Famous Last Words

I clicked through, looking for the backup of his contacts list. Then I opened that and did a search for DR.

Dr. Pamela Tilliman, General Practitioner.

And a phone number.

It was four o’clock, which meant seven o’clock in Co

To my surprise, someone picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Dr. Tilliman speaking.”

“Um, hi, Dr. Tilliman,” I said. “My name is Willa Cresky. My dad was a patient of yours. Paul Cresky?”

“Paul Cresky,” she repeated. Her voice was deep and rich with authority. “Oh, Paul Cresky — yes, of course. It’s been about two years since he passed away, hasn’t it?”

“It’ll be two years May sixteenth,” I said. “I know it’s late, but I was hoping I could ask you some questions.”

“Well, I may not be able to answer everything,” she said, “but I’ll see what I can help you with.”

“My dad died of a heart attack —”

She interrupted me, and I heard typing. “Hang on. I’m pulling up his chart…. You said you’re Willa? I think I met you at the funeral. And I remember your dad used to talk about you. Didn’t you guys exercise together?”

“We swam,” I said, gripping a handful of my comforter in my tightly balled-up fist. “But he died. While we were swimming.”

“Oh, right …” she said. There was an embarrassed silence.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I just have a question about heart attacks. Because the day my dad died — I mean, right before he died — we had a big fight.”

“A fight?” she echoed.

“An argument. I mean, we weren’t even yelling or anything, but we were both really angry.” The sting of the memory made my throat tighten but I kept talking, unable to stop. “I left the pool, and when I changed my mind and went back, he was … floating. I don’t know if he was dead at that point or not, but the paramedics declared him dead after they tried CPR. Everybody tried CPR. The gym even had a defibrillator, but it didn’t work.”

“Right,” she said. “I see all that here, in the notes from the hospital. What’s your question?”

I pressed the phone to my ear, my breath coming in shaking bursts. “Did I … um … kill my dad?”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “No.”

I waited for her to elaborate.

“That’s it,” she said. “That’s my answer. A categorical no. Not a chance.”

“But I stressed him out. I gave him a heart attack.”

“Your father was exerting himself physically. And, honestly, a normal, healthy forty-four-year-old man should not have had a heart attack from that level of physical exertion. Certainly not from an argument. One where you weren’t even yelling.”

Wyatt had basically said the same thing.

“But then …” I stared at the keys on the keyboard until they all seemed to meld together. “Why did he die?”

“Hold on, let me look at something, okay?”

The line was filled with jazzy hold music. The sudden contrast almost made me laugh, in a crazy way.

A couple of minutes passed, and I was afraid Dr. Tilliman had forgotten about me. Then there was a click, and the music disappeared.

“Hello, Willa?” she asked. “Still there?”

“Yes, I’m still here.” My heart was beating a thousand beats a minute.

“I just called the hospital and had the medical examiner’s records emailed over,” she said. “Hang on … ‘the findings were consistent with asymptomatic hypertrophic cardiomyopathy … resulting in sudden cardiac death.’ ”

“I don’t know what that means,” I whispered.

“It’s a genetic heart condition,” she said. “It means that your father lived his whole life with a mutated gene that predisposed him for a condition known for causing sudden cardiac events, often without any hint of a symptom prior to the event. Tell me, Willa … how long had you guys been swimming that morning?”

I tried to dredge up the details, so long suppressed under an avalanche of guilt and pain. “Maybe about fifteen minutes? We usually swam for a half hour, but Dad stopped.”

I drew in my breath sharply.

“He stopped,” I said, suddenly remembering. “He said he was suddenly really tired. He thought he’d rest for a minute and then we could start again, but that’s when we started talking about Aiden — my boyfriend, Dad hated him — and it turned into an argument, so I left. I went back to the locker room.”

“Obviously I didn’t have a chance to examine your father myself,” the doctor said, her voice gentle. “But given what you’ve just said, and the findings from the autopsy, nothing you did caused your father’s death. What’s more, Willa … nothing you could have done would have saved him.”

I stared at the computer screen, feeling a tightness in my own chest.

“Don’t take this in an alarming way, but you should probably be screened for the condition at some point. An echocardiogram or MRI —”

“I’ve had those,” I said. “Both of them. Everything was normal.”

I remembered Mom’s panic over my headaches. Was it because she knew what had really killed Dad? Then why didn’t she tell me?

Maybe because I never asked. And whenever she tried to talk to me about Dad, I simply refused. I’d never been willing to talk about it.

“Well, that’s good,” Dr. Tilliman said. Then, after a long pause, she spoke again, with a note of curiosity in her voice. “Why did you call now? Why two years later?”

I swallowed hard. “I think I just finally wanted to know the truth.”

Monday, when I set my tray down beside him, Wyatt looked at me as if I’d lit the table on fire.

Then he instinctively glanced over at the couches, where Marnie’s group of friends sat without showing the slightest hint of wondering where I was.

“She’s home sick today,” I said. “It’s safe.”

“Someone might tell her,” he said.

Without answering, I pulled out a chair and sat down, pushing some of his books aside to make room for myself.

“Since we’re on the subject of Marnie,” I said. “Can you please tell me exactly what went on with you guys?”

“You want my side of the story?” He glanced up sharply. “Does this mean you don’t believe I stalked her?”

“On reflection,” I said, “Marnie seems to have a complicated relationship with the truth.”

He snorted. “You can say that.”

“I don’t understand, though,” I said. “What’s her deal?”

He looked unhappy. “In my estimation, Marnie’s kind of pathological. She’s charming, smart, and incredibly manipulative, with shockingly little concern for the feelings or well-being of other people. But hey, maybe that’s just my experience.”

“But why does she do those things?” I asked. “To what end?”

“To her own end,” he said, shrugging. “That’s the point. For the glory of Marnie.”

“She was so nice to me, though,” I said.

“Of course she was,” he said. “She wanted you to like her. She still wants you to like her. Heck, she still wants me to like her, even though she’s told half the school I stalked her. As much as she tries to pretend otherwise, she thrives on the approval of other people. And there’s basically no limit to what she’ll say to get it.”

I nodded.

“I don’t say this lightly,” Wyatt said. “And I’d rather you didn’t repeat it. Frankly, it’s not my business how Marnie wants to deal with the world. She taught me a pretty valuable lesson, and for that I’m actually grateful. It’s not my intention to spread rumors about her.”

“Even though she spreads them about you?”

He nodded.

“So what do I do?” I asked. “Stop hanging out with her?”

“You do whatever you feel the need to do.”

“Is she going to spread rumors about me, too?” As I asked the question, I realized the whole Bernadette Middleton drama wasn’t too far off the mark from rumor-spreading. “Actually, scratch that. I think I know the answer.”