying the temp agency.”

Dr. Chase stared at me, disbelief written all over his face.

“Don’t worry,” I added. “I’m experienced. Ask Connie. Until recently I managed a large office in Washington, D.C.”

He brightened perceptibly. “That’s not what was worrying me. How about your injury?”

“Will I have to lift heavy boxes?”

“No.”

“How about three-hundred-pound patients?”

“Hardly!”

“So, just as long as I’m lifting nothing heavier than a file or a telephone, and I don’t run out of these”-I patted my purse-“I should be all right.”

“Can’t deny that I need the help.” He waved his arm in the general direction of the reception area. “I don’t even know how to forward the darn phones to the answering service.”

“I can do that, too.”

Dr. Chase removed his lab coat and hung it on a nearby coat-tree. Looking vastly relieved, he pulled a linen sports jacket off a hanger and shrugged into it. “Then we have a deal. Tomorrow at seven-thirty? Your first assignment is to call the temp agency and tell them thanks but no thanks. And the phones?”

But I had lifted the receiver and was already punching buttons. “My pleasure.”

We left the office together a few minutes later, the pain in my arm all but forgotten. Tomorrow, I thought, there’d be no need to bother the good doctor. I would help Dr. Chase with his overdue filing and look for Katie’s file, if it still existed, myself.