Nothing
“Hi Heather, how's it going?” I expected the usual small talk before we got down to business, but she had other ideas.
“I don't understand it,” she said, clearly puzzled by what she had found. “The records are so confusing. Actually, there are hardly any records at all. I found a record of a land purchase back in 1951, and a tax assessment of a new house about a year later. But that's about it. There are no subsequent tax records, no mentions of the property at all after that. It's as if the place didn't exist.”
“Could it have just fallen through the cracks?” I asked. “After all, bureaucracies tend to be complex and messy, maybe the paperwork just got lost or something.”
“Local governments do not just forget about taxable properties for over sixty years,” she lectured with just a bit of condescension in her voice. “Taxes are how they fund everything. They're not going to just let it slide. No, I think there's something odd here.”
What about the other cottages out there?” I asked. “Were they built at the same time? What about their taxes?”
“Just what I wondered,” she replied. “So I looked them up as well. It seems that in 1951 that stretch of coastline was totally undeveloped. It wasn't until the early seventies that anything else was built out there, and then they were all built at once by a developer. I had no problem finding their records, taxes, assessments, bills of sale, even a few police records for loud parties. But nothing for the cottage you're in.”
“What about the rehab center? When was that built?”
“The last remodel happened about ten years ago, and before that there was a major renovation in the 1980's. But the original building was built in 1923. It was originally called the Mid-Coast Mental Health Institute, MCMHI. I think that's why that stretch of coast remained undeveloped for so long.”
“Why would...”
“Would you want to live next door to the loony bin?” she asked bluntly. “That's how people thought of it back then. I found a number of letters to the editor from the local newspaper where MCMHI is either being complained about or used as the butt of a running joke. It finally closed down in 1969, and all the patients were moved to a state facility near the capital. The building was unused until the hospital purchased it a few years later to use as a nursing home, and the last remodel was when they added the rehab center. You can still make out a bit of the original architecture buried under the modern additions.”
So you're telling me that the cottage was the only private dwelling out there for over twenty years?”
“Exactly, but except for the earliest records, there is no trace of it legally.”
“When was it sold to the current owner? There must be a record of that.”
“Nope, as far as I can tell it is still legally owned by the man who built it. And here's the funny part. It was built by a Mr. Francis Bouchard.”
I sat in silence for a moment trying to make sense of it all. “Is that the same Mr. Bouchard I met at the nursing home?” I asked in disbelief.
“Honestly, I don't know.” she admitted with a look of defeat. “I have not been able to find out anything on him. The man who built the house was a world war two veteran and would probably be in his mid nineties by now. How old do you think the Mr. Bouchard in the nursing home is?”
“Nineties sounds about right,” I considered. “Maybe the folks at the nursing home could tell me more.”
“I doubt that,” she said pessimistically. “Privacy policies. HIPPA rights. You aren't going to get anything from them.”
“Well, maybe they'll at least tell me how old he is.” I offered. “It wouldn't hurt to ask.”
She shrugged and I could tell she was discouraged at her inability to find anything for me. I shifted the conversation to more personal topic and asked if she was aware that Andi had passed. She looked at me sheepishly before admitting, “I knew, but Miss McFierceson made me promise not to say anything. It seemed she wanted to tell you herself.”
“She told me last night,” I said. “And Andi was there as well.”
She smiled. “Good, she loved you and Ben more than you know.” We continued to chat for a few minutes until I had to leave to be at the rehab center for Ben's physical therapy.
“I don't really need to be there for Ben, you understand,” I sighed, rising to leave. “They've asked me to sit with Mr. Bouchard again. Maybe I can get something out of him.”
“Let me know if you do,” she replied, getting up to walk me out to my car. “You've got my curiosity up now too.”
I thought about what she had told me on the drive back to the cottage. It wasn't much, but that in itself seemed significant. Why were there so few records? She was right, in that real estate was usually wrapped up in so much red tape as to be one of the easiest things to research, and Heather was a brilliant archivist. I knew from working with her before that if she couldn't find it, it probably didn't exist. So what exactly did this dearth of legal documentation point to? I was still trying to figure it out when I arrived home.
Joey's physical therapy was scheduled for just before lunch, so I just had enough time to pick up a simple knitting project and head over to the rehab center. The orderly had already arrived and was in the process of putting him in his wheelchair when I entered his room. “Well, they got you going at it bright and early this morning,” I joked as I walked in.
“Bright and early?” he chided. “It's almost eleven! What took you so long?” He knew I had stopped at work before coming in, but he still seemed a bit agitated.
“Is everything alright?” I asked with a hint of concern.
“Everything is fine, I'm fine,” he insisted, sounding almost exactly like his mother.
“Really?” I responded incredulously, giving him a look that made it clear that I wasn't buying it.
He tried to stare me down for a moment, then continued, “Well, anyways, um, how's Heather? What did she find?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It's like the house has no history.” By now the orderly had him ready to go and I walked with them to the elevator. “But we can go over the details later, right now you need to focus on your therapy.”
He grumbled at this. “Fucking therapy, why's it taking so long?” It was clear that the initial euphoria of experiencing sensation in his feet and legs had worn off, and the depression was back.
I reached down and took his hand. “It's going to take time, you know that.” When he didn't respond, I squeezed his hand and asked, “Do you want me to come in with you today? I can if it will make you feel better.”
He shook his head. “That won't help,” he muttered, “Besides, you need to go sit with Mr. Bouchard.” He seemed to rally at this thought and asked, “What knitting did you bring?”
“Just a scarf,” I answered. “Something simple.”
“Sounds good.” The elevator opened and we headed down the hall toward the therapy room. I kissed him before heading off to the patio and Mr. Bouchard.
Cecil was waiting for me and greeted me with a smile. “Glad to see you could make it. Evidently they bring him out here every morning first thing.”
“Were you able to find anything out about him?” I asked. “It could help with making conversation.”
“He's not one of my patients, so I don't have access to his records, but I informed the nurses that you had been able to get a response out him yesterday, and they told me that he has been sitting on that patio every day since it was built, and if the weather is bad, he sits by the window that overlooks it. They've taken to calling it Heaven's Doorstep because they have the sense that he's just waiting to die.”
“Alright then,” I chuckled. “Not much to go on, but maybe I can just help him feel less lonely.”
“You're a good man Charlie Brown,” he joked as he shook my hand and opened the door for me. “Let me know how it goes.”
I collected a patio chair from a seating group as I walked by and sat myself down beside the old man in the wheelchair. “Good morning Mr. Bouchard. I hope you're feeling well today.” He didn't respond, but I expected that. “Do you mind if I sit here with you and do some knitting? It's such a lovely day, and the view from here is beautiful.” We sat in silence for a while, enjoying the sunshine, and I showed him what I was working on. “It's not much, but it keeps my hands busy and helps keep my mind off of other things.” I found myself telling him about Ben and how he was still fighting depression. He didn't respond at all. He just stared out to sea as he always did, but I could feel a connection, as if he were really listening intently. This drew me out and I found myself telling him about our sexual frustrations and how hard it was to be in this limbo, waiting for something to happen. As the time drew near for Ben to finish up therapy I took my leave with an apology. “I don't know why I'm telling you all this,” I said. “It's really too much information, and I'm sorry it got so personal. But it's been nice sitting here with you for a while. I have to go get Ben now, but I'll be back the next time he has therapy.” I placed a hand on his shoulder as I left, and this time he turned his head slightly as if trying to look at me, but the blank stare gave no indication that he could even see me.
There was no need for an orderly after therapy. I wheeled Ben back to his room and got him out of his wheelchair. His mood hadn't improved and he wanted to be put to bed. Again the therapy had worn him out and he was beginning to complain about the pain he was feeling in his feet. “I need a nap,” he said wearily. “Can you ask them to bring my lunch up here? I'll eat when I wake up.”
“Of course,” I answered. “and while you nap, I'll grab a bite at home. Do you need anything else?”
“No, I'm just going to call my mom and make sure she got home alright.” Sandra had returned home the previous day and it was a bit surprising that she hadn't called to report her safe arrival.
“Do you want me to do it?” I asked. “I mean if you're too tired...”
“No, I want to hear her voice,” he replied. “ I'll be fine, but I will need that nap. Sylvia called this morning and asked if she could bring a few more of the kids over this afternoon. I'll probably sleep until they get here. Can you come by at about three thirty and make sure I'm presentable?”
“Three thirty, you got it.” I gave him a kiss and headed down to the nurses station to put in his lunch request.
When I got home I really didn't feel like thinking about lunch, so I decided to head over to Mike's and see what he had on offer. He greeted me with his usual smile. “How's Ben?” he asked as I sat at the bar.
“The physical therapy is wearing him out,” I answered. “And now he's starting to feel pain in his feet.”
“That's good, isn't it? It means he's healing, right?”
“Yes, but he's having a hard time dealing with it. The depression is starting to come back.”
Mike nodded, “I understand. It can't be easy. Let me know if there's anything I can do. “ I ordered a sandwich and a cup of tea, and as he set my drink down he added, “You know, if he gets sick of the rehab center you could always bring him here. We have a wheelchair ramp on the side door.” Then with a wink he whispered, “And we're going to have another circle jerk in a few days, maybe he'd like to come and watch.”
I chuckled. “I think until he can get it up again, that might just add to his depression, but I'll let him know you are thinking about him.”
“Will we see you there? I'm hoping for a repeat performance, if you know what I mean”
I did, and it made me laugh again. “I'm not sure yet, We'll just have to wait and see how things go.”
Again he nodded and headed off to make my sandwich. I spent the next half hour allowing the noise of the bar to wash over me while enjoying the solitude you can only find in a crowd. As I was finishing up I heard the door open behind me and heard a familiar voice say “There you are! I've been looking all over!”
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