First Girl Gone(9)
At the hospital, Charlie parked near the door to the outpatient wing. The rock salt scattered over the parking lot and sidewalks to melt the ice and snow sparkled like diamonds.
Frank tightened the scarf wrapped around his face.
“Colder than a polar bear’s asshole out here,” he said, shivering theatrically.
Everything was brightly lit inside the treatment center. The lobby area was all glass on one side, with tropical plants and a small water feature. But despite the attempts to make the space inviting, Charlie felt her insides clench as they walked through the doors. It was the smell, she thought. A lingering odor of disinfectant and floor wax.
The infusion room was a long, narrow space with a series of chairs and IV machines along one wall. Frank took his place in a sort of industrial-looking recliner. A nurse scanned his ID bracelet and then hung a bag filled with the special chemo cocktail on the IV pole before hooking the tubing up to the port-a-cath on Frank’s chest.
Charlie pulled one of the smaller plastic chairs from the other side of the room to sit closer to her uncle. They played a few rounds of Rummy, and then Frank pulled out his wallet and handed Charlie the card she’d asked for earlier.
It was a simple laminated rectangle of white cardstock. The black lettering read, “This card certifies that FRANK J. WINTERS has the STRENGTH OF TEN MEN.”
Underneath the writing was a row of ten tiny musclemen flexing their miniature biceps.
Charlie smiled and flipped the card over to see the seal that read, “Council of Extraordinary Strength.”
“Where did you even get this?”
“What do you mean? It says right there, ‘Council of Extraordinary Strength.’”
Chuckling, Charlie had a sudden flashback to the time she was seven and tried to get her dad to admit that Santa Claus wasn’t real.
“Seriously, though,” she said. “Did you buy it at a carnival or something?”
“A carnival?” Frank scoffed, swiping the card from her fingers. “You’ve got some nerve, questioning the validity of my credentials.”
She considered asking if he’d made it himself, but she didn’t want to push it. And maybe part of her didn’t really want to know.
Frank dozed on the way back to Salem Island, which wasn’t surprising. Treatment days tended to wipe him out.
He stirred as soon as Charlie took the turn into his driveway, straightening in his seat and unbuckling his seatbelt. Charlie followed him inside, nervously watching him totter over the icy ground. Breaking his hip in a slip and fall was the last thing he needed right now.
Frank took his usual place in a beat-up leather recliner. Marlowe, a black cat with oversized fangs, slinked into the room and hopped onto Frank’s lap.
“You want me to get you anything before I go?” Charlie asked. “Something to drink? A sandwich?”
Frank shook his head.
“No, but thanks. You’re a doll.”
“I thought I was a turkey.”
“Oh, you’re definitely a turkey,” Frank said, grinning.
He’d been calling her that since the time she and Allie were fishing off the end of his dock, and Charlie lost her balance and fell in the water. She was probably six. It was early May, and the water was still pretty cold. As Charlie climbed up the dock ladder, her hair and clothes dripping wet, she could already hear Frank laughing.
“Why are you swimming with your clothes on, turkey?” he’d asked.
Charlie had been furious.
“I’m not a turkey! I’m a girl!”
That had only made him laugh harder.
She knew he was picturing that now, could tell by the smirk on his face.
“I’m gonna head out, then,” Charlie said.
As she reached for the doorknob, Frank called out, “Hey, turkey. Your missing girl… how old is she?”
“Seventeen. Still in high school.”
He nodded, absently patting the top of Marlowe’s head.
“Any siblings?”
“A younger brother and a stepsister who’s about the same age.”
“Listen to the sister. Talk to everyone, of course, but keep this tidbit in mind all the while: when it comes to high school kids, the siblings always know more than the parents.”
Chapter Five
Charlie met up with Misty Dawkins at her house, a small gray ranch in a subdivision of nearly identical modular homes where the old Salem Paper Mill had once been.
Misty opened the front door, and Charlie paused on the threshold to kick snow off her shoes before entering. There was a Christmas tree in one corner of the living room, and stockings hung over a gas fireplace on the far wall.
“Sorry about the mess,” Misty said, bustling past her six-year-old son, Tyler, who was sprawled on the carpet watching cartoons. “I just need to pop in the kitchen for a sec and make sure my chili isn’t burning.”
A man and a teenage girl sat at the round dining table off the kitchen. Misty picked up a wooden spoon and gestured at them.
“This is my husband, Chris, and my stepdaughter, Rachel.”
They exchanged greetings while Misty lifted the lid off a pot, releasing a cloud of steam. She stirred then gave the wooden spoon a few taps against the pot before replacing the lid. She slid into the seat next to her husband and gestured that Charlie should sit as well. Chris closed his laptop, and Rachel shut her math book, leaving her pencil between the pages to mark her spot.