The next morning the world was coated in white. A thick frost had frozen every rooftop, lawn, and tree branch in Duluth and as I peered out the staff break room window, rubbing the couch debris out of my sleep-bruised eyes, a powdery snow whipped into the panes and skittered along the ground, as if the wind refused to let it land. Sometime in the night I’d left Lucas in the care of the nurses and headed down the hall for a few restless hours of sleep. The break room furniture was scratchy and reeked of antiseptic, but it beat going home and trying to explain what happened last night while Dad looked at me in that way of his – like I was a vase glued carefully back together and he had to constantly check me for missing pieces, fissures, any sign that I might crumble again. Today was my day off, though, and I couldn’t leave Jasper alone much longer. I stared into the blowing white world and listened to the tick, tick, ticks of the snow against the window, each flake hurling winter that much closer.
After checking on Lucas – who may or may not have been -sleeping – I took the bus home and made sure the garage was empty before going in to shower and walk the dog. We drove up to Bayfront and paced the lake walk, where Jasper chased snow devils and I limped along the empty boards and scanned Superior’s horizon. The powder wouldn’t last. The sun would chase it away as soon as the clouds broke, but we were getting closer to November and not even Superior’s gales could fight off the inevitable. Normally I liked winter – the four-foot drifts, the nostril-freezing arctic blasts that drove all the tourists away, leaving the town to the hardy, the survivors who bundled up and shoveled oceans of snow before retreating to our mugs and fleece blankets to wait out the endless December nights. Winter in Duluth was antisocial paradise and for someone whose mother suffered from chronic depression, there was a disconcerting comfort in the isolation. A home I recognized, even if I hadn’t asked for it. Today, though, I wasn’t comforted by the cold blast of wind numbing my ankle. I didn’t find relief in the absence of people on the lake walk. Today I was scared for a man I’d never met.
After dropping Jasper off at home, I drove to the library and spent the rest of the morning poring over books and topographical maps. I studied pictures, read travelogues, and stared at the mottled landscape of greens and blues that would be covered in white, frozen over and closed off to even the most adventurous hikers in a few short weeks. Maybe to a young boy it would look like a mountain of salt, vast and impenetrable, but Josiah Blackthorn was out there somewhere, sick, alone. I circled the location of the outfitter’s store and drew ranges out from that center point. Five miles. Ten. How far would you go up the mountain to save the person you loved most in the world?
How far would I go to help them?
Two days after Lucas’s hospital escape I drove through the swelling crowd at Congdon’s gate – at least fifteen people were bundled up and waving signs at passing cars – and punched in to find most of the staff either staring or whispering to each other on the opposite side of whatever room I was in. My dramatic recovery of the boy who came back from the dead, which had aired on every major news channel in Duluth, apparently sealed my reputation as something entirely apart from them. I spent the morning catching up on email, planning session activities for my other patients, and trying to ignore everyone whose Minnesotan niceness made them smile before walking hastily away. The one person I could count on for direct address, unfortunately, was the one person I was trying to avoid. Dr Mehta held me back after our afternoon staff meeting.
‘I approved Lucas’s transfer back to ward two today.’
‘That’s great, thanks. The group environment is his biggest challenge. The sooner we get him comfortable there, the quicker his recovery.’ I inched my way toward the door, thankful that my ankle felt almost back to normal.
‘Yes, he still needs to acclimate and of course integrate his childhood experiences with the larger world, but Mr Blackthorn strikes me as someone who needs a path forward. He should be thinking about short-and medium-term goals.’
‘We’ll start working on that right away.’ Obediently, I made a note of it, turning to leave.
‘I haven’t decided who his speech therapist will be yet.’
‘What?’ Halting in mid-escape, I swung on Dr Mehta. ‘I’m his therapist.’
‘Shut the door and sit down, please, Maya.’
I complied, watching her warily as she sat opposite me and carefully picked cat fur off her pants.
‘You haven’t told me what happened the night of Lucas’s escape.’
In a clear, even voice, I told her the same story Dad had given to the police. Unlike the officers, though, Dr Mehta didn’t appear the tiniest bit convinced.
‘You weren’t answering my calls earlier that evening.’
‘I’m sorry. I was tired and off duty.’
Dr Mehta nodded and let her gaze slide somewhere closer to my heart. ‘A perfectly reasonable explanation and if it was any of my other staff, quite in character.’
My tongue pressed against my palate and held. After a moment, she sighed and clasped her hands. ‘And then we have Mr Blackthorn. He left the hospital almost two hours before your father discovered him, claiming he was standing in plain sight in the middle of one of the busiest docks in Duluth.’
‘That’s where Dad found him.’ I met her gaze head-on, mixing mine with the right amounts of irritation and confusion.
‘It still seems like a long gap of time to me.’
‘Did you ask him where he went?’ I countered.
‘We did. He said he was wandering.’
Dr Mehta stared at me with her all-knowing look. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I barely made myself nod and murmur an acknowledgment.
‘Lucas Blackthorn doesn’t strike me as the wandering type.’
I took a deep breath. ‘So I’ll try to figure out what his goal was during our next sessions. I haven’t worked this hard to earn his trust for nothing.’
‘Yes, I have no doubt that you’ve gained it. He’s been asking for you – extremely politely, I’m told – with every new nurse at every shift change. He even struck up a conversation with one of the janitors about you. Your interests. Your background. Hector wasn’t extremely helpful in the situation, apparently only knowing you as “that little punk girl with the shit in her ear.” ’
‘See?’ I ignored the sudden upbeat in my pulse. ‘So why would you make him start all over again with someone new?’
‘Because I’m worried about your attachment to each other.’
Jesus. She didn’t pull any punches. I felt myself flushing, which might as well have been a big fat confirmation of our ‘attachment.’ Dropping my gaze, I tried to find words that were both true and harmless.
‘I like him.’
‘Obviously. You spent hours at his bedside in the hospital, off the clock, and when you brought him back here you barely moved from his side all night. The medical team noticed what they called an “unspoken communication” between you.’
‘Well, for one, that sounds like gossipy bullshit.’
Dr Mehta chuckled.
‘And two,’ I sighed and tossed my hands in the air. ‘You’re right. I have become attached to him. He reminds me of me, I guess. But is that so bad? I mean, don’t you ever become fond of any of your patients? What about Big George? That man is a -human-sized teddy bear. How can you not love him?’
‘Don’t shift the topic. There’s a difference between professional compassion and personal attachment.’
I made myself laugh. ‘I’m not going to ask him to go steady, okay?’