Goodnight Beautiful(51)

“That sounds traumatic,” Sam says.

“I know,” I say. “Mrs. Parker was terrified every time—”

“No, you’ve misunderstood me,” Sam cuts in. “I mean traumatic for you. What you did was perfectly natural. But I can’t imagine anyone understood that.”

“It was?”

“Absolutely. You were grieving, and trying to find an anchor in your mother’s absence.”

“They made it seem like I was doing something perverted, but I wasn’t,” I say. “I swear to god. Mr. Parker kept me barricaded in the bedroom until the police came, and then my father was called.” I close my eyes, hearing the front door slam behind us after my father dragged me home, the absolute terror as he charged at me, calling me those names. I stand up. “Can I go now?”

Sam looks stricken. “You want to leave?”

“Yes, can I?”

“Of course.”

“I’m tired,” I say. “I think I need to lie down.”

Sam smiles. “Of course, Albert. I think that’s a good idea.” His posture relaxes, and he pats the arms of his chair. “And I think I need to sit up. Thanks again for the chair.”

I nod, and lift the foot brake on the cart. “You’re welcome,” I say. I step into the hall and go upstairs and shut the door, praying he won’t hear me cry.





Chapter 36




Someone in the kitchen drops a tray, startling Annie, the sole occupant of the dining room at Rushing Waters. The residents are off to Applebee’s in the strip mall for their weekly outing, but the nurses told Annie that Margaret has been having trouble sleeping—they found her roaming the halls at three in the morning, two nights in a row. Annie returns to the email she’s writing to Margaret’s doctor, urging him to prescribe something new to help Margaret sleep; whatever the white pills are that she’s taking have stopped working.

Annie sees Josephine, one of the women who works the reception desk, pushing a cart into the dining hall. “That’s a nice touch,” Annie says, as Josephine places vases of fresh carnations on each table.

“Trying to spruce this place up,” Josephine says, dropping a copy of the local newspaper on the table in front of Annie. “Free newspapers now, too.” They both see what’s on the front page at the same time: a photograph of Sam under a bold headline: Local Therapist Reported Missing Last Week Found to Be in Significant Debt.

Annie picks up the newspaper and scans the article.

It turns out that Dr. Sam Statler, a therapist known for helping people with their problems, may have been concealing a few of his own including multiple credit cards, maxed to the limit. According to Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy, this discovery is leading investigators to consider the idea that the missing Chestnut Hill man’s disappearance may not, in fact, have been accidental. The debt was a surprise to Statler’s wife, who teaches literature at the university.



“Oh my god,” Annie whispers. “That asshole called a reporter.”

“I’m sorry, Annie,” Josephine says as one of the women from the kitchen appears with a plate of fettuccine Alfredo wrapped in plastic.

Annie can’t pull her eyes away from what she’s reading, shocked Sheehy didn’t take it a step further and tell the reporter about the text exchange he read on Annie’s phone. According to Chief of Police Franklin Sheehy, Mr. and Mrs. Statler also enjoyed a perverted sexual ritual in which Mrs. Statler pretends to be a patient named Charlie.

She stuffs the newspaper in her bag, takes the food, and exits the dining hall. Margaret is watching television in her armchair, a blank look on her face, when Annie enters.

“Here you go,” Annie says, trying to sound cheerful. “Lunch.” She puts the tray on the metal cart next to Margaret’s bed and unrolls the silverware from the napkin. “And remember, Sam’s away for a little while. I’ll be coming on his days. I have to go to class. You need anything else?”

Margaret stares silently at her plate of food and then begins to eat. Annie kisses her cheek and steps into the hall as a woman with a walker is about to knock.

“Here, give this to Margaret,” the woman says, handing Annie a purple bingo dauber. “Her son left it behind last night.”

“Her son?” Annie says, taking it from her.

“Yes. They were at my table, and he gave me this. It’s no good. Leaks everywhere.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She holds up her right hand; blotches of purple dot her wrist. “Can’t get this stuff off.”

“No, I mean about her son being here.”

“Oh. Yeah, he was here. He comes every week for bingo.” She shoots Annie a look. “I’m one of the few people here who’s still with it. Trust me, it was her son.”

“Thank you,” Annie says. The woman turns and shuffles down the hall into her room. Annie heads to the lobby, dropping the dauber into a trash can she passes. There’s no one at the desk, and Annie pauses to scan the guest register, trailing her finger down the list of signatures, searching for Sam’s name. She shakes away the thought. Of course he wasn’t here yesterday, you idiot, she thinks. That woman is demented. She exits through the sliding doors, but when she gets to the parking lot, she turns around and hurries back inside, unable to stop herself. The door to Sally French’s office is slightly ajar. She knocks and peeks her head in. It’s empty.