After seeing the doctor, a nurse let them shower and clean up in the staff locker room. Then they left their belongings at the nurses’ station along with their phone numbers in case anything happened to Kevin while they were gone.
Because Annie had arrived in the ambulance and Francine had driven Meghan, they went outside and hopped the bus to Vineyard Haven. They got off at the Steamship pier and walked up Main Street to Waterside Market, where they shared a breakfast egg wrap of cheese, spinach, tomato, and avocado. It was as energizing as it was colorful.
After a second cup of coffee, Annie said, “The library is right up the street. It’s the only one on the island that’s open Sundays. Maybe I can do some of the research I wanted to do yesterday.”
“About Simon?”
“Yes. I’d love to find anything he wrote about Brian’s accident. I was in such a fog for so long I could have missed something important. Some clue as to why Simon’s here.”
“You don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you? Even though it’s been more than twenty years?”
“I don’t. It’s too strange, and he’s acted oddly since I picked him up last week. Besides, I need to do something constructive right now. Instead of worrying about my brother.” She paused. “Would you like to come with me?”
Meghan placed her napkin on her plate. “Thanks, but I’d feel better if I were in the ICU, trying to be patient. I know he’ll still be sleeping, but . . .”
“There’s no need to explain. I’ll join you in a while. Do you know how to get back from here?”
“I think so. I saw a bookstore on Main Street the other day. I’ll pick up something to read, then make my way back to the ferry where I can catch the bus back to the hospital—can’t I?”
Annie nodded. “It’s bus thirteen,” she said, not sure how she knew that since she’d only traveled by bus a few times since she’d lived there. “Just tell the driver you’re going to the hospital.”
They stood and hugged, then cleared their plates. Once outside again, Meghan walked down the hill and Annie went up, hoping that her mission wouldn’t be in vain.
* * *
The library was quiet, which wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t only the final day of the Ag Fair, it was also a great-weather beach day. Lots of seasonal people would be heading home thanks to the unofficial end of summer. And islanders would start to regroup again.
Annie went past the desk and the shelves of fiction toward the tables with the computers that provided digital access. Though she supposed she didn’t need total privacy, it was more relaxing to be alone. She signed on, went straight to theBoston Globewebsite, then to the newspaper’s archives. Taking a deep breath, she clicked the cursor on the Search bar and typed the name Andrew Simmons.
One–two–three. She waited, wondering if a question would show at the top:Did you mean Simon Anderson?
Finally a page loaded. She scanned it quickly. A number of entries for Simmons were obviously wrong: an Andrew Simmons had graduated from CalTech the previous year; another was an insurance agent who had to be at least seventy; another boasted a link to an indie rock band’s Facebook page.
The name was too common, her search too broad. She went back to the top of the screen and added “Boston” after his name.
Several Simmonses came up; the first was Andrew. It was an obituary, dated Oct. 13, 1984:
Andrew J. Simmons, 42, of the Columbia Point section of Boston, died in his sleep, Thurs., Oct. 11. He leaves a wife, Margaret (McKenna), and three sons, David, Andrew, and Christopher. No calling hours; burial is private. Doherty-Jones Funeral Home is in charge.
It had to be Simon’s father, who Simon said died of alcoholism. Annie wondered what the man would have thought about his namesake’s success.
Next on the list was a plea from Boston Latin School, Class of 1990 Reunion Committee, that was searching for missing classmates, including one Andrew Simmons. Annie did the math in her head and decided that would make him around fifty now. Which meant it could very well be Simon.
She did another quick search for Simon’s Wiki page:born April 3, 1972, Boston, Massachusetts. Close enough, she thought.
She went back to the previous page and continued the search, but nothing was relevant. Until she reached another obituary:Christopher Simmons.
Simon’s younger brother?
She clicked on the link. The article was brief; it was dated Sept. 14, 2018.
Christopher M. Simmons, 40, of Dorchester, died Friday from an accident sustained in his home. He leaves a brother, David Simmons, of Brookline, and a nephew. Services are private.
Short, but not terribly sweet, Annie thought. Sad. An accident “in his home” could mean many things: a fall down the stairs, an electrical shock, or, she imagined, one of about a million things. There was no mention of Christopher’s parents or of Andrew/ Simon. No mention of Simon’s three daughters. It was as if he had vanished once he’d taken to the airwaves. Once he’d changed his name.
“Cheers to the old days,” Simon had told Annie. “May they be forgotten.”
The remaining links on the page did not include Andrew, either. And there was no reference to any articles he’d written for theGlobe. Perhaps he hadn’t been granted a byline. Or . . . he’d never worked there. Which, of course, was impossible, because he’d given Annie his business card.
