Greg Iles - Blood Memory

He nods, his eyes reflective. “Sometimes you have to. It’s not easy, either.”

“You’re married, of course.”

“Nope. One girlfriend all the way through med school, but we ended up splitting.”

“You must be the most eligible bachelor in Natchez.”

Michael expels a lungful of air with obvious frustration. “The local matrons and divorcees certainly treat me that way. It’s a new reality for me.”

My cell phone rings in my jeans pocket on the side of the pool. I slide over to it on my knees and check the screen. My mother is calling again.

“Mom?”

“I’m home now, Cat. Where are you?”

“Swimming at the Hemmeters’ house.”

“That’s not the Hemmeters’ house anymore.”

“I know. I just met Dr. Wells.”

“Did you? Well, get home and tell me what’s going on.”

I hang up and look at Michael. “I need to get out.”

He retrieves a towel from his back porch, hands it to me, then turns away. Walking quickly up the pool steps, I strip off my underwear and dry my skin. Then I put on my outer clothes and wring out my bra and panties to carry home.

“All covered up again.”

Michael turns around. “Please feel free to use the pool anytime.”

“Thanks. I won’t be in town long, though.”

“That’s too bad. Do you…” As question fades into silence, color rises into his cheeks.

“What?”

“Do you have someone in New Orleans?”

I start to lie, then decide honesty is best. “I really don’t know.”

He seems to mull this over, then nods with apparent contentment.

I turn to go, but something makes me turn back to him. “Michael, do you ever have patients who just stop speaking?”

“Stop speaking altogether? Sure. But all my patients are kids.”

“That’s why I asked. What causes a child to stop speaking?”

He bites his bottom lip. “Sometimes they’ve been embarrassed by a parent. Other times it’s anger. We call it voluntary mutism.”

“What about shock?”

“Shock? Sure. And trauma. That’s not voluntary, in the strictest sense.”

“Have you ever seen it last for a year?”

He thinks about it. “No. Why?”

“After my father was shot, I stopped speaking for a year.”

He studies me in silence for several moments. There’s a deep compassion in his eyes. “Did you see anyone about it?”

“Not as a child, no.”

“Not even a family doctor?”

“No. My grandfather was a doctor, you know? Mom said he kept telling her the problem would be self-limiting. Look, I need to run. I hope I see you again sometime.”

“I do, too.”

I walk backward for a few steps, give Michael a last smile, then turn and sprint off through the woods. When I am deep into the trees, I stop and look back.

He’s still staring after me.

My mother is waiting in the kitchen of the slave quarters, sitting at the heart-pine breakfast table. She’s dressed impeccably in a tailored pants suit, but she has dark bags under her eyes, and her auburn hair looks as though she drove all the way from the Gulf Coast with her windows down. She looks older than when I last saw her-a brief lunch in New Orleans four months ago. Still, Gwen Ferry looks closer to forty than fifty-two, which is her true age. Her elder sister, Ann, once had the same gift, but by fifty Ann’s troubled life had stolen the lingering bloom of youth. At one time the two sisters were Natchez royalty, the beautiful teenage daughters of one of the richest men in town. Now only my mother carries what’s left of that banner, occupying the social pinnacle of the town: president of the Garden Club, a deceptively courteous organization that once wielded more power than the mayor and the board of aldermen combined. She also owns and operates an interior design center called Maison DeSalle, which caters to the small coterie of wealthy families that remain in Natchez.

She stands and gives me a side hug, then says, “What in the world is going on? I’ve always asked you to come home more often, and now you show up without even a phone call.”

“Glad to see you, too, Mom.”

Her face wrinkles in displeasure. “Pearlie says you found bloody tracks in your bedroom.”

“That’s right.”

She looks perplexed. “I went in there and didn’t find a thing on the floor. Just a bad smell.”

“You went into my room?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The coffeemaker bubbles on the counter, and the aroma of Canal Street coffee hits me. Trying to suppress my exasperation, I say, “I’d appreciate you not going in there anymore. Not until I’m finished.”

“Finished with what?”

“Testing the rest of the bedroom for blood.”

Mom interlocks her fingers on the table, as though trying to keep from fidgeting. “What are you talking about, Catherine?”

“I think I’m talking about the night Daddy died.”

Two splotches of red appear high on her cheeks. “What?”

“I think those footprints were made on the night Daddy died.”

“Well, that’s just crazy.” She’s shaking her head, but her eyes have an unfocused look.

“Is it, Mom? How do you know?”

“Because I know what happened that night.”

“Do you?”

She blinks in confusion. “Of course I do.”

“Weren’t you knocked out from taking Daddy’s pills?”

Her cheeks go pale. “Don’t you talk to me like that! I may have taken a sedative or two in those days-”

“You weren’t addicted to Daddy’s medicine?”

“Who told you that? Your grandfather? No, he’s out of town. You’ve been talking to Pearlie, haven’t you? I can’t believe she’d say something so hurtful.”

“Does it matter who I’ve been talking to? We have to tell the truth around here sometime.”

Mom straightens up and squares her shoulders. “You need to take some of your own advice, missy. There’s no doubt about who’s told the most lies in this house.” With trembling hands she turns and pours a cup of coffee from the carafe. Maybe the hand tremor is a family trait.

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “We got off on the wrong foot, Mom. How’s Aunt Ann doing?”

“She’s married another bastard. Third time in a row. This one’s hitting her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“I have eyes. God, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. I need sleep.”

“Maybe you’d better skip that coffee, then.”

“If I don’t drink this, I’ll get a caffeine headache.” She takes a steaming sip and makes a face. “You ought to know about addictions.”

I fight the urge to snap back. “I’ve been sober for nearly three days.”

She looks up sharply. “What’s the occasion?”

I cannot tell her that I’m pregnant. Not yet. As my eyes seek out the floor, I feel a soft hand squeeze my upper arm.

“Whatever it is, I’m with you,” she says. “When we know better, we do better. That’s what Dr. Phil says. Like me and those sleeping pills.”

“Dr. Phil? Mom, please.”

“You should watch him, honey. We’ll watch this afternoon. Before my nap. Dr. Phil always relaxes me.”

I can’t listen to any more of this. I need to be out of the kitchen. “I’ve got a fax waiting in Grandpapa’s office. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

“He should be home soon,” she says. “You know he doesn’t like people in his private office when he’s not there.”

“When’s he due back?” I ask, heading for the door.

“Today is all I know.”

I start to leave, then stop at the kitchen door and turn back. “Mom, do you have anything personal left of Dad’s?”

“Like what? Pictures? What?”