Letters For Emily Page 7

  “Sure, what’s up?”

  “Did you ever take Harry to the clinic?”

  “Sure, a couple of times. The one on Highland Drive?”

  “Yes. Do you remember the name of the doctor he would see?”

  “No, I’d just wait outside. They tryin’ to bill you for somethin’?”

  “No, I just had a few questions.”

  “There’s a whole bunch of doctors there. I bet though, if you swung by, someone there could tell you.”

  “Good idea. You want to go to lunch next week?”

  “Sure. Give me a ring Monday and we’ll figure it out.”

  After they said their good-byes, Laura picked up the phone book, looked up the number, and dialed the clinic. The receptionist answered on the sixth ring.

  “TSI Medicare Clinic, please hold.” It took nearly five minutes before she picked up again. “Thanks for holding, how may I help you?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment to come in and talk to the doctor who saw Harry Whitney.”

  “Which doctor would that be?”

  “I have no idea, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Laura held for several more minutes waiting for the receptionist to return once again.

  “Did you need to set up an appointment for Mr. Whitney?”

  “Well no, Harry, I mean Mr. Whitney, passed away. I just have a couple of questions I’d like to ask the doctor.”

  “Just a minute, please.” Ain’t Medicare wonderful, Laura thought as she listened once again to the static-filled music through the phone.

  “Ma’am, the doctor can’t see you unless the patient gives his consent.”

  “But the patient is dead.”

  “I’m sorry. If you’d like to come by and fill out a waiver form, the doctor will review it.”

  “Did you hear me? The patient is dead,” she protested.

  “I heard you, ma’am. That’s why a waiver form needs to be filled out.”

  “I’ll be right down.” She’d heard of bureaucracy, but this was ridiculous. Knowing she stood a better chance with a warm body, face-to-face, she drove straight to the clinic. After an initial chat with the receptionist, the same one who had answered the phone, Laura was convinced the woman had no warm blood in her at all.

  “So, let me get this straight. You need the patient’s signature, but I can’t get that because he’s dead. If he were alive, then I wouldn’t need his signature to find out why he died, because he’d still be alive. Is that right?”

  “Ma’am, I’ve only been here a month. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Let me take a wild guess. You were transferred from the Department of Motor Vehicles? Am I right?”

  The woman didn’t even smile. “No, ma’am. I came from Toxicology.”

  “Is there a doctor, any doctor I can speak with?”

  “I’m sorry, but not without an appointment.”

  “Great! I’d like to make an appointment then.”

  “What’s your patient number?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “I’m sorry, but you need a patient number in order to make an appointment.”

  “Do you realize how ridiculous you people are?”

  “Ma’am, please, I don’t make the rules.”

  “Ridiculous!” Laura repeated as she turned in her fury and stormed out of the office. Just before the elevator doors closed, a man in a white coat rushed on and held out his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Dr. Iverly.” Laura shook his hand without saying a word. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Can I help you with something?”

  “Do you realize you work with a bunch of idiots?” He was only trying to help and as the words came out, she regretted her harshness. He didn’t seem to mind.

  “Tell me about it,” he answered with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

  She took a deep breath. “First, thank you.”

  “Glad to help.”

  “My father-in-law, Harry Whitney, came here. He just passed away from Alzheimer’s and I had a few questions.”

  The elevator doors opened. They stepped out into the hall to continue talking.

  “Once a patient has died, we’re not allowed to give out any information; it has to do with malpractice and lawsuits, but if you keep it quiet, I’ll check it out and call you—off the record, of course.”

  She was shocked. Amid the swirling sea of bureaucracy, pools of sanity managed to survive. “That would be a gift from heaven.”

  “No problem. What do you want to know?”

  “Did he have it? Alzheimer’s, I mean.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Basically, yes. Let me know if he suffered from anything else—other symptoms, that sort of thing.”

  “Okay, tell me his name again.”

  “It’s Harry. Harry Whitney.” He jotted the name down in his pad.

  “And now, if you’d give me your phone number.” He waited, pen in hand.

  “My what?” His question felt intrusive and out of place.

  “Your phone number. I’d like your phone number so I can call and let you know what I find out.”

  She was embarrassed.“Yes, of course. Sorry.” She repeated her number while the doctor noted it on the paper.

  “And your name again?”

  “Laura. Laura Whitney.”

  “Terrific, I’ll call you tonight. Will you be home?”

  “I will.”

  “Then we’ll talk tonight.” She turned and walked toward the parking garage. He waved as she walked away.

  “I’m not sure if I was just helped, or hit on,” she mused to herself with a grin.

  She was in the shower and didn’t hear the phone ringing. Emily was supposed to be in bed, but yelled through the door. “Mom, there’s a man on the phone who wants to talk to you.”

  “Coming, coming. Thanks, dear, now go climb in bed right this instant.” Emily rolled her eyes, giving Laura the “it wasn’t my phone call” look before running back to her room.

  “Hello, this is Laura.”

  “Hi, Laura. This is Dr. Iverly. Was that your daughter?” The question caught her off guard. At first she was sorry the call woke Emily up, but suddenly she was grateful.

  “Why, yes. That was my seven-year-old daughter, Emily.”

  “She said you were in the shower. Sorry to disturb you.” Laura would have to have a little discussion about phone etiquette with Emily, first thing in the morning.

  “Uh—no trouble. What did you find out?”

  “I checked his file. It’s pretty standard stuff. Remember, with Medicare, they don’t do extensive testing.”

  “So did he have Alzheimer’s?”

  “The file says he did, but honestly, there’s no way of knowing for sure now that he’s deceased. He had all the symptoms, but so do a high percentage of elderly people. The only thing that struck me as peculiar was that according to the notes, he was always quite coherent during his visits— relatively speaking. The disease would have to have been in its early stages. It wouldn’t be fatal until it moved into its more advanced stages.”

  “So, Dr. Iverly, let me get this straight . . .”

  “Please, call me Steve.”

  “Okay, Dr. Steve. If a patient has Alzheimer’s would he ever be coherent? Would he have times each day where he was normal—mentally, I mean?”

  “It’s a progressive disease so in its early stages someone with the disease would appear to be normal. But as the disease develops most physical and mental abilities diminish progressively until the patient is essentially helpless.”

  “Do you believe Harry had Alzheimer’s?”

  “Again, it’s hard to say.”

  “Let’s say he didn’t. What else would cause his symptoms?”

  “Did he drink?”

  “Not very often.”

  “Well, there is another possibility, but it’s not my specialty.” He paused.

  “What? What is it?”


  “Just a hunch, but it could be he was suffering from a mental illness.”

  “You think he could have been crazy?”

  “That’s not exactly the medical term.”

  “What do you mean then?”

  “He had the classical symptoms for Alzheimer’s. That would be the easy diagnosis and the one that would—how shall I say this—give the clinic the best return. But a mental illness, say a form of depression, could also produce the symptoms you’ve described. I would suggest you find a specialist and run it by him or her. Perhaps they’d be able to shed some light on it for you.”

  “Can I ask you one last question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Can a person will themselves to die?”

  “At a specific time? Not that I know of. I’ve seen studies that show how a patient’s attitude will influence his recovery. That’s to say, a higher percentage of patients who want to live will recover over those with the very same disease who don’t care or are despondent. So, to answer your question, attitude is certainly important. But as far as wishing to die, say tomorrow, and having it happen—I haven’t seen it.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes?”

  “I do appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  “No problem. You take care of Emily and if you need anything else, give me a call.”

  This was a nice guy. “Okay, thanks.”

  The instant she hung up the phone, it rang again.

  “Laura, this is Bob. Your phone’s been busy forever. Who have you been talking to?”

  “Steve Iverly.”

  “Who? Oh, never mind. Listen, I can’t come tomorrow. You know, to start cleaning out Dad’s house. Things have come up. I’d like to do it toward the end of next week. Will that work? After all, it’s not like we’re going to sell it before then anyway.”

  “That should be fine. My schedule is pretty flexible.”

  “That’s great. My attorney’s checking into the will. From a quick look at it, he said he believes we can sell the house after all. The money from the sale simply has to stay with the trust until Emily turns of legal age. I should know all the details in a few days.”

  “Bob, before you go, I did some research. Did you know that Alzheimer’s or AD attacks the nerves in the brain? Most people start by forgetting small stuff, but by the time it works into its final stages, they’re essentially helpless.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Well, it wasn’t that way with Harry. I mean he’d have times where he’d forget things or be mean, but he’d still have times where he could think fine. It doesn’t quite fit.”

  “Laura?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t take this personally, but forget about it. Harry’s dead. It doesn’t matter. Let him rest in peace.”

  “Look, I’m sorry for caring, but it just seems strange to me, that’s all.”

  “It’s funny. He’s my dad, and you’re the one who’s concerned.”

  “I agree, Bob. That is strange.”

  He knew she was right. “Please, don’t make it worse on Emily,” he continued.

  “And I guess you’re the expert on making the situation good for Emily?”

  “I’d better go, this is getting ridiculous. I’ll call you when I find out my schedule for next week. Bye.”

  Though Laura heard the click as Bob hung up, she continued to hold the phone against her ear. She wasn’t angry at his quick departure, simply frustrated that he wouldn’t listen, that he didn’t care. Couldn’t he see that something about his father’s death wasn’t right?

  As she slowly hung up the receiver, she continued to wonder about Harry.

  THE RESTAURANT WAS AUTHENTIC ENOUGH. CHEAP SPEAKERS screwed into the ceiling played mariachi music; colorful paintings adorned the walls; and the smell of cilantro and salsa filled the air. It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t even charming, but customers didn’t come to La Casita for atmosphere; they came because the food was incredible. He had already worked his way through two glasses of water and half a bowl of chips by the time she arrived. It seemed harmless enough to meet her here. It was not like a true date where they drove together. As she approached, he noticed her hair was down, falling over her shoulders, not pulled back the way she wore it when they jogged. She was friendly and cute and most of all, she was interested. He couldn’t, after all, spend the rest of his days alone just because things with Laura weren’t working out. They’d jogged together on several occasions, and now it seemed time to take the nextstep. It was a big step and it made him nervous. It was scary and yet thrilling, all at the same time.

  “Cynthia, hi.”

  “Hey, Bob. Sorry I’m late.” She stepped toward him, giving him a quick hug before sitting down.

  “You’re not late. I just got here myself.” She smiled, her gaze turning to the half-eaten bowl of chips in the middle of the table. “Have you been here before?” he questioned.

  “I drive by all the time but never imagined actually eating here.”

  “Order the chicken enchiladas and you’ll never want to leave. You’ll quit at Brightman’s office and waitress here, just so you can eat them all day.”

  “My, they must be good.”

  “Trust me. There are times I take some home and then eat them for breakfast the next day.”

  She laughed. “You eat them for breakfast?”

  “They’re that good. Trust me.”

  “Trust me? If I only had a dollar for every time a guy said that to me, I could buy La Casita. In fact, I could buy the whole chain.”

  Their conversation continued pleasantly through dinner. When the food arrived, she agreed it was terrific. He found her attractive and charming, and he got the impression she felt the same about him. They chatted a bit, sipping coffee, before Bob laid down his credit card to pay the bill.

  “And you know the best part?”

  “No, what’s that?”

  “Since you work for Dr. Brightman, I get to write this meal off.”

  She rolled her eyes. After signing the slip, they walked slowly to the entrance. She paused, letting him open the door for her. Once out front on the sidewalk, both stood silent—another one of those uncomfortable moments.

  Cynthia finally spoke. “I have to admit, the food was wonderful. I don’t think I’d eat it for breakfast though, but overall I’d say definitely the best Mexican food I’ve had.”

  “Yeah, I’d eat there every night if it wasn’t for the mariachi music. I think they play it just to keep the crowds moving through.”

  “Hey, listen Bob,” she interrupted. “I live pretty close. You want to come over to my place—you know—for a drink?”

  He hesitated for only a moment. “Um—sure. I could do that.”

  “I don’t want to force you,” she prodded with a smile.

  “Not at all—I’d love to.”

  Her apartment was nearby and the evening air was pleasant, so Bob left his car parked at the restaurant and they walked. As they reached the front door, she slipped the key into the lock and turned it slightly, letting him push open the door. Just inside, a familiar beep sounded from her purse. She looked frustrated. “Sorry. It’s always at the worst times.” Pulling the beeper from her purse, she studied the number. “Sure enough. I work two nights a month at nighttime pediatrics. Wouldn’t you know they’d beep me tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll do it some other time.”

  “Sorry. Can I give you a lift back to your car?”

  “Thanks, but it’s such a great night, I think I’ll walk. I enjoyed dinner.”

  “It was very nice. Hey, I think we could use some more samples at the office. Drop in this week?”

  “I’ll plan on it.”

  It had been two weeks since the funeral, long enough that Laura was now able to discuss Harry with Emily and not get teary eyed. Bob had put off coming back to take care of Harry’s affairs twice. It suited her just fine. The longer it took,
the longer she’d have before she had to break Emily’s heart again.

  “Mommy, read me a bedtime story.”

  “Oh honey, it’s so late. Can’t we just read one in the morning?”

  “Huh? Why would you read a bedtime story in the morning? That don’t make no sense at all.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” she corrected.

  “You’re right, so just read it now.” She giggled as Laura eyed her warily, not sure if she was being manipulated by cunning or innocence.

  “All right, babe, but just one.” Picking up a Dr. Seuss book from the dresser, she plopped down on the bed next to her daughter.

  “Mommy, not that one,” Emily moaned. “We read that one last time.”

  “Well, then you pick one, but hurry.”

  “I know.” Emily’s eyes lit up. She jumped out of bed and ran to the dresser. She reached up on her tallest tippy-toes and pulled Harry’s book down from the shelf.

  “Really?” Laura questioned. “You want to read that one?”

  “Sure, Mommy. Grandpa wrote it.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t make any sense, especially to a seven-year-old.”

  “Please, please, please,” she pleaded, batting the eyelashes on her big brown eyes.

  “All right, but just one,” Laura conceded. Opening the book to the first poem, she began to read.

  Ergaldy Mergaldy, I Laughingly Yammer, The hidden enigma, puzzle and stammer Silly worgle, of rhyming dawdler It’s special time forever after.

  “Crazy old man sounds like Dr. Seuss on painkillers,” Laura mumbled to herself. “I told you it wouldn’t make any sense.”

  “I think it’s funny, Mom. What doesigma mean anyways?”

  “It’senigma, dear. It means—well, it’s something that’s puzzling. It’s just a nonsense poem, honey. The words aren’t supposed to make sense. Your grandpa was sick and didn’t know what he was writing all of the time. He just liked putting silly words together.”

  “I like it, Mom,” she declared, staring at the strange words on the page. Then with a look of sheer joy she exclaimed, “Look Mommy, the funny words spell my name.”

  “What do you mean, honey?”

  “The letters in the words on top—Grandpa spelled my name.” Taking a second look at the nonsensical poem, Laura began pulling the first letter from each word.