The Other Mrs.(39)

I find myself jogging to the door, plunging the key into the lock to let myself in. I push the door closed behind me, and turn the dead bolt before making my way inside. I move down the narrow hall and to the reception area, Emma’s domain.

Before I arrived, there was another doctor in my place, a longtime resident of the island who went on maternity leave and never came back. Joyce and Emma often stand and pass baby photos around and lament how much they miss having Amanda here. They hold me responsible for her leave, as if it’s my fault she had that baby and decided to give motherhood a go.

What I’ve come to discover is that the island residents don’t take well to newcomers. Not unless you’re a child like Tate or gregarious like Will. It takes a rare breed to choose to live on an island, isolated from the rest of the world. Many of the residents who aren’t retired have simply chosen seclusion as a way of life. They’re self-reliant, autonomous, and also insular, moody, obstinate and aloof. Many are artists. The town is littered with pottery shops and galleries because of them, making it cultured but also pretentious.

That said, community is important because of the isolation that comes with island living. The difference between them and me is that they chose to be here.

I run a hand along the wall, feeling for the light switch. The lights above me come to life with a hum. There, on the wall before me, sits a large dry-erase calendar, Dr. Sanders’s and my work schedule. Emma’s brainchild. The schedule is arbitrary and irregular; Dr. Sanders and I are not slated to work the same days from week to week. If there’s any method to the madness, I can’t see it.

I go to the calendar. The ink is smudged, but still I see what it is that I’m looking for. My name, Foust, written under the date December first. The same day Mr. Nilsson supposedly saw Morgan Baines and me arguing. The same day Mr. Nilsson says I savagely tore a handful of hair from the woman’s head.

According to Emma’s calendar, on December first I was scheduled to work a shift that spanned nine hours, from eight in the morning to five that night. In which case, I was here at the clinic when Mr. Nilsson swears I was outside the Baineses’ home. I find my phone in my bag and snap a photo of it for proof.

I sit down at the L-shaped desk. There are notes stuck to it. A reminder for Emma to order more printer ink. For Dr. Sanders to call a patient back with test results. One of our patients is missing her doll. Her mother’s phone number is on the desk, with a request to call if the doll is found. The computer password is there, too.

I revive the computer. Our files are stored on medical software. I don’t know for certain that Mr. Nilsson is a patient of the clinic, but nearly everyone on this island is.

There are any number of eye disorders that affect the elderly, from presbyopia to cataracts and glaucoma, all the way to macular degeneration, one of the leading causes of blindness in older adults. It’s possible Mr. Nilsson suffers from one of these, and that’s the reason he thought he saw me with Mrs. Baines. Because he couldn’t see. Or maybe he’s begun to exhibit the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease and was confused.

I open the computer program. I search for the medical records of George Nilsson, and sure enough, they’re there. I’m quite certain this violates HIPAA laws, and yet I do it regardless, even though I’m not Mr. Nilsson’s physician.

I scan his medical records. I come to discover that he’s diabetic. That he takes insulin. His cholesterol is high; he takes statins to keep it in check. His pulse and blood pressure are fine for a man his age, though he suffers from kyphosis, which I already knew. Mr. Nilsson is a hunchback. It’s painful and disfiguring, an offshoot of osteoporosis seen far more often in women than men.

None of this interests me.

What I find surprising is that Mr. Nilsson’s vision is fine. Dr. Sanders notes no concerns about Mr. Nilsson’s cognitive abilities. As far as I can tell, he’s of sound mind. His mental facilities aren’t failing him and he’s not going blind, which takes me right back to where I began.

Why did Mr. Nilsson lie?

I close the program. I move the mouse to the internet, double clicking. It opens before me. I type in a name, Courtney Baines, and only as I press Enter does it occur to me to wonder if she’s still a Baines or if, after the divorce, she reverted to a maiden name. Or maybe she’s remarried. But there’s no time to find out.

From down the hall, the back door opens. I have just enough time to X out of the internet and step back from the desk before Joyce appears.

“Dr. Foust,” she says, far too much animosity in her tone for eight o’clock in the morning. “You’re here,” she tells me as if this is something I don’t already know. “The door was locked. I didn’t think anyone was here.”

“I’m here,” I say, more perky than I mean to be. “Wanted to get a head start on the day,” I explain, realizing she’s as easily put off when I’m early as when I’m late. I can do no right in her eyes.



MOUSE


Once upon a time there was a woman. Her name was Fake Mom. That wasn’t her real name, of course, but that was what Mouse called her, though only ever behind her back.

Fake Mom was pretty. She had nice skin, long brown hair and a big, easy smile. She wore nice clothes, like collared shirts and sparkly tops, which she’d tuck into the waistband of her jeans so that it didn’t look sloppy like when Mouse wore jeans. She always looked put together in a way that Mouse did not. She always looked nice.