Free Evergreen Falls by Kimberley Freeman Page B

comic actor.
    “I’m here for Dr. Dalloway,” she said.
    “That’s me,” he replied.
    She had to stop herself from saying, “You’re very young.” She’d expected a crusty father figure, and wondered if she would be able to be honest and plain with a man her own age. Especially one with such a warm smile.
    “You must be Miss Honeychurch-Black,” he said, extending his hand. “But where is Mr. Honeychurch-Black?”
    She shook his hand firmly. “He’s . . . ah . . . May I come in?”
    “Certainly.”
    Flora followed him into an entranceway. “I do thank you for making time to see me, Dr. Dalloway,” she said.
    “Please, call me Will.”
    The closed door to her left had a PRIVATE sign on it, and she presumed it to be his living quarters. To her right was a small waiting room, through which he led her into a surgery that smelled of lye soap and tea-tree oil. Charts and diagrams of bodies were pinned to the walls. Only once she was sitting down and the door was closed behind him did she finally explain.
    “My brother has disappeared. Oh, don’t look concerned. He often disappears. He’s most in danger when he’s in his room . . . I think.”
    Will cocked his head. “I don’t understand.”
    “No,” she said. “I’m explaining all this rather awkwardly, aren’t I?”
    He smiled. “Take your time.”
    She was struck again by the warmth of his smile. It reached all the way to his eyes and beyond. Within. Her discomfort edged away a little every time he did it. “All right, then,” she said. “My brother is . . . He uses . . .” Her mouth was dry. “He smokes opium.”
    Will picked up a pen and started to write. “I see.”
    “Karl, the health director at the spa, he said you would be discreet.”
    “Absolutely, Miss Honeychurch-Black.”
    “Flora.”
    “Can I ask you, Flora, how long he has been smoking opium?”
    “At least a year. He went to China with a friend for several months and brought the pipe back with him.”
    “How much does he smoke?”
    “In a day? A week?”
    “Let’s say a day.”
    “Well, given I’m not with him all the time . . . I’d say it might be anywhere between ten and twenty pipes.”
    “How early in the day does he start?”
    “I don’t know for certain. His mood alters throughout the day. Manic some mornings, maudlin on others. He’s often further away in the afternoons, then angry at dinner. I think he smokes himself to sleep.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. The shame. “I should add, he’s always been moody. Eccentric. Even before the . . . you know.”
    Will was still writing. “To your knowledge, has he ever tried to stop?”
    “Oh, yes, several times. But it’s horrid. He gets fevers and his guts turn to liquid and he moans and shakes. I’m so afraid he’s going to die.” Her voice dropped low. “Will he die if he stops?” she asked.
    He looked up and frowned. “Coming off the drug is awful, it’s true, but it won’t kill him. No, the far greater danger is that he keeps taking it. Quite apart from the fact that he is much more likely to have an accident, to take too great a dose and stop breathing, to damage his brains and his organs, the addiction uses up the spirit. Many opium addicts grow so unhappy that they eventually self-murder.”
    A chill ran from Flora’s toes to her scalp. Her stomach felt hollow.
    “Unfortunately, there is no easy way for him to stop. I suspect, since he isn’t here with you, he’s not particularly motivated to stop.”
    “How can I make him stop, then?”
    “You can’t.”
    His words were delivered gently, but she felt their cold, cruel edges in her body. Her eyes pricked with tears, and she dropped her head in embarrassment.
    “Here,” he said, pressing a handkerchief into her fingers.
    “Thank you,” she managed, balling it into her palm and letting the tears fall as quietly as she could. A minute passed. She gathered herself, dabbed her eyes, and offered him the