Chapter 42
"A Likely Story"
WEST PALM BEACH IS ALMOST TOLERABLE DURING THE TOURIST SEASON. AKA: WINTER.
SOMETIMES I WOULD RUN THE A/C AWHILE IN THE AFTERNOON IF I WAS AT HOME, AND SOMETIMES NOT. WHEN I COULD TUNE OUT THE TRAFFIC NOISE OUTSIDE AND TAME THE CHAOS IN MY HEAD, I'D OPEN THE JALOUSIES AND LET SOME OF THE OUTSIDE AIR COME IN. EVERY NOW AND THEN I'D CATCH A WHIFF OF THE OCEAN, AND ONCE YOU'VE EXPERIENCED THAT, IT'S SOMETHING YOU NEVER FORGET. IT'S PLEASANT AND MAKES YOU NOSTALGIC FOR A CABANA ON THE BEACH.
THEN THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I JUST WANTED TO HOLE UP IN THE MAN-MADE AIR AND SHUT THE REST OF THE WORLD OUT THERE WHERE IT BELONGS.
YESTERDAY WAS THAT KIND OF DAY.
YESTERDAY IT WAS THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS SINCE I BEGAN WORKING WITH DR. THOMAS GRESH. IT WAS A VERY PLEASANT EXPERIENCE UNTIL THINGS BEGAN TO TURN SOUTH. IT WAS ALSO THE DAY I DECIDED TO TERMINATE THE POSITION AND GET THE HELL OUT OF DODGE,
AND THAT'S BECAUSE I'M A CONFIRMED COWARD.
IT SEEMS I'VE GONE BACK TO BEING AT ODDS WITH LIFE. I FEEL LIKE I'M GETTING READY TO DIVORCE WIFE NUMBER FOUR. THINGS HAVE GONE SOUR AGAIN, AND THIS TIME I SWEAR I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH IT. PATTI CAME ONTO ME AGAIN AT THE OFFICE, AND THIS TIME I WASN'T SO KIND. I TOLD HER TO STOP, OR I WOULD TELL TOM. SHE SAID I COULD GO RIGHT AHEAD; HE WOULD NEVER BELIEVE ME.
BUT HE DID.
I COULD NOT RUN OUT ON THEM IN GOOD CONSCIENCE. WHEN TOM FOUND MY LETTER OF RESIG-NATION AND CALLED, I ANSWERED AND TOLD HIM WHAT HAPPENED, AND WHY I WAS LEAVING.
HE WAS SO SAD. NOT WHAT I EXPECTED. HE SAID HE WASN'T AT ALL SURPRISED.
WHEN I ASKED WHY, HE TOLD ME THAT MOST PEOPLE WOULD NOT HAVE GUESSED THE TRUTH, BUT HE'D BEEN SEEING THINGS HAPPENING WITH PATTI FOR A WHILE. SHE WOULD CALL HIM "JIMMY". OTHER TIMES SHE WOULD REFER TO HIM AS "HAROLD", AN OLD BOYFRIEND FROM HER LONG-AGO TEENAGE YEARS.
I SAID: "UH OH …"
AND TOM SAID: "YEAH, I THINK YOU'VE UNDERSTOOD FOR SOME TIME WHAT'S BEEN HAPPENING ..."
AND I DID. I HAD KNOWN FOR DAYS …
PATTI GRESH WAS PRESENTING WITH EARLY ALZHEIMER'S SYMPTOMS, AND IT COULD ONLY GET WORSE. THERE WAS NO CURE, NO GOING BACK.
TO SAVE THEM BOTH FROM UNNECESSARY ANGUISH, I DECIDED TO REMOVE MY PRESENCE FROM THE PICTURE AND GIVE HER PLENTY OF SPACE TO FORGET ME QUICKLY. I KNEW I COULDN'T WORK THERE AND SEE HER EVERY DAY AND PERPETUATE THE PROBLEM. LIKE THE COWARD I AM, I DIDN'T EXACTLY TELL TOM ALL OF MY REASONING, BUT THAT WAS THE GIST OF IT. HE WOULD UNDERSTAND, I HOPED.
"SNEAKERS" WAS SNEAKING OUT.
I left my office keys and the key he had lent me to his private office, along with the letter. I offered no excuses. Just told him I was going. There was no defense against Alzheimer's, and I could not torture Patti, who was beginning to have delusions that I was somebody else, and in her mind she would be forever young.
Reluctantly, I said goodbye and gave him my regrets. Then I took myself out of the picture.
I called the manager of my apartment building and told her I had a family emergency up north and would be leaving the state immediately. After a short discussion, she agreed to purchase all the expensive furniture and accouterments I'd brought along from the loft in New Jersey. She was happy to get them at the price I quoted.
I stopped by her office and picked up the check. They were sorry to see me leave, she said, and she wished me well. I broke the lease and forfeited the remainder of the month's rent. From there, I went directly to a rental company and picked up a clamshell roof-top carrier to put on top of 'Vanna White'. She had plenty of room for my clothing and the small amount of incidentals that I planned to take with me.
I returned to the apartment to load up. My upstairs neighbor was very happy to take the groceries that were still in the kitchen, and I was happy it wasn't going to waste. By Saturday morning I was ready to roll.
I had no idea in the world where I was headed, but I realized I had been set free to chase down my best friend, however long it took, and give him a piece of my mind … whatever I could spare. When I found him, should I be so lucky, the first thing I would do was apologize to him for all the years I had called him a drug addict. And I would ask him to actually tell me about the severity of his pain.
Maybe we could rebuild our friendship from there.
The first day I got on I-95 and made it all the way to Daytona. I parked for the night at an obscure motel on a secondary road that also had a strip mall with a hazy view of the ocean. I checked in, showered, put on Bermuda shorts, a tee shirt and my favorite moccasins with no socks.
I bought a quick sandwich from one of the little joints along the way and took a long walk in the direction of the beach. Actually I was still second-guessing my decision to leave nearly four years of work in the dust and go off running to who-knew-where; making excuses in my own mind for being such a coward and leaving Tom Gresh in the lurch.
I couldn't resolve the dilemma now, and I doubted I ever would. Tempting an Alzheimer's patient with affairs of the heart would be extremely cruel. So I stuffed it and hoped it would work itself out someday.
Life likes to hand you 'equine excrement' when you're least expecting it, and it blindsides you like a slap in the face. You have to deal with it on the spur of the moment according to your own conscience. The same thing happened after Amber died. In the bad days when I couldn't bring myself to face Gregory House, even knowing he had risked his life for my benefit. My warring emotions drove me away from him rather than just saying a simple 'thank you'. I would need to atone for that too.
My actions back then may have been the thing that sent House over the edge. The vulnerability of my old friend comes back to haunt me when I least expect it. The long years of understanding between us came and went in the blink of an eye.
My most recent actions would have consequences of their own, but at least I now know the truth about Patti and it became a little easier to swallow.
So here I was, between a rock and a hard place once more. Tears of regret streamed down my face and were blown away to join their own element in the salty ocean wind.
I walked back to the motel and sat in the lounge, listening to a pretty girl singer with a voice about a quarter-tone flat, accompanied by an out-of-sync piano player about a half beat behind. When the waitress came over to replenish my drink, I told her to keep them coming, because I was waiting for the singer to get back on the melody and the piano player to get out of the cracks …
She smiled and walked away. And the drinks kept coming …
They closed the bar at 2:00 a.m. and I weaved my way back to my room and locked myself in for the rest of the night.
At 4:30 a.m. I was still sitting Indian-style in the middle of the bed with my laptop balanced on my knees. During the evening in the lounge, I'd been thinking about the epiphany that exploded in my head when I found the article in the California Medical Journal. Now, of all times, it was coming back to haunt me.
I'd put the article through the scanner in Tom's office and copied the crazy thing, which could only have been written by Gregory House. I dug around in my carryall until I found it, and then studied the journal's masthead and took note of the date and place of the article's submission. I thought it might give me some indication of where to begin looking for this elusive genius who always managed to stay one step ahead of me all the years I'd known him.
The damned article had been written and submitted on the island of Barbados.
*BARBADOS? REALLY?*
Was that where he went when he walked away from me more than four years ago? The article was dated not long after he'd driven his car into our boss's dining room. Was he still on the damned island?
It seemed that my best clue was no clue at all.
My search was only beginning, I supposed. If he had written one missive, surely there must be more. When I checked back over the name of 'Kyle Calloway, M.D.,' I broke into a fit of drunken laughter that took me back almost thirty years …
The handsome blue-eyed fool bailed me out of jail in New Orleans for throwing a bottle of Scotch through an expensive antique barroom mirror. "I took care of it," was his only explanation for an act of generosity he would never talk about with more than an impassive shrug.
Then my evil mind suggested that his transgression was a lot more serious than mine, and he hadn't even been put in jail for it.
Yet …
"Still not boring," he'd said that day in the funeral home in Lexington.
*I'll find you, you bastard. I swear!*
The real Kyle Calloway was a blondish kid with blue eyes and a scruffy mustache. He also owned an original 1955 Thunderbird convertible and played in a rock band. He chased every female who gave him a second glance, and that included the girl I wanted to take to the prom. Kyle was silly and irresponsible and shallow. His passion in life was to hook up with a rock band whose music would make it to the charts and give him enough riches that he would never have to get a job again.
My own ambition for a career in medicine was the furthest thing from his area of interest. He made fun of me because my goals never wavered and my resolve never faltered. I wondered briefly how his ambitions worked out for him.
The end came when 'my' girl asked if I would mind if she went to the prom with Kyle.
Of course I minded! But I told her no … it was okay. That was the end of the friendship between Kyle and me … and also the end of the girlfriend.
I told House about Kyle Calloway one time. It seems now that he took the name and ran with it, because he knew I'd never spoken of it to anyone else. Leave it to House to get under my skin, one way or another.
If I wanted to track him down, I would have to do the research and the legwork, as well as locate other articles under that byline … assuming that there were others …
*Gregory House rides again!*
I slept in my clothes that night, but managed to stash the laptop where I wouldn't roll over on it. I kicked the moccasins to the floor and pulled the spare blanket up from the foot of the bed to cover myself with it.
In the morning (almost noon, really), I woke up with a pounding headache, and my mouth felt like it was stuffed with chicken feathers. I rolled over to find the blanket on the floor with my laptop wide open right beside it. I struggled to sit up and shake off the resulting dizziness so I could drag both feet off the edge of the mattress and try to find the floor ...
In haste I wobbled into the bathroom, knelt and looked down at my reflection in the water. I emptied most of what I had eaten and drank last night.
When I finished and flushed, my stomach rumbled like distant thunder. I quickly reversed the orientation of body position and emptied the other hemisphere as well.
I don't think the second half of my anatomy saw any reflections in the water …
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