night. I left you a list of friends in your Edgar Allan Poe book. Also, hate to tell you, but I still need to get a top hat and cape.”
“Arch! I haven’t called anybody!”
“Mom!”
I sighed. “I’ll do it when we get home. Find out how much the cape and hat cost when they’re not made of silk.”
“Gee, Mom, thanks.”
“I didn’t say I’d get them!”
“Yeah, but whenever you tell me to check on the price I know you’re going to do it.”
I dropped Arch at the Farquhars and drove toward Philip’s office. Between Interstate 70 and downtown Aspen Meadow there was a business complex done all in dark horizontal wood paneling with pale turquoise deck railings and trim. This mountain style-meets-Santa Fe commercial space, known as Aspen Meadow North, housed Philip’s office, Aspen Meadow Cafe, Elizabeth’s store— To Your Health!—and assorted real estate and medical centers. Aspen Meadow had more chiropractors per square foot than any area outside of northern California. Two new ones had set up shop in this complex, which had originally been developed by Harrington and Associates. There was also, I noticed as I drove in, an optometrist.
I parked and picked up the packet of decals. My cover, I would tell Schulz later.
Elizabeth was not back in her store yet. To my surprise, there was no GET INTO THE SWIM! decal in her window. The clerk did not feel a donation from the cash register was possible in the owner’s absence. No problem, I said, and bought some dried pineapple. Neither of the chiropractors wanted to give to the school. I asked if there was anything I could do to adjust their opinion, but they just looked at me blankly and said no. Aspen Meadow Cafe already had a decal. The curtained windows of Philip’s office had no decal. I moved on to my true quarry.
Doggone. The optometrist’s window had a decal. I went in anyway.
“I’m interested in contact lenses,” I told the receptionist.
We discussed an eye exam. When was my last one? I couldn’t remember. There had been a cancellation for that afternoon; she thought she could schedule me. She’d have to ask the doctor. I entreated. She disappeared and I quickly turned the appointment book back to Friday, June 3.
There it was.
The receptionist returned, triumphant. “He can see you in half an hour,” she announced.
I said I’d take it. While filling out the necessary forms, I felt the attention of the receptionist on me.
She said, “Don’t I know you?”
I felt so proud when people recognized me. It made all the work on publicizing the business worthwhile.
“I’m Aspen Meadow’s only caterer.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head, “that’s not it.” There was a flash of recognition. “You’re the one who was married to Dr. John Richard Korman.”
“One of the ones.”
“God,” she said as she rolled her eyes and giggled. “He is
The nurse appeared at the doorway and called me.
Within five minutes, I wished I had taken extra-strength pain reliever before starting the exam. I couldn’t read the bottom row of letters, tried too hard, felt like a failure. If my eyes were good enough for the driver’s license test, why weren’t they good enough here? Then on to the big circles of lenses. Which looks better, number one or number two?
Neither.
The optometrist was named H. D. Cartwheel. He had more freckles than I would have believed possible for a single human being. He had tamed his mass of red hair over to one side with a sweet-smelling cream. I had to bite my lip to keep from asking if the H. D. stood for Howdy Doody. Actually, I should have been asking questions about contact lenses. But I couldn’t think of anything except how soon the pain would be over. Cartwheel pulled my eyelid to one side and put a drop in, then repeated this with the other eye. It was anesthetic for the glaucoma test, he explained. Then he dimmed the lights again. My head felt as if a toddler was banging on it with a wooden hammer.
“Please stop,” I said finally.
“Now don’t be frightened,” he said in a patronizing tone.
I said, “I can’t take any more.”
“Sure you can.”
“Please! Turn the lights on!”
He did. Then he wrinkled his forehead and blinked at me. He said, “I’m not finished with the glaucoma test. We need to—”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t deal with any more in one day.”
Cartwheel was taken aback. The nurse came scurrying in.
“What’s the problem?” she asked.
“The problem,” I said quietly, “is that I am only interested in contact lenses.”
They both said, “Excuse me?”
Cartwheel said, “You have to let me finish the glaucoma test.”
“I don’t have to let you do anything,” I said. “If I had contact lenses,” I said to the nurse, “where would they be right now? In my eyes?”
Cartwheel stood up and walked out.
“Doctor’s very upset,” said the nurse.
“That’s too bad,” I said. “Where would the contacts be?”
She shook her head. “Not in your eyes,” she said. “We usually remove the enzyme buildup in the ultrasound machine while the patient is in the exam.”
“This machine disinfects?”
“No, that’s to get rid of bacteria. But there’s another kind of—” She looked at me sympathetically. Didn’t want to use too many big words, apparently. “Another kind of—stuff—that grows on the lenses and can make them foggy and uncomfortable. Patients use a separate procedure to remove that buildup weekly, but when they come in for their exam we do an extra-good job with the machine.” She smiled weakly. “Shall I call Doctor back?”
“No, thanks. I’d like to see the machine. I can’t manage any more exam today.”
She said, “Well, Doctor was almost done,” but led me down the hall to the machine anyway. “This is it,” she said, and pointed to a metal box on a shelf.
“What’s in it?” I asked. “I mean besides ultrasound.”
“A peroxide solution.”
I looked at her. “A peroxide solution dissolves the buildup?”
“Yes, kind of burns it off, you’d say. But, don’t worry, we rinse that solution off before we give the patients back their lenses.”
“Rinse it off with what?”
She picked up a bottle of saline solution and handed it to me. “Believe me,” she said, “if even a trace of the peroxide is left on the lenses, the patient will scream bloody murder because of the pain. Most of them wear prescription sunglasses out of here, because when people actually
I thought for several minutes. She asked me if I wanted to finish the exam. I said no.
“Then do you want to leave? We do have other patients coming in.”
I closed the door to the room with the ultrasound machine.
“Please,” I said, “I need your help.”
“If you want contacts, you have to finish the exam.”
“I don’t want contacts,” I said slowly. “I just need to ask you about a contact-lens patient of yours.” I gave her my most beseeching look. “His name was Philip Miller.”
