Before she gets out of bed, I need to do some digging into her personal effects.
After stretching my achy limbs, I tiptoe out of her room.
I search through the sideboard in the living room, as my mother keeps a locked safe-deposit box inside. She doesn’t know I know where the key is, but the upstairs vent is not only a conduit for conversations but also a peephole. The other night, I peered through the slats, and though I couldn’t see much from my vantage point, I could see her retrieve the key from an opening in the grandfather clock.
After slipping the key from its hiding spot, I sit cross-legged on the floor and sort through the box. There’s not much in there, at least not what I expected. I figured she kept important papers and documents, but it’s mainly old articles tied to Jonathan’s death. The obit for Edward Pearson is also inside.
As I’m about to close the lid, I see a couple letters that have been sent to her, along with a photo that eerily resembles me.
What the hell? I wonder.
Even the handwriting is similar to mine, down to the swoops and slants of my letters. Rubbing a hand over my face, I command myself to think. Did I send her these? Was this a sloppy mistake on my part?
But they threaten her for money, alluding to graphic details of the night Jonathan died, and the envelopes are postmarked from Florida and signed with only an S.
Startled by a thud, I quickly shut the box and replace it and the key where they belong. I creep to her bedroom door to listen, wondering if she’s awake. I can hear her heavy breathing through the door, so I escape back to the living room.
My mother still has a wall calendar by her old rotary phone, and I flip through it to locate any information on upcoming doctor appointments or clinic names. I might have to stop in that office and speak to that woman my mother was in session with, a therapist or psychiatrist, I presume.
Thumbing through her calendar, I notice a couple dates that are marked with AA, but I highly doubt it’s an Alcoholics Anonymous or Al-Anon meeting. Those would be suggestions for me, I think as my face flames red.
Unsure what it stands for, I keep it in the back of my mind.
She has the letter R marked in red throughout the last few months. I don’t see a pattern, and some weeks have more red marks than others.
On the back of her calendar is a crumpled business card taped to the heavy cardstock. The letters are faded, as if someone kept rubbing at the font with their fingertip, trying to smudge it. I can barely make out the letters spelling out some kind of psychiatrist. A name and phone number are listed, but no address.
When I type the name into Google, the website is bare bones. It’s just a woman wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat that says Dr. Alacoy, Clinical Psychiatrist. She’s standing against a brick building.
I recognize this as the building I was snooping in. Minimal information beyond the bespectacled doctor’s education is listed, not even the address where I was. I dial the number from the card and wait for a voice mail to pick up so I can leave a message, but it just rings.
Disappointed, I hang up.
My mother used to go to a Doc Marshall, who was also my primary care doctor growing up. He’s the one who gave me all my vaccinations and a never-ending supply of lollipops to console me. Being from a small town involves a lack of privacy, but that can be positive when you need to reach someone directly. Since you know most people on a first-name basis, you have access to them personally. Case in point, Doc Marshall’s cell is written on the back of her calendar.
When I call, he’s eager to hear from me, though half-alert, and I realize it’s barely 6:00 a.m.
After I apologize for the early call, Doc Marshall listens as I list off the medications prescribed to Deborah. There’s a long pause before he admits he hasn’t prescribed her any pain pills or seen her for at least a year.
Odd.
The prescribing doctor on the label is not the psychiatrist, Dr. Alice Alacoy, but a different name.
I’m perplexed that Doc Marshall is unfamiliar with either doctor, since he’s been practicing for more than forty years in this area. Before he hangs up, he tells me he’ll do some checking on both doctors.
When I try to reenter my mother’s room, I’m shocked to find the doorknob doesn’t move. I knock loudly, presuming she doesn’t want to be bothered but still worried. “Can you at least let me know you’re okay?” I say calmly. “I’ve got some errands to run in town. Need anything?”
She dismisses me with, “I’m fine, and no.”
With a sigh, I let her know I’ll be back later, that I have errands to run. After retreating to my car, I mindlessly stare out the windshield as I drive, counting the dead bugs splattered across the glass. My phone shrills, catching me off guard. “Hello,” I answer.
“Hi. I had a missed call from this number.”
Worried I didn’t vet the caller appropriately, I reply with, “Um, who is this?”
“You called me. Alice.” The feminine voice has an air of disdain to it. “Wait, is this a telemarketer?”
“No,” I hasten to say. “Are you taking new clients?”
There’s a brief pause. In an accusatory manner, she says, “This is an out-of-state number.”
“I know. I just
