by Reagan Davis
Phillip tells me I can either go to the hospital with him or in an ambulance. I decide to go with him. Noah comes out of Wilde Flowers and Phillip instructs him to go into Knitorious, tell Connie what happened, and to be careful of the ice. Phillip isn’t sure if he should move me. I’m stunned, a little out of it, and not contributing much to the conversation.
Connie comes out and Phillip helps her, so she doesn’t slip too. They talk amongst themselves and decide Phillip will take me to the hospital. I hear them whispering about my foot being at an unnatural angle, and they’re worried it could be broken. This would explain the pain.
Noah goes from Knitorious back to Wilde Flowers and reappears a moment later rolling an office chair in front of him.
“Smart lad,” Phillip says.
Connie holds the chair still, while Phillip helps me into it. Phillip disappears into Wilde Flowers muttering about keys and listing off instructions for Noah and Glenda.
Phillip must have come back outside because his flowered van slowly pulls up next to me and stops. Connie rolls me to the passenger side door of the van. Phillip gets out, comes around to Connie and me, and helps me get inside.
Connie puts my tote bag on my lap. She asks me if I have my knitting, then uses her hand as a verbal eraser to wave away the idea because, apparently, I’m “way too out of it to knit, anyway.” She tells Phillip she’ll meet us there. I want to ask who will look after the store, but my head is pounding and I’m trying not to throw up.
“Wait!” Connie shouts as Phillip is about to pull away.
She runs into the store, then runs right back out with a plastic grocery bag and puts it on top of my tote bag on my lap. A barf bag. Connie can read my mind. Thank you, Connie!
“Waaatch your steppp!!!” Phillip yells after Connie, as she disappears back into the store.
He yelled in his newly revealed, super-loud voice, and I imagine people all over Harmony Lake looked down simultaneously and watched their step.
I don’t remember much about the drive to the hospital aside from being nauseous and sore. I think I dozed off.
The next thing I’m aware of is laying in an exam room, while Connie and Phillip talk to each other across the room. Phillip tells me to feel better, then leaves.
There’s a handsome doctor looking at my foot and telling me I’m lucky it’s just a bad bruise and a sprain. He says he’d like to have a closer look at the bump on the back of my head.
He keeps talking, and I’m trying to focus on what he’s saying, but it’s hard to keep up. Connie is listening and asking a lot of questions, so I give up trying to follow along. She’s obviously got this.
The doctor asks me my name. It worries me that he’s not resourceful enough to find it on my hospital bracelet, or the chart he’s holding.
I hold up my wrist with the hospital bracelet, point to it with my other hand, and tell him, “That’s my name.”
“Very good,” he says, “but can you tell me your name? I want to hear you say it.”
Oh, I get it. He’s not asking because he doesn’t know who I am; he’s asking to make sure I know who I am.
“Megan Martel,” I say.
He bends down so we’re almost nose to nose and examines my eyes with an ophthalmoscope. I glance at the name tag on his lab coat: Dr. Craig Pearson.
“Are you Marla Pearson’s son?” I ask.
He is.
I tell him his mother was just talking about him yesterday. He asks how I know his mother, and I tell him she was at my store and tried to set me up with him.
Hearing the unfiltered words pour out of my mouth, I worry the bump on my head has damaged the part of my brain that stops me from blurting out every thought I have.
He laughs.
“What store?” he asks.
“Knitorious,” I say, “on Water Street in Harmony Lake.”
“Did it work?” he asks. “Did she convince you to go out with me?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I reply, opening my arms and gesturing vaguely. “I slipped on the ice, bumped my head, and sprained my ankle just to meet you.”
“She doesn’t sound like herself!” Connie says urgently, interrupting me and preventing me from embarrassing myself more than I already have. “Is this because she hit her head? Will she go back to normal?”
The doctor explains that the injection I had earlier (I don’t remember getting an injection) was pain medication for my head and foot and it’s making me loopy and contributing to my weirdness.
Connie tells him that I rarely take any medication, and he observes that it seems to be having quite an effect on me.
I leave the emergency room in a wheelchair with my new crutches laying across my lap.
Connie pushes me into the main lobby of the hospital, and we hear a man’s voice calling her name.
Connie stops, spins me around and I see a man walking toward us. I don’t recognize him.
He and Connie hug.
“Brian Sweeney, this is Megan Martel.” Connie gestures to me.
Mr. Sweeney extends his hand downward toward me, and I extend my hand upward toward him and we shake hands.
“Is she OK?” he asks Connie.
“She will be,” Connie says. “Why are you here, Brian? Is everything alright?”
“There’s a blood donation clinic here today. I donate as often as possible,” he says proudly. “I feel it’s my duty as a universal donor.”
A universal donor is someone whose blood is Type O-Negative. This means Mr. Sweeney’s blood is Type O-Negative. I know this because I’m also a universal donor, and I should donate blood more often than I do.
They’re talking about Laura’s death. I’m trying to follow along, but mental capacity is limited right now, and I don’t catch everything they’re saying.
I want to ask them to speak more slowly, but stop myself. This makes me hopeful that the bump on my head hasn’t damaged the filter in my brain after all.
“Good luck with the blood donation, Brian.” Connie grips the handles of my wheelchair and I sense we’re about to leave.
“Thank you, Connie,” Mr. Sweeney replies. “You know, I still think of Laura’s mother every time I give blood, even after all these years.”
Why would he think about Laura’s mother?
“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Sweeney.” I’m waving at him.
“Mr. Sweeney was my father,” he says. “You should call me Brian. I hope you feel better, Megan.
“Thank you,” I say, still waving.
He waves back and Connie pushes me through the lobby and out into the cold air. The sun is setting. We’ve been here all day.
On the ride home, I ask Connie why Brian thinks about Laura’s mother when he donates blood.
“Laura’s mother, also named Laura, was a Red Cross volunteer. For years, she organized the local blood drives and encouraged people to donate blood,” Connie explains. “She was very passionate about it. The same way her daughter, Laura, was passionate about the Animal Centre.”
“Laura was named after her mother? I didn’t know that,” I say.
“Yes, and Glenda was named after their father, Glen.”
What a special connection to share with your parents.
We go back to the store so I can get Sophie. Connie pulls up out front, turns off the car, takes the keys from the ignition, and turns to me.
“Stay here,” she instructs, pointing at me. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
She gets out of the car and goes into the store.
Determined to figure out these crutches, I follow her into the store about five minutes, fifteen minutes, or an hour later. I’m not sure because I’m having trouble keeping track of time.
I can’t wait for this medication to wear off.
Glenda is watching the store, and I thank her. It’s close enough to closing time that we lock up. Glenda won’t let me pay her for her time. I try to insist, but she won’t accept, and I think I might be drooling when
I talk, so Connie and I get back in her car.
Sophie jumps up on my lap and Connie drives me home.
Connie pulls into the driveway and April comes out of the house to help me inside. She says she texted Adam, and he used his app to let her into the house. The house has Smart Locks, so the doors can be locked and unlocked with a key, a phone app, or by asking Oscar.
She tells me she’s spending the night. I show her my crutches, and tell her I figured out how to use them, but she doesn’t seem as excited as I am.
“I see what you mean about the pain meds,” April says to Connie.
Connie raises her eyebrows and nods to April.
“Good luck tonight,” Connie says as she leaves, closing the door behind her.
Good luck to whom? Me or April?
Chapter 8
Friday January 10th
I wake up feeling rough. A feeling I’m not used to. There’s a synchronized throbbing in my foot and head, and I have a gross taste in my dry, sticky mouth.
Sophie is laying on the bed next to me. I reach out to pet her and her paws feel damp. Odd.
“Why are your feet wet, Sophie?”
She responds by perking up her ears and wagging her tail.
“Fine, keep your secrets, you mysterious girl,” I say.
I look at the time, and it’s almost 10 a.m. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. Have I ever slept this late?
I sit up on the edge of the bed and do an internal scan to determine how I feel. There’s no nausea, and aside from the incessant pulsating of my injured parts, there’s no pain. I use one crutch to stand and find my balance. I hobble over the mirror to see if I look as bad as I feel.
I do. I look horrible. I’m a mess.
I don’t remember much after April helped me into the house last night. I must have had trouble finding my pyjamas and the pyjama drawer because I’m wearing an oversized, old, paint-stained U of T t-shirt that, judging by the size, belongs to Adam. I didn’t put my curly hair into a bun before I went to bed. It looks like a rat’s nest constructed by rats with poor nesting skills.
The house is quiet, except for the sounds of the rubber foot on my crutch thudding on the wood floor, and Sophie scurrying in circles around me.
I wonder if April is still here. I remember her telling me she’d be across the hall in the guest room if I need anything.
Using one crutch, and motivated by a need for caffeine, I make my way toward the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, recoiling and clutching my chest with my free hand.
Eric is sitting on the family room sofa, and his presence startles me. The last time he sneaked into my house and surprised me, I was almost murdered.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you.” He closes his laptop, places it on the coffee table in front of him and jumps up to help me.
He’s gorgeous, and he smells warm and sexy and I’ve never looked worse in my life. I’m a complete mess. Not a hot mess, as the young people say, but an actual, bona fide mess. My hair is everywhere, I may or may not have brushed my teeth since throwing up in Phillip’s van yesterday (I can’t remember, but I hope I did), and I’m wearing a giant, old, faded, stretched-out, paint -stained t-shirt and underwear.
Eric eases me onto the sofa and puts a cushion under my swollen, purplish-yellowish foot. He asks me if I want anything, and I motion for the blanket at the end of the sofa. Not because I’m cold, but because it’s the only thing nearby that I can hide under.
He covers me with the blanket, goes into the kitchen and opens the cupboard above the coffee maker. Sophie jumps up on the sofa and nestles in beside me.
Eric asks me which coffee I want.
“I think there are two pods of peppermint mocha in the basket in there,” I say. “I’ll have one of those please. Be sure to make yourself one. Why are you here, anyway?”
“I ran into Phillip last night in the parking lot and he told me what happened. When I went downstairs this morning to see how you’re doing, Connie was instructing Archie to come over, and feed and walk Sophie. I know this cold weather makes his hip act up, so I offered to see to Sophie instead.”
This explains Sophie’s damp paws.
“Thank you,” I say. “Sophie and I appreciate it.”
“April let me in. Zach has an orthodontist appointment this morning, so I offered to stay with you while she takes him.”
He hands me my coffee and sits on the sofa with me. He puts his coffee on the coffee table and reaches for his phone.
“I’m under strict instructions to text Connie when you wake up,” he explains, typing on his phone. “If you didn’t wake up by 11 a.m., she was coming over to check on you.”
He’s finishes typing and puts his phone on the table.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Pretty bad,” I say. “But not as bad as yesterday.”
His phone dings.
“It’s Connie. She says to give you your meds. They’re on the kitchen counter.”
He texts back a quick reply and goes into the kitchen.
“After Connie dropped you off last night, she went to the pharmacy to get your prescription filled.”
He comes back into the room with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.
“I think I’m OK without those,” I say. “Whatever they gave me yesterday didn’t agree with me, and I didn’t like it.”
I don’t want to be weird and loopy again.
“I heard,” he says, “but Connie says to tell you this isn’t the same medication, and you’re supposed to take it.”
He reads the bottle, then opens it and shakes one pill into his hand. I take it with the glass of water he hands to me and hope I don’t lose my ability to speak without embarrassing myself.
Eric returns the pills to the kitchen then walks toward the front door. He holds up one of Sophie’s dog sweaters, the white one with purple flowers. She gets excited and jumps off the sofa in case this means she’s going for a walk. She’s always ready for a walk, even on a moment’s notice.
He tells me he wasn’t sure which sweater she was supposed to wear today, or if there’s a system for choosing what she wears each day, and hopes he chose the right one.
I explain to him that Sophie’s wardrobe selection is random and thank him for remembering to keep her warm.
“You can leave,” I say. “I appreciate you looking after Sophie, and staying to look out for me, but you have a killer to hunt. I’ll be fine.”
“It’s not all field work, you know,” he tells me. “I was reading the forensics report on Laura’s death, making notes, and filling out paperwork. It’s nice and quiet here, I’ve had a productive morning. Got a lot accomplished.”
It takes a village to look after Sophie and me when I’m injured. So far, my mother-friend, best friend, and tenant have had to team-up to keep Sophie walked and fed.
He’s back in the kitchen, looking in the fridge and pantry.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Eric asks. “The sticker on the pill bottle says ‘take with food.’”
I ask for a bagel with herb butter. He slices a bagel and drops it in the toaster.
“Is there anything interesting in the forensics report?” I ask.
“Not all the forensics work is finished, but so far the empty coffee mug next to Laura’s body had undissolved digoxin in it.
I guess this means she was, without a doubt, poisoned.
“This is your second last bagel,” he says.
“Oscar, add bagels to the shopping list,” I say.
“OK,” Oscar replies.
“Apparently, digoxin doesn’t dissolve easily. Whoever put it in the mug knew that and crushed it into a powder beforehand,” he says, opening the fridge. “You’re also running low on milk, bread, and eggs.”
Crushing pills into powder isn’t something you’d do at the last minute, in a moment of anger. Whoever killed Laura went there intending to kill her and prepared the in
strument of her death ahead of time.
“Oscar, add milk, bread, and eggs to the shopping list,” I say.
“OK,” Oscar replies.
I grocery shop on Mondays, but this past Monday, Hannah went back to school after Christmas break, and I wanted to help her pack and send her off, so I didn’t go shopping.
According to Eric, I’m also out of cream. I add cream to the shopping list.
“There’s no way you can get to the store on crutches,” Eric observes. “Send me the list and I’ll pick up your groceries after work. I’ll even cook us dinner.”
“Won’t you be busy working?” I ask.
“Yes, but I have to eat, and so do you.”
I thank him and ask him if he’s seen my phone.
He retrieves it from the top of the fridge and hands it to me.
Apparently, April put it there last night so I wouldn’t text anyone when I was loopy from the meds. This is why she’s my best friend. She knows when and how to save me from myself.
I open my phone and text him the shopping list from my Oscar app.
He brings me my bagel and sits down on the sofa. There’s a knock at the door. Eric gets up to answer it, but I motion for him to stay where he is. I swallow the bite of bagel in my mouth.
“It’s Adam,” I tell him. “He’ll let himself in.”
Adam always knocks. In threes. Everyone else uses the doorbell.
“You’re OK with your ex-husband letting himself into your house?”
“He knocks first.” I shrug. “And it saves me from getting up to answer the door.
Sure enough, Adam lets himself in.
As Adam takes off his boots and coat, Eric gathers up his laptop and papers and gets ready to leave. He says goodbye to me, and he and Adam say hello and goodbye to each other at the door.
“What are you doing here?” I stretch to put my empty plate on the coffee table and pick up my coffee.
“Connie sent me. She says you’re supposed to rest and stay off your foot. I’m here to make sure you comply,” he says.
“Don’t you have to work today?” I ask.
“I can work before and after my babysitting shift. You look awful, are you OK?”
