Aquaphobia

With his administrative assistant, Judy Stanfield, about to embark on a two-week cruise to Bermuda, Dr. Lionel Penn decided to close up shop and take a vacation himself. His patients, none of whom would suffer any adverse effects from his absence, were asked to reschedule their appointments.

"Let me guess. You're going to spend those two weeks alone on your boat," Judy said after she finished making the last of the telephone calls to her employer's patients.

"You got it!" the psychiatrist replied with that peaceful, contented look that only the prospect of spending time on the sea could bring to his face.

Three days later, Judy and her husband drove to Boston's Logan Airport and boarded a plane for Miami where they would embark on their cruise. Lionel's plans to sail along the New England coast up to Nova Scotia, however, were scrapped when his sister, April, invited him to the Tanglewood Jazz Festival.

Lionel considered declining her offer. After all, she had no right to buy him a ticket without even asking if he wanted to attend, but he loved April and knew her heart was in the right place. Besides, he might actually enjoy spending some quality time with his sister and her family.

During the three-hour drive from Puritan Falls to Tanglewood, April, a high school English teacher, regaled her brother and husband with stories about novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne, who once rented a cottage in the Berkshires.

"The estate got its name from Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales, although at the time he lived there, Hawthorne was writing The House of the Seven Gables."

Mention of Hawthorne and his famous novel reminded Lionel of Salem, which in turn reminded him of his previous plans to go sailing. He sighed at the thought of stopping in places like Portsmouth, Kennebunkport, Portland, Ogunquit and Rockland. His mouth nearly watered for the taste of fresh lobster and a bowl of clam chowder.

April's children were watching a DVD in the back seat of the minivan, oblivious to their mother's attempts to educate them about one of Massachusetts' most famous authors. Her husband, Tom Brower, who preferred reading The Boston Globe's sports section to Hawthorne, changed the subject.

Talk of baseball bored April, so she turned her head toward the window to observe the scenery along the Massachusetts Turnpike. It was only the beginning of September, and already some of the leaves on the trees were changing color.

"Yeah. In another month, the mountains will come alive with color," her brother added.

"In the middle of October, we ought to rent a cabin up here for a long weekend, or, better yet, we can come here in the winter. We can go skiing at Butternut or ...."

"I don't think I can take any more time away from my practice this year," Lionel said.

Even if he could, he wouldn't want to go off to a cabin in the middle of the mountains. For one thing, he didn't like skiing or any other winter sport. For another, he wasn't fond of long car rides—unless they were along coastal roads. No, Lionel would much prefer spending the cold winter months frequenting his favorite dining establishments and sitting in front of his fireplace, catching up on his reading—that was when his assistant, sister or other well meaning friend wasn't trying to set him up with an eligible young woman.

The handsome psychiatrist didn't have anything against getting married. On the contrary, when he graduated from medical school, he had assumed that marriage would be the next major milestone in his life. But after a series of failed romances, he decided to let nature take its course. If he was meant to be with someone, he was sure that fate would place her in his path.

By the time signs for Tanglewood began appearing on the turnpike, the driver and passengers in the minivan were restless and hungry. Even the two youngsters in the back seat, who were in the middle of their second DVD, were anxious to reach their destination.

At last! Lionel thought with relief as his brother-in-law pulled into the motel's parking lot.

"Look!" his niece, Holly, cried, when the family got out of the car and stretched their stiff muscles. "There's a McDonalds across the street. Can we eat there?"

Lionel cringed. He had lived on fast food while attending college and medical school and then again while serving his residency. When he finally opened his practice in Puritan Falls, he had sworn never to eat another mass-produced hamburger or shoestring French fry again. April turned to her brother with a pleading look on her face.

"You go ahead and take the kids," he said. "You don't mind if I borrow the minivan and see if I can find a restaurant in the area?"

"No, of course not," Tom replied and handed over the keys. "Why don't you save yourself a lot of unnecessary driving and just check the navigator for places to eat nearby."

Since the psychiatrist rarely left northeastern Massachusetts, except by boat, he had never seen the need for a navigator and had to have his brother-in-law show him how it worked.

After checking into the motel and putting their luggage in their rooms, Tom, April and their kids headed across the street to McDonalds while Lionel got behind the wheel of the family's minivan—a far cry from his little MG—and drove the 2.9 miles to Murphy's Gaelic Pub.

He gave the place four stars for charm. While he had never actually been to Ireland, he imagined that pubs there would look like Murphy's. If the food tasted good, he would be a happy man.

"Can I start you off with a drink?" the perky Irish waitress asked after the hostess seated him.

Lionel would have preferred something stronger after the long car ride, but he didn't like to drink and drive, especially when he was borrowing someone else's car.

He looked at the menu. There was a good mixture of what was advertised as "authentic Irish fare" and the time-honored American standards.

"Are you ready to order?" the girl asked when she returned with his beer. "Or do you need a few more minutes?"

"I'll start with the Irish fish chowder and savory scones. Then for my main course I'll have the Limerick ham and colcannon."

After the waitress headed toward the kitchen with his order, Lionel scanned the faces of the other patrons in the pub. The place was only half-full, but it was just after five o'clock: an early hour for dinner by most people's standards. Those early bird customers that were there seemed to be enjoying their meals, which was always a good sign.

Lionel's eyes finally settled on an attractive young woman, sitting alone at a table in the far corner of the room. Was she waiting for someone, he wondered. She picked up her head from the menu, and her eyes met his. Startled, she knocked over her water glass. When she saw the water pour over the edge of the table and onto the floor, she jumped from her seat and muffled a scream.

Since the waitress was still in the kitchen, Lionel decided to go to the young woman's aid. He grabbed a couple of cloth napkins from the wait station and began wiping up the spill.

"It's all right," he assured the curious people who gathered around. "I'm a doctor."

As he took her pulse, Lionel plied her with the usual battery of questions, all of which she answered to his satisfaction.

"Fasting can cause you to become lightheaded. Why don't you sit down and have a good meal? If you'd like, you can join me. That way I can catch you if you faint again," he joked.

The young woman, whose name was Susan Tinney, glanced at the wet tablecloth and gratefully accepted his offer.

"Are you here for the Jazz Festival?" Lionel asked after the waitress took Susan's order.

"Very much so. I was born and raised there. It's a beautiful seaside village, and I have a boat at a nearby marina."

"I don't like the water at all," Susan answered after the waitress brought out their soup. "In fact, I won't even go on the beach. I suppose it's childish of me to be so afraid of the water."

Lionel's spoon stopped midway in its journey from his bowl to his mouth. It appeared as though he wasn't going to get through his two-week vacation without having to deal with someone's phobia. True, he could have ignored her comment or changed the subject, but his fascination with people's fears made him pursue a line of inquiry.

"The fear of water, although some refer to the condition as hydrophobia. I prefer not to use that term myself because of its association with rabies. Anyway, to get back to my question, have you suffered from aquaphobia long?"

"I'm a doctor," he said, deliberately not using the word psychiatrist. "I specialize in helping people with phobias."

Then he waited for the inevitable denial of I'm not crazy from the girl. Surprisingly, it didn't come.

"In that case, as long as you don't send me a bill, you may ask as many questions as you like."

During their meal, which lasted longer than either had anticipated, Susan and Lionel discussed both her fears and his work. Their conversation was cut short by the ringing of Lionel's BlackBerry.

"Excuse me," he said and answered his phone. "No, everything is fine. I'm here at Murphy's Gaelic Pub, having a delightful, traditional Irish dinner. ... I should be back before eleven. ... No, there's no need to wait up for me. I'm sure the kids are exhausted after that long ride. ... No, I haven't had much to drink, just one beer. I'll be fine to drive. ... Yes, yes. Goodnight, April."

"Wife? Oh, no. April is my sister. She's here with her husband and kids. I'm not married."

Their second dinner was the following day. Lionel arrived at the restaurant—this time a charming little Italian trattoria—to find Susan already there waiting for him.

"Certainly not! I'm a doctor," he replied with mock outrage. "I expect people to be on time both in my office and out."

There was little doubt that Lionel was attracted to the young woman. Under other circumstances, he might have given some thought to a more serious relationship, but the three-hour trek on the Massachusetts Turnpike that separated them was a powerful deterrent.

While they were enjoying the antipasto, Susan took Lionel by surprise when she asked, "Just out of curiosity, what do you charge?"

"It depends," he answered, wondering why the question had come up and hoping Susan was not conducting a pre-relationship audit of his assets.

"On whether or not they have insurance, for one thing. Also, some people can live happy, productive lives with a phobia while others, such as agoraphobics, have a reduced quality of life because of their fears. Although I don't run a charity, I have on occasion treated needy patients at reduced rates."

Lionel stopped chewing on his artichoke heart, looked his dinner companion in the eye and asked, "Are you serious about becoming a patient?"

"You tell me. I wash at the sink rather than take a bath or shower. I've never gone swimming or enjoyed a glass of wine in a hot tub. I even stay indoors when it rains."

"Don't get too excited," he cautioned her. "I don't work miracles. It takes time to get to the root of a phobia."

After running through the usual questions, Lionel knew it would take more than a conversation over dinner to get to the bottom of Susan Tinney's fears.

"Are we going to see you at all this week?" April asked the following morning when she glimpsed her brother behind the wheel of a rented Ford Taurus.

Lionel got out of the car, kissed his sister's cheek and apologized, "I'm sorry. Maybe we can have lunch together today."

He hesitated a moment, wondering just how much he should reveal to his inquisitive sister.

"Really? Oh, Lion, that's wonderful! Why don't you bring her to lunch today? Or dinner tonight?"

"Calm down, Sis. I just met her. Give me a few more dates before I spring the family on her."

As he had promised, Lionel met with April, Tom and their children for lunch. Then they attended the festival in the afternoon, but as the evening approached, Lionel excused himself.

Lionel didn't bother explaining to his sister that the dinner would be part date and part psychiatric session. As much as he loved April, he didn't consider it any of her business.

Over dinner, the young woman told the doctor about her family: parents, brothers, sisters and aging grandmother, who all lived in the same house with a number of pets. Lionel wondered if Susan's fear of water might stem from a more symbolic fear of drowning in a house filled with people.

"I'm asking as a doctor. Your phobia might be connected with this failed relationship."

"So I'm afraid of water because my boyfriend beat me and I ran back home to Mom and Dad?" she asked sarcastically.

"That's fine," he conceded. "You're not my patient, so why don't we just forget the whole thing and enjoy our meal?"

"I'm sorry. Please don't be angry," she said, her mood shifting to one of contriteness.

"I'm not angry, and there's no need to apologize. As a psychiatrist, I usually have to pursue lines of questioning that open long-festering wounds. It's often necessary to achieve a cure."

"Ah, here comes our dinner," Lionel said, not wanting to discuss her aquaphobia any further.

He attacked his entrée with gusto, but Susan didn't even look at the food on her plate.

"I said, my sister wants to meet you," he repeated. "Would you like to have lunch with us tomorrow?"

For the remainder of the meal, Lionel tried to maintain a conversation, but all he got for his efforts were monosyllabic responses. He hoped Susan would be more sociable at lunch the following day.

Not wanting to overwhelm the young woman, April decided to go with her brother to Murphy's sans husband and offspring.

"After all, we don't want to gang up on the poor girl," she told Tom. "So you and the kids stay at the hotel and order in a pizza. Okay?"

"Sure thing," her husband readily agreed. "The kids can watch television, and I can read the paper."

April felt no guilt leaving her family and joining her brother for lunch. She felt she deserved a little time to herself occasionally.

When Lionel followed his sister through Murphy's front door, he saw there were only two men sitting at the bar. He looked at his watch; it was 11:53.

They took a table near the front window where Lionel had a good view of the parking lot.

"This place is charming!" April exclaimed and then told the waitress, "I'll have a Sam Adams."

As they talked and drank their beer, Lionel couldn't help scanning the parking lot every few seconds.

At 12:30, still waiting for Susan, Lionel ordered another round of beers. At 1:00, he ordered appetizers. By 2:00, April was looking uncomfortable.

"Is that what this is all about?" she asked with exasperation. "Another phobia to study?"

After Lionel took his sister back to the hotel, he went into the lobby and asked the desk clerk for a phone directory. If Susan didn't own a cell phone, she could surely be reached by a good, old-fashioned land line. Or so he thought. However, there was no listing for anyone named Tinney in the directory.

Unable to reach Susan, Lionel had dinner with April and her family that night. When they returned to the hotel, the desk clerk called him over.

He looked at the package wrapped in plain brown paper with only his name written on it—clearly neither FedEx nor UPS had delivered it.

When he ripped off the paper, he discovered a book of poetry, a volume with yellowed pages and the musty smell of age clinging to it. He opened the cover and found a handwritten note inside.

I'm sorry for my behavior last night. Please accept this book as a peace offering. Susan.

Lionel flipped through the pages. There was nothing unusual about the book. It was a simple collection of American poetry from Whitman, Poe, Dickinson, Longfellow, Frost—the usual public school anthology. He was about to toss it in his suitcase when he saw writing on the inside back cover: Susan Tinney, Greenwich, Massachusetts. No street address. Just her name and a town.

He got into his rental car and turned on the navigator, only to discover there was no Greenwich, Massachusetts, in its database. On impulse, Lionel started the car and drove to the public library located a mile east of the hotel. Luckily, it was still open. He went directly to the reference section to look at the maps. Again, there was no Greenwich, Massachusetts.

"Can I help you?" the librarian asked when she saw the perplexed look on the psychiatrist's face.

"Perhaps," he replied. "I'm looking for a friend, but all I have is a name and a town, no street address."

The librarian raised her eyebrows and asked, "Are you sure you don't mean Greenwich, Connecticut?"

"Then someone is pulling your leg. There is no Greenwich, Massachusetts—not anymore, at least."

"Flooded. Greenwich was one of the towns along the Swift River that was flooded to create the Quabbin Reservoir."

Lionel knew of Quabbin. It was the largest body of water in Massachusetts (not counting the bays along the coast). It was where Boston and surrounding communities in the metropolitan area got their water supply.

"They all got out when the government took the land. Even the dead bodies in the cemeteries were dug up and relocated. Buildings were razed, burned or bulldozed to the ground. There wasn't anything left of the town by the time the water came."

The following day Lionel left word for his sister at the desk and took off early in his rental car, heading east on the Massachusetts Turnpike toward the Quabbin Valley. After driving more than an hour and a half, he found a Greenwich Road in a town called Hardwick, a typical picturesque New England community that even boasted a covered bridge.

When he stopped by the local historical society, he felt as though fate were guiding his footsteps.

"You're in luck, young man," the elderly woman who worked at the society told him. "You see that scholarly looking gentleman seated at the reading table? That's Professor Longstreet. He's writing a book on the Swift River Valley. If he can't help you with your questions about Greenwich, no one can."

"I've got a copy of the 1930 federal census right here. Let's see if we can find them."

The names were listed geographically rather than alphabetically, but thankfully Greenwich wasn't a large area.

In less than ten minutes, Professor Longstreet announced, "Here we are. William Tinney is the head of the household. Here's his wife, Gladys. Three sons, William, Jr., Robert and Michael, and two daughters, Susan and Emily. There's also a grandmother."

Lionel recognized the names as the ones Susan had given him as her family members, but that wasn't possible. These people lived more than eighty years ago!

"I don't suppose you know what happened to any of these people when the area was flooded?"

"They probably relocated to one of the surrounding towns in the valley: Hardwick, Ware, New Salem .... Of course, given their ages on the census, they're likely dead by now—except maybe the younger children. You might head over to the Quabbin Park Cemetery in Ware. They're probably buried there."

Again, fate (or luck) was on Lionel's side. The cemetery's caretaker was there and was able to lead him directly to the graves.

The parents, William and Gladys, both died in the 1950's. One of the sons was killed during World War II, one died in the '60's and the third lived to see the '80's. Neither of the sisters was interred with the family.

"Sure do. Now she's Emily Howland. She was my first grade teacher. Nice woman. She lives with her daughter over on Church Street."

After getting the phone number from directory assistance, Lionel called and made arrangements to meet with Mrs. Howland. The former schoolteacher, who was close to ninety, looked remarkably young and agile for her age.

"You wanted to know about my sister?" Emily asked, after inviting the doctor in for a cup of coffee. "Why?"

"My guess is that she's either a relative or else this is a case of identity theft."

As Emily read her sister's name on the back inside cover, tears came to her eyes.

"I wish I knew. You see my sister ran off with a boy when she was sixteen, and none of us ever saw her again."

"My patient told me the same thing. She said she ran away with a boy when she was sixteen years old, but that he beat her so she went back home to her parents."

"How could your patient have known about my sister, and how did she get this book?"

"That would make her my grandniece. And maybe my sister is still alive! I know she'd be old, but it is possible, isn't it?"

"How could I ever forget it? Wayne Sanger was a hothead with a nasty temper. Factor in his innate stupidity, and you've got a recipe for disaster."

After thanking Emily for her time, Lionel drove back to the historical society. He was glad to see that Professor Longstreet was still immersed in his old books.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I just spoke to the younger daughter. Now I'm looking for the family of a man named Wayne Sanger."

"No need to look at the census. I can tell you about the Sangers. I suppose every town in America has a Sanger family: short on brains and long on what we used to call orneriness."

"Sorry to say there are. The Sanger family was not one for upward mobility. In fact, I believe Wayne Sanger is still alive—barely. Last I heard he was sent to live in the state-funded seniors facility. Of course, he may have died since then."

Fate—or was some other force at work here?—smiled on Lionel again. Wayne Sanger was still alive and a patient at the home.

"He won't last much longer, Dr. Penn," the Hospice worker informed him. "Days. Maybe a week or two, but no more."

When Lionel walked into the room, Wayne Sanger was lying on his bed with his eyes closed.

"The name's Penn. Dr. Lionel Penn," the psychiatrist replied, feeling like a poor man's James Bond.

"I don't need another goddamned doctor! Can't you guys just let me die in peace?"

"I assure you I'm not here in conjunction with any law enforcement agency. I'm here on behalf of a patient who claims to be a woman named Susan Tinney."

"I know because Susan is dead. She's been dead for more than seventy years. And that's all I'm gonna say unless I have a lawyer present. Got that?"

Wayne read the address on the license. A moment later he was taken by a violent coughing spell.

"Aw, hell!" the dying man exclaimed after wiping the blood spatters from his lips with a Kleenex. "I won't live long enough to be put on trial. I may as well tell the truth."

"We ran off together when we were sixteen, back in '37, or maybe it was '38. I'm not good with rememberin' dates. We made it all the way to Boston where we found a cheap place to live. We weren't there but a few months and she began to get homesick. Started whining all the time about how she missed her family. I took it as long as I could, but then it got too much for me. So I let her have it."

"Nothin' serious. I didn't break any bones or anything like that. All she had was a fat lip and a couple of bruises. I don't know why she made such a big stink about it."

"No. She packed her bag and headed back to Greenwich. I wouldn't drive her, so she hitchhiked all the way."

"And got a ride from the wrong man?" Lionel asked, fearing the young girl had fallen prey to a murderous stranger.

"Nah. I drove back myself, not long after she left. I was waitin' there for her when a truck driver dropped her off about a mile from her parents' house."

"Yeah. I was tired after the drive, and angrier than I ever was in my life. So I really walloped her."

The words hung on the air, and there was a heavy silence in the room for several moments.

"About six months. That reservoir was a bit of luck for me. No one would find her body under all that water."

"No," Lionel said, suddenly wanting to get as far away from the malevolent old man as possible. "I don't suppose anyone would."

"I won't take any more of your time. I just wanted you to have this," he said, giving the book of poetry to the dead woman's sister.

"After you left," Emily continued as she retrieved an old photo album from her living room, "I went through my family photographs. Ah, here it is. It's the only picture I have of her."

It was as though an electric shot went down Lionel's spine. Although the girl in the photograph was only about thirteen years old, there was a strong resemblance between her face and that of the woman he met in Murphy's Gaelic Pub. Add a few years, and the faces would be identical.

He was being a coward, he knew, but Lionel did not want to be the one to tell the gentle and warmhearted woman that her sister had been beaten to death just as she was about to return home to her family.

On Sunday morning Lionel helped his brother-in-law load the luggage into the minivan.

"We'll stop for breakfast before we get to the turnpike," April told her children, who were too sleepy to care about eating.

"I just want to grab a cup of coffee before we leave," Tom said. "I need to wake up before I get behind the wheel. Anybody want to join me?"

Lionel declined but April went with her husband to the hotel coffee shop. While they were gone, Lionel turned on the radio to get the weather forecast.

And in the local news ... With the close of the Tanglewood Jazz Festival, thousands of motorists will be heading toward the Massachusetts Turnpike, so please allow yourself extra time if you are travelling today. Massachusetts State Police report that a human skeleton washed ashore on the banks of the Quabbin Reservoir yesterday. An initial examination by the county medical examiner indicates that the remains belonged to a young woman between thirteen and thirty years of age. It is believed the skeleton has been in the water for at least fifty years. State troopers and local police will be checking missing persons records dating prior to 1970 in the hope of learning the woman's identity.

Lionel took his BlackBerry out of his pocket and searched for the number of the nearest state police barracks.

"My name is Dr. Lionel Penn," he told the trooper who answered the call. "I believe if you check the DNA of the skeleton found at the Quabbin Reservoir against that of Emily Howland in Ware, you'll find a family connection."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that. I'm a psychiatrist, and that information falls under the category of doctor-patient confidentiality."

That being said, Lionel ended the call, adding to himself, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you anyway."

Want to know the definition of aquaphobia? Just watch Salem when I turn the water on in the sink.