Moonlight on Butternut Lake (5 page)

She did not. But she still could not bring herself to leave her room, walk down the hallway to Reid's room, knock on his door, and demand that he give her his prescription medications. And why not? she asked herself, getting up from her bed and pacing a little. Well, for one thing, she was afraid of him. Not
physically
afraid of him, of course. He couldn't hurt her. Not in the condition he was in now. Besides, there was nothing in his file to suggest he was violent, though there was plenty, of course, to suggest he was both rude and uncooperative. But she wasn't afraid of him for
that
reason, was she?
Yes,
a little voice inside her answered, as she remembered what he'd been like at the coffee shop that afternoon. The way he'd looked at her, as if he were seeing right through her, and the way he'd said that to her, too, about running away from a bad breakup . . . it was unnerving. Uncanny, almost. It was hard to know if he was being perceptive, or if he'd just made a lucky guess. Either way, though, she wasn't looking forward to having another conversation with him.

Then again, she thought, what kind of a nurse would she be, one day, if she couldn't stand up to her patients? If she couldn't act in their best interests, even if she was intimidated by them?
Not a very good one,
she had to admit. Besides, she was going to
have to learn to be stronger than she'd been in the past, stronger and more assertive. She stopped pacing, closed her eyes, and counted silently to ten. Then, before she lost her nerve, she left her room and walked quickly to Reid's room. The door was closed, but she knocked on it, firmly.

“Reid?” she called.

There was no answer. She frowned. Could he be sleeping? It was possible. But it didn't matter. This couldn't wait. She knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer. Her resolve weakened a little. Maybe she should come back later? But no, she told herself. Later was too late.

She knocked again. “Reid?” she said. “Reid, it's Mila. I need to speak to you.”

This time he answered. “Go away,” he called out, obviously irritated.

She took a step back. Even after their earlier meeting, she was surprised at his rudeness. But she gathered her resolve. “I'm not going away,” she said, hoping she sounded braver than she actually felt.

“Well, that's too bad,” he answered churlishly. “Because I'm not opening this door.”

“Well, then I'll wait here until you change your mind,” Mila said, relieved that Reid had no way of knowing how fast her heart was beating. “And Reid,” she added, “I can wait here all night.”

She heard an exasperated sigh, but a moment later he wheeled himself over to the door and opened it a crack.

“What it is?” he growled, barely looking at her.

“I need to speak to you,” she said, resisting the urge to take a step back.

“Not now,” he said, already sounding bored by what had transpired between them.

“Yes, now,” she said, as firmly as she could.

He sighed again, heavily. “Fine. Go ahead. But hurry up.”

“Not like this,” she objected, through the crack in the door. “I need to speak to you face-to-face.”

There was a pause. “Are you quitting?” he asked.

“No, I am not quitting,” Mila said.
But I would, if I had any choice in the matter.
“Reid, come on. This is silly,” she said. “Open the door all the way.”

And, after a moment, he did. “All right,” he said, maneuvering his wheelchair out of the way, “you can come in. But make it quick. I'm busy.”

And Mila, once she came into his room, almost laughed at this last remark. Because what could he possibly have been doing in here that she was interrupting? Even if there had been any diversions in the room—and, as Walker had already told her, there weren't many—the lights were off, and the shades were drawn, leaving everything, including Reid, in a kind of self-imposed twilight.

But the room didn't just seem lightless. It seemed airless, too. And she was tempted to open the shades, and the windows, but something stopped her, that something being the expression of open hostility on Reid's face as he studied her.

“I'd ask you to sit down,” he said. “But I don't want to encourage you to stay.”

And Mila, no longer surprised by his rudeness, thought,
You're a real charmer, Reid.
But she reminded herself, again, of why she was here. This wasn't about her ego. This wasn't even about
his
ego. This was about her doing her job, however hard Reid made it for her to do. So she ignored his remark and sat down in an armchair in the corner of the room.

He scowled at her and looked away.

She took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. She couldn't let him see how nervous she was. If he did, he'd take it as a sign of weakness. “Reid, the reason I'm here,” she said, “is because I need to talk to you about your medications.”

“What about my medications?”

“Well, I know you've been keeping them here in your room with you. But as of today, that's going to change. I'll be responsible for keeping them in a secure place, and I'll also be responsible for giving them to you at the right time, and in the right amount.”

“What? No. No way,” Reid objected. “I don't need someone doling those pills out to me. I can read a label. I'm not a complete idiot.”

“I didn't say you were,” Mila said reasonably. “In fact, I think you're perfectly intelligent.”
And perfectly unpleasant, too.
“But your intelligence isn't in question. What is in question is whether you're taking your medication too frequently, or taking too much of it at one time. These drugs are called controlled substances for a reason, Reid. They're addictive. Or they can be, if you don't take them the way they're prescribed.”

Reid, who'd initially angled his wheelchair away from her, suddenly spun it in her direction. “Did my brother put you up to this?”

“No,” Mila said quickly. Too quickly.

“He told you to do this, didn't he?” Reid persisted.

Mila thought for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “But I would have done it anyway. It's part of my responsibility as your home health aide.”

Reid rolled his eyes. “That's debatable,” he mumbled, looking toward a window whose shade was drawn.

“But we're not debating it, Reid,” she said, trying to tamp
down her nerves again. “So you're going to tell me where the medications are, and I'm going to leave your room with them. It's that simple.” She glanced around the room, wondering if they were in plain sight. But they weren't, as far as she could see.

There was a long silence, as Reid angled his wheelchair away from her again. He was obviously hoping that if he ignored her long enough, she'd give up and leave. But she wasn't going to do that.

“Where are they, Reid?” she asked again.

Another stony silence.

She sighed. She'd known this wasn't going to be easy, but she'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. She was pretty sure this next tactic would work. But she was also sure it wasn't going to endear her to Reid. Then again,
nothing
was going to endear her to him. So what difference did it make?

“Reid,” she said, “either I leave your room with those medications, or I call your brother and his wife and ask them to come over here so the four of us can discuss it together. Now.
Right now.
Because this can't wait another day.”

Reid whirled around. He looked aghast. “Are you serious? They have a family, you know. They're probably sitting down to dinner right now.”

“Well, their dinner will have to wait then. Besides, I think they'd agree with me that this is more important.”

“Oh, for God's sake,” he said, slumping in his wheelchair.

It was quiet in the room then, each of them waiting for the other to capitulate, though only one of them, Mila felt sure, was waiting with a pounding heart and sweaty palms.

Finally she stood up. “I'll call your brother,” she said.

He sighed disgustedly. “They're in the bedside table drawer,” he said, not looking at her.

“Thank you,” Mila said crisply, and she stood up, walked over to the bedside table, and opened the drawer. Then she took out the prescription bottles one at a time, read the labels carefully, and, opening their lids, spilled the contents out onto her palm and counted them before returning them to their bottles. When she was done, she felt relieved. Not only had it not been necessary to call Walker and Allie for reinforcements, but Reid was only a couple days ahead, at most, on his different pain medications. He'd probably been gradually upping his dosage, she saw, but it wasn't too late, hopefully, for her to get him back on track before it became a real problem.

“Reid, when did you last take all of these?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I don't know. I don't take them on a schedule, really. I just sort of take them when I feel like I need them.”

Mila's eyes widened, and she felt a lecture coming on, but she stopped herself before she could give it. Instead, she said only, “Well, that stops tonight, all right? From now on, you'll be on a schedule. And if you feel like you need a higher or a lower dosage, then, obviously, that's something you need to discuss with your doctor.”

Another sigh from him. “Look, this has been great, really,” he said sarcastically. “It's been so much fun spending this time with you. But I need you to leave now, okay? I mean, like, right now.”

“Okay,” she said, and she tried for a smile, but she couldn't quite pull it off. So she gathered the prescription bottles together, backed out the door, and closed it behind her. Then she went to the kitchen, where she opened one of the cupboards, cleared a
small space, and put the medications inside of it. That would do for tonight. Tomorrow, she'd speak to Lonnie about finding a permanent place for them. After she'd put them away, she went back to her room, and sank down gratefully onto the bed.
There,
she told herself.
That wasn't so bad, was it?
But if that were the case, then why was she shaking all over?

A
t midnight that night, Mila, who was sitting at the desk in the guest room, put down her pencil and closed her nursing exam study guide. Her back was starting to ache from sitting in the same position for so long, and she clasped her arms behind her to stretch her cramped muscles. She was tired,
dead tired,
as the bus driver had said, and she knew she should go to bed. Her responsibilities were over for the night. She'd taken Reid his dinner on a tray at seven o'clock, as instructed, and she'd come back to collect it at eight o'clock. It was completely untouched. But she couldn't fault him for not eating it. She'd had the same dinner—lasagna, salad, and garlic bread—alone at the kitchen table, and while it had looked good, and tasted even better, she hadn't been able to eat it either, and she'd ended up scraping most of it into the kitchen garbage can.

After she'd loaded the dinner dishes into the dishwasher and wiped down the kitchen counters, she'd locked the cabin's doors and set the alarm, which Lonnie had shown her how to do. Then she'd showered and changed into her nightgown. It had only been nine o'clock by then, and she'd known she wouldn't be
able to sleep yet, so she'd studied instead. Or tried to study, anyway, because in her heightened state of alertness, every sound she heard—every branch creaking outside her window, every wave lapping on the lake's shore below, every car passing on the distant road—left her feeling on edge.

Mila, relax, s
he'd told herself.
You set the alarm. Nobody's getting into this cabin without your knowing about it.
But she couldn't relax, and she couldn't concentrate very well either. Still, as she worked her way slowly, and falteringly, through a section of practice questions, she reminded herself what was at stake here. If she was going to go to nursing school, she had to be prepared for the entrance exam. And being prepared for the entrance exam, which she'd take in the fall, meant spending every available minute studying for it this summer. She tried not to think about the logistics of all this, though. Tried not to think about the fact that taking the exam meant she'd actually have to emerge from hiding long enough to take it, and that applying to and getting accepted to nursing school meant actually having the freedom to attend it. Something she could never do in the shadowy half world that being in hiding had forced her into.

Now, though, she pushed that thought out of her mind, finished stretching her aching back and shoulders, and put her study materials back in the top drawer. But she didn't get up right away. Instead, she picked up a pencil and chewed thoughtfully on it as she thought about Heather. Her friendship with Heather was the reason she was studying for this test. God, she missed her. Missed her in a way she had not known it was possible to miss someone before tonight. She thought back, now, to the first time she'd met her, over seventeen years ago. Mila remembered it as clearly as if it had been yesterday. She'd been in
the third grade then, and her teacher, Mrs. Williams, had taken her to her school's administrative office.

“Is the nurse here?” Mrs. Williams asked the school secretary. “This little girl is burning up,” she said irritably. “I left a message for her mother, but she hasn't returned my call yet.”

The secretary looked up, briefly, from a stack of papers on her desk.

“The nurse is in her office,” she said. “She's new. Just knock on the door.”

Mrs. Williams led Mila through the administrative office, to a door marked “Nurse,” and knocked on it, sighing impatiently. And Mila stood beside her, feeling miserable. Her head ached terribly, and she felt so chilled that even with her scratchy wool sweater on she could barely keep her teeth from chattering. Worst of all, though, was the fact that she knew Mrs. Williams was angry at her. Angry at her for not feeling well. And angry at her for having a mother who wasn't returning her calls. Mrs. Williams already disliked her, Mila thought, and inconveniencing her like this wasn't going to help matters.

But as she was thinking about this, the door to the nurse's office opened, and the young woman who'd opened it smiled at both Mrs. Williams and Mila and asked, “Can I help you?” Mila blinked at her, wondering who she was. She couldn't be the nurse, she decided. She looked too young, and too casual, to be a nurse. She was pretty, with bright blue eyes and long shiny blond hair, and she was wearing the same kind of clothes Mila was wearing, a sweater and a pair of blue jeans.
No,
Mila thought,
this must be the nurse's friend.
Because while she didn't know a lot about nurses, it seemed to her that they should look official somehow. Serious. And this woman didn't look like either of those things.

“Are you the new nurse?” Mrs. Williams asked, and Mila realized that her teacher didn't believe it either.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” the woman said pleasantly. “My name is Heather Drew. But you can call me Heather. And who do we have here?” she asked, kneeling down so that she was at eye level with Mila. That surprised Mila. She was used to adults looking down on her.

“This is Mila Jones,” Mrs. Williams said, not giving her a chance to answer. “She has a fever. I called her mother, but, amazingly, she's not there. Her mother, by the way, is a real piece of work,” she continued, in a lower voice, though not so low that Mila couldn't hear her. “I think she's a cocktail waitress. Or
something
like that.”

Mila flinched. She wasn't as dumb as Mrs. Williams thought she was. She knew that she was implying that whatever Mila's mother really did, it was worse than being a cocktail waitress. Mila, usually timid, wanted to say something in her mother's defense, but she couldn't. Her head hurt too much. And her tongue felt funny in her mouth. Almost as if it had a weight on it.

And then Mila, through the fog of her fever, saw Heather frown. She didn't like what Mrs. Williams had said about her mother either, Mila realized. And for some reason, it made Mila feel a little better.

Heather stood up now, putting a hand protectively on Mila's shoulder as she did so. “That's fine,” she said briskly to Mrs. Williams. “I'll take it from here. You go back to your classroom Mrs. . . . ?”

“Mrs. Williams,” she said curtly. “And keep trying the mom,” she added, over her shoulder, as she left the office. “Otherwise, you'll be stuck with this kid all day.”

Mila swallowed, hard. She felt tears burning in her eyes. She
hated the way Mrs. Williams talked about her. As if she wasn't even there.

And Heather, whose hand was still on Mila's shoulder, seemed to understand this. She knelt down again and smiled at Mila. “Don't mind Mrs. Williams,” she said, softly, so the secretary couldn't hear her. “You wouldn't be very nice, either, if your face looked like a dried-up prune.”

And Mila laughed, surprising herself. It was true, she thought. Mrs. Williams' face
did
look like a dried-up prune.

Now Heather placed her hand on Mila's forehead and whistled softly. “That's quite a fever you're running there,” she said, standing up. “We better take your temperature.”

She led Mila into her office and closed the door behind them. “Why don't you climb up there,” she said to Mila, indicating an exam table. And Mila climbed up on it and waited, shivering, while Heather used one of those ear thermometers Mila had only seen at doctors' offices.

“A hundred and one,” Heather said, frowning at the thermometer. “How long have you felt sick, Mila?” she asked.

Mila didn't answer. She was afraid if she told the truth, Heather would be angry.

“Did you feel this way when you left for school this morning?” Heather asked gently.

Mila nodded.

“And before you went to bed last night?”

Mila nodded again, keeping her eyes on the floor.

“And you didn't tell anyone?”

Mila shook her head no.

“Why not?”

“Because my mom can't work if I'm sick,” Mila said quietly. “She has to stay home with me instead. And she needs to work. If she
doesn't work, she doesn't get paid. And if she doesn't get paid . . .” Mila's voice trailed off. She didn't know what would happen if her mother didn't get paid. Her mother had never explained that. But Mila knew, whatever it was, it was bad.

She waited now, for Heather to say what Mrs. Williams had said, at least in so many words. That her mother was a bad mother. But Heather didn't say that. Instead, she asked, “Is it just you and your mom, Mila?”

Mila nodded.

“That's hard,” she said sympathetically. “I'm sure your mother loves you very much. But she can't be in two places at one time, can she?”

“No,” Mila whispered gratefully.

“Does your throat hurt?” Heather asked then, probing Mila's neck with her cool fingers.

Mila shook her head.

But Heather looked at her throat anyway, gently pushing down Mila's tongue with a tongue depressor and shining a little light into the back of her mouth.

“Your throat looks fine,” she murmured, then used the same light to look in both of Mila's ears. “So do your ears. What about your stomach? Does that hurt?”

Mila shook her head again. “Just my head,” she said.
And the rest of my body too
. A chill came over her then and she felt her teeth start to chatter. She clenched her jaw to make them stop.

“Poor thing,” Heather said, helping Mila off the examining table and leading her over to a daybed in a corner of the office. “Why don't you lie down here for a minute, okay? I'm going to check your file and see if I can give you some medicine to help you feel better.”

Mila lay down and Heather put a blanket over her. In a minute,
she was back. “You don't have any allergies to medication,” she said cheerfully, sitting down on the edge of the daybed. “So I'm going to give you some children's Tylenol, all right? It'll bring your fever down and help with the achiness.”

Mila nodded and sat up.

“Can you chew these?” Heather asked. She was holding a Dixie cup with two bright purple tablets in it.

Mila nodded, taking the cup from her, and chewing and swallowing the tablets in spite of her funny-feeling tongue. “Good job,” Heather said, favoring Mila with one of her warm smiles. “Now, why don't you rest here for a little while, okay? I'm going to call your mom. But don't worry if she can't pick you up right away. I can stay here with you for as long as necessary.”

Mila wanted to thank her, but she was suddenly too tired to. So instead she closed her eyes and rested, just like Heather had told her to. And she must have fallen asleep, too, because when she opened her eyes, she knew immediately from the dusky winter light outside the office's windows that it was late afternoon. Her heart sank. Her mother still wasn't there. But Heather was there, sitting at a nearby desk, typing on a computer.

She must have sensed Mila looking at her, though, because she looked up and smiled at her. “You're awake,” she said, getting up and coming over to the daybed. She sat down on the edge and felt Mila's forehead with her cool hand.

“Much better,” she said approvingly, going to get the thermometer. And when she took Mila's temperature again, she was doubly pleased. “Ninety-nine,” she said. “Almost normal. Are you feeling better, too?”

Mila nodded. She was. Her chills were gone, and her head only hurt a little now.

“I think, Mila, that what you have is the flu,” Heather said,
tucking the blanket around her again. “The plain old flu. And with lots of fluids, and lots of rest, you'll be back to your old self in a few days.”

“That's good,” Mila said unconvincingly. But that wasn't good. If she had to stay home for a few days, that would be a problem for her mother. Heather, though, seemed to read her mind.

“And don't worry about your mom missing work,” she said. “I already spoke to her and she was able to trade shifts with one of her coworkers. She's going to be able to stay home with you tomorrow, and the next day, too, if you need her to. So the only thing you'll be responsible for, Mila, is getting better.”

Mila felt relieved. Ordinarily, she was responsible for so many things. She had to walk herself to and from school every day, no matter what the weather was. She had to do all her homework by herself, even when she didn't understand it. And she had to make her own dinner in the microwave oven every night. It wasn't anyone's fault she had to do all those things. It was just the way it was. But then something else occurred to her. “When is my mom going to pick me up?” she asked Heather worriedly.

“Oh, a little later,” Heather said, with a shrug. “As soon as she's done at work. But I told her I could stay here with you. If that's all right with you, that is.”

“It's all right,” Mila said, feeling suddenly shy. “But . . . but isn't there someplace you need to be?”

“Nope,” Heather said. “I'm already where I need to be. Which is right here, with you.”

“But don't you have a family?”

“I have a husband,” Heather said. “But he understands. Now, Mila,” she went on briskly, changing the subject. “How would you like a cherry Popsicle?”

“I'd love one,” Mila said honestly. Heather brought her one
from the freezer in the office, and she brought one for herself, too. Mila sat up on the daybed then, and Heather pulled a chair over, and they ate their Popsicles, and talked, while it got darker outside. And then, right as Heather was throwing their Popsicle sticks away, Mila blurted out, apropos of nothing, “When I grow up, I want to be a nurse, too.”

“Really?” Heather asked, obviously pleased, coming to sit back down.

Mila nodded. It had never occurred to her before that she wanted to be a nurse, but as soon as she'd said the words, she'd known that they were true. “I'm . . . I'm good with my hands,” she said to Heather, feeling shy again. “I'm good at making things, and cleaning things, and fixing things.” And she was. But mostly, she was good at taking care of things, even if those things, so far, had consisted mainly of her stuffed animals, who suffered from a variety of ailments that often required her attention.