Mango Crush

by Bill H Myers

  It was my fault that he did this because one time I'd bought him a catnip toy, and he was overjoyed when he’d found it. Now he always checked the bags, just in case there was something special inside for him.

  But there was no toy, not on the day we were headed to St. Augustine. Just the food and wine.

  After thoroughly going through the bags and not finding a treat, Bob sighed the way cats do then headed up front and hopped up into the passenger seat. That was his favorite spot when we were on the road unless we were in heavy traffic. When things got crazy, he'd head back to the bedroom and hide under the sheets.

  Following Abby's instructions, I pulled out one of the burner phones and texted her the number. Then I turned off my regular phone, pulled the battery and put both in the console between the driver’s and passenger seat.

  I fired up the motorhome and carefully made my way out of the Walmart parking lot. That put me on Jacaranda Road going east. I needed to go north on Forty-One. When traffic on Jacaranda cleared, I got in the far left lane so I could turn onto Forty-One at the light.

  There were two cars ahead of me, all of us waiting for the light to turn green. When it did, the two cars slowly made their way through the intersection turning left, and I followed.

  About halfway through, I saw a fast-moving blur in my mirror. Then a loud crash, followed by darkness.

  Chapter Five

  I woke to the sound of a machine beeping next to my bed. The room was dark, and I could hear faint voices beyond the door. I tried to sit up but couldn't. Something was holding me down.

  I looked to my left and saw a tube had been inserted into my arm. The tube ran up to a bag of clear liquid hanging from what looked like a stainless-steel hat-rack beside my bed.

  I tried to figure out what was going on. Maybe I was sleeping in my own bed and it was just a bad dream. That was probably it. I closed my eyes to see where the dream would lead me next.

  Sometime later, I forced myself out of a deep sleep. The room was still dark, I still had a tube in my arm, and I could still hear faint voices beyond the door.

  If it were a dream, it was a pretty realistic one. Maybe it was something I ate. Maybe I just needed to go back to sleep, let the dream run its course, then wake up to reality.

  As soon as I closed my eyes, I fell back into a deep sleep.

  Sometime later, it could have been an hour or could have been days, I woke. The setting around me hadn't changed. Same room, same sounds, same tube in my arm. My throat was dry, my eyes hurt, and I had the mother of all headaches.

  I was trying to figure things out but was having a hard time thinking. It felt like I was drunk, but I didn't remember drinking anything.

  Off to my right, I heard the quiet hum of a nearby electric pump starting up, followed by something squeezing my arm, just above my elbow.

  Turning my head, I could see a blood pressure cuff had been wrapped around my arm and was starting to inflate on its own.

  A stainless steel rail kept me from rolling out of bed. Looking to my left, I saw an identical rail. Whoever had put me in this room didn't want me to escape.

  There didn't seem to be anyone else in the room. Just me. My mind was having a hard time processing it. The last thing I remembered was being at the wheel of the motorhome and making a left turn onto US Forty-One in Venice. After that, nothing.

  Being in what was most likely a hospital room, with machines monitoring my vitals, while fluids were being pumped into my body, had me worried. Maybe I was dying. I sure hoped not.

  One thing was for sure; I needed to pee. But with the tube running into my arm, and the wires from the blood pressure cuff and the rails around the bed, there was no way I was getting up. So, I lay there, hoping that someone would soon check on me.

  Fortunately, I didn't have to wait long. I could hear new and louder voices near my door, followed by someone coming into the room.

  The lights flickered on, brighter than I expected, and a man wearing a white coat walked over and said, “Glad to see you're awake. You may not know why you are here, so I'm going to tell you.

  “Before I do, I'm going to ask you to try not to talk. Your throat is going to hurt from the feeding tube we removed this morning.”

  The man, who I presumed to be a doctor, continued. “You were in an automobile accident. Your head smacked up against a window, and you were knocked out. EMTs brought you here to Venice Regional and we're taking care of you.

  “Do you understand?”

  I nodded, ‘yes.’

  “Good. I'm going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer by nodding or using your hands. Don't try to speak.

  “Do you have a headache?”

  I nodded, 'yes.'

  “That's to be expected. Do you have a stiff neck?”

  I moved my head as best as I could; it didn't feel stiff. I nodded 'no.'

  “Good.”

  He held up four fingers. “How many do you see?”

  I showed him four.

  He smiled. “That's good. Your vision and hearing appear to be normal. We've done an MRI, and it didn't show any problems. That's the good news.”

  I waited for him to tell me the bad, but he said nothing. He just jotted a few notes in the tablet near the bed and said, “Now that you're awake, the nurse will give you ice to help your throat and acetaminophen for your head. Your wife is outside. She's been here ever since we brought you in.

  “If all goes well, she should be able to take you home in two days.”

  The doctor smiled, made some more entries on his tablet and left the room.

  I was alone for maybe five minutes, trying to understand what the doctor had just said. There was an accident. I was hurt. They brought me to the hospital. And my wife was waiting for me outside.

  The problem was I didn't have a wife. While I was trying to sort this out, a nurse walked in and said, “Mr. Mendoza, my name is Marissa. I'll be taking care of you for the rest of the day. Would you like some ice chips?”

  I tried to say, “I need to pee,” but the words came out garbled. I tried again. This time with just one word. “Pee.”

  Marissa smiled. “If you need to pee, go ahead and do it. We've got you hooked up to a catheter and when you pee it'll fill the bag.”

  I rolled my head and gave her my best questioning look.

  She smiled again. “Go ahead, pee. It might feel strange doing it in bed, but the bag will capture everything.”

  I nodded and gave it a try. I could feel the warm liquid leaving my body, but it didn't feel right. It hurt, and I winced in pain.

  Marissa smiled again. Maybe that's what they trained nurses to do these days. Smile before you answer a question or talk to a patient.

  After the smile, she said, “I should have warned you. The catheter tube is inserted down there in your man parts. When you pee, it's normal for it to hurt a bit.”

  She continued, “When you're all done down there, let me know.”

  She turned away so I could finish peeing in private. It took longer than usual. Maybe gravity comes into play when you try to pee lying flat on your back.

  The nurse turned back to me; I gave her a nod. I was done. I had peed into the bag.

  She smiled again and repeated her earlier question. “Would you like some ice chips?”

  I nodded a 'yes.'

  “Good, let's crank your bed up a bit. Don't want you to choke on the ice.”

  She reached down and pressed a button below the bed's side rails. The part of the bed where my head rested rose a few inches. When she was satisfied with my new position, she smiled and asked, “Comfortable?”

  I wasn't but not because of the bed. My head and eyes hurt, and my private parts burned. Peeing in a bag is not something I'd recommend.

  I didn't tell the nurse any of this. I didn't want to talk, so I just nodded 'yes.'

  She smiled again like she had just won an Academy award. Maybe she got extra pay for giving me ice chips. Or maybe they added the chi
ps to my bill. Or maybe she was just a happy person.

  If I had felt better, I would have asked her about it. But I didn't. Instead, I just listened as she said, “Good. I'll go get the ice and let your wife know you are awake.”

  She left the room. Leaving me with the same questions I had before. And a new one.

  She had called me Mr. Mendoza. Why?

  And who was the woman claiming to be my wife?

  Chapter Six

  The nurse returned a few minutes later with a plastic cup full of ice chips. She handed it to me and asked, “Anything else I can get you?”

  I had a ready answer but couldn't speak, so I used hand signals to convey that I wanted a writing pad. The nurse nodded and said, “I'll get you one.”

  She left the room and returned with the pad. Before she handed it to me, she pointed at the tube leading to my arm and said, “Be careful. Don't want to have to reinsert that.”

  She pointed back over her shoulder. “We are monitoring your vitals at the nurses’ station. If anything comes up, we'll be here in a flash.”

  She pointed to the rail on the right that kept me in bed. “There's a call button there. Use it if you need us.”

  She started for the door then stopped and turned back to me. “Your wife is here. You ready to see her?”

  I was, and happy to be in a private room so whatever the woman claiming to be my wife said wouldn't be overheard by others.

  There were two visitor chairs in the room. A TV hung down from the ceiling. It was off, and I didn't see a remote.

  It didn't matter; I didn't want to watch TV. I wanted answers.

  Chapter Seven

  Abby was smiling when she came into the room. She was wearing stone washed jeans, a white blouse, and looked terrific. She saw me and said, “You look like hell. How do you feel?”

  I shrugged. I couldn't talk.

  I picked up the notepad and wrote out one word. “Bob?”

  Abby didn't answer right away. She walked over to the window, opened the curtains and said, “You've got a great view. You can almost see the gulf from here.”

  I tapped the notepad. I wanted her to answer my question. I tapped it again so she could see the word I had written. “Bob.”

  She closed the curtains halfway, came over closer to my bed and took my hand. She reached out to touch my head. “We haven't found him yet. He wasn't in the motorhome when the EMTs got there. Fire Rescue didn't find him either. They think he jumped out when the motorhome tipped over.”

  I quickly scribbled a second question. “R U looking for him?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I've put up flyers all around the area. I posted messages on Facebook and Craigslist and offered a five-hundred-dollar reward for his return.

  “The reward has people out looking for him. Eventually, someone will find him. He's tough and smart. If no one else finds him, we will.”

  I nodded and scribbled another question. “Wife?”

  She smiled, almost laughed and said, “That's a funny story. I think you'll like it. But we have to be careful when we talk. We don't want anyone to overhear us.”

  She walked to the door and made sure it was closed then came back to me. “When the first responders pulled you out of the wreck, they found your wallet and phone in your pocket.

  “They weren't sure you were going to make it, and they wanted to notify your next of kin. They opened your wallet and found the Mendoza driver's license. They thought it was real, so they assumed that was who you were.

  “There wasn't any contact info, so they checked your phone. It only had one call on it. It was the one from me.”

  “They called the number and asked if I was Mrs. Mendoza. I told them I was. The caller, a man with a deep voice, said he had some bad news. He said you'd been in an accident and were badly hurt. They said you might not make it. If I wanted to see you, I needed to come to the hospital soon.

  “That's what I did.”

  She paused, looked around the room again, and then leaned in closer. She whispered, “When you got to the hospital, the admissions people signed you in as Tony Mendoza. That's the name they've put on all your forms.”

  That answered my first question. But I had another. I hadn't called Abby on the burner phone the responders had found. It was new and had no activity on it. So how did they get her number?

  I scribbled the question on the tablet. “Phone?”

  She nodded. She understood what I was asking, and she had an answer. “Right after you texted me the number of the burner, I got a feeling something bad was going to happen. I tried to call. But you didn't answer; I was too late.

  “But because I had called, my number was in the phone's history. The EMTs found it and called me.”

  I nodded then scribbled another question. “Accident?”

  She pulled up a chair beside my bed and patted my hand. She took a deep breath and said, “The police have it all on video. There are four traffic cameras at that intersection, each recording from a different angle.

  “They show the light in your lane turning green, and you making the left turn. About halfway through, a black Corvette going way too fast hit the swale at Jacaranda and Forty-One. It launched the car into the air, and it crashed into you. The car hit a few feet behind your seat, right over the kitchen table. With all the momentum it had built up, it cut through your motorhome, going out the other side, taking the fridge with it.

  “The impact split your motorhome in half and pushed what was left of it over onto its side.

  “The EMTs said it looked like you smacked your head onto the side window. That's what knocked you out.

  “The propane line to the fridge came lose when the car hit, and that started a fire. The flames took out the roof and kitchen cabinets.

  “The propane tank had an automatic cut off, and when the house battery went dead, it shut off the gas.

  “That kept the fire from being worse. Your freshwater tank, which was on the top side of the motorhome after it rolled over, melted and dumped water onto the fire, putting it out.

  “You were lucky that the fire station on Englewood Road was close. Their rescue people were on the scene almost immediately. They sprayed foam to stop the fire and then went inside looking for survivors.

  “They found you in the driver's seat, hanging from your shoulder belt, unconscious. They weren't sure if you were dead or alive. But when they checked your vitals, they found a heartbeat. They loaded you onto a stretcher and rushed you to the hospital. That's where you've been ever since."

  She stopped talking. Letting me take it all in.

  I wrote out another question. “Other driver?”

  She shook her head. “They haven't found him yet. The video shows someone climbing out of the car and running off.”

  “The police say the car was doing a hundred twenty. Maybe more. It was going east on Jacaranda. When it got to the intersection, it veered onto the grass median.

  “You've seen the median there. It dips down then raises up at the end, kind of like a ramp. When the Vette hit it, it went airborne and sliced into your motorhome.

  “The airbags in the Vette went off on impact. That probably saved the driver. The car, with the driver still in it, landed in the field on the other side of the road. The driver climbed out and limped away.

  “In the video, his face is covered with white powder from the airbags, and he's unrecognizable.

  “The police have been looking for him but haven't found him yet.”

  She paused to make sure I was still listening then continued. “The owner of the Vette reported it stolen, four hours after the wreck. The police wanted to interview him, but he lives out of state and said to send any questions to his attorney.

  “Apparently, the owner is running for a New York Senate seat and doesn't have time to fly to Florida to answer their questions.”

  I nodded and scribbled another question. “Motorhome fixable?”

  Abby shook her head. “No, it was destroyed, cut in hal
f. Fire in the back burned the roof and cabinets. What wasn't ruined by the fire was shaken loose by the impact and covered with water and foam. The tow service had to use cranes to pick up the two pieces and haul what was left to the impound lot.”

  I groaned at the news.

  Everything I owned was in the motorhome. My clothes, my computers, my private papers, and the lock box I kept under the bed where I stashed my pistol and a few gold coins. I'd lost everything I owned and the place where I lived.

  But I could replace all that. It just took money.

  What I couldn't replace was Bob. It might sound silly to worry about a stinking cat, but he was my companion, my friend, and he trusted me to keep him safe.

  I had failed.

  Abby could see I was in pain. She patted me on the hand and said, “Don't worry. Everything is going to be alright.

  “I've found a place for us to stay when you get out of here. We'll find Bob, and then we'll get you another motorhome.

  “Right now, you need to rest. You banged your head pretty hard. The doctors said you have a concussion. They want to keep you in here a few more days to make sure there's no bleeding.”

  She paused, which gave me time to write out another question. I scribbled it down.

  “What day is it?”

  She took a deep breath then answered. “Friday. You've been here a week. They kept you in a medically induced coma so they could monitor your brain.”

  She snickered. “They haven't found anything there yet.”

  She smiled, looked behind her, then back at me. “Let them keep thinking you're Tony Mendoza. It's better that way.”

  I scribbled, “Why?”

  She looked around the room again then said, “The Corvette. It's registered to a guy running for Senate. Up in New York. The cops think his son was the driver. They think he was down here on spring break. He has a history of doing this sort of thing. Getting drunk and crashing cars.

  “But he has an alibi. They have a video of him sitting on a stage next to his father at noon in New York City on the day of the crash. That rules him out as the driver.