How long have I been in the hospital?
I spied the tiled ceiling above me as colors circled my vision, closing and opening like spring flowers. I laughed, or thought I laughed, but couldn’t be sure. The nurse at my side laughed with me, telling me everything would be all right, telling me I could cry if I wanted to.
But I’m laughing, aren’t I?
And then I heard the sound of my voice, scratchy and tinny like an old recording, carrying my sobs and calling out the name of a baby I’d never know. I found the dim reflection of lighted colors—a mural in motion like holiday lights. The nurse was gone, and I disappeared into the colorful sea. There was quiet in the collage. I decided to stay for a while. The fire in my arm cooled, and the medicine numbed my mind, blowing feathery kisses up and down my body. I swam freely in a shallow euphoria and immediately wanted to dive deeper, to get lost in an ocean of the magical formula.
“Hey,” Steve said. He was sitting next to me, holding my hand in his. “How are you feeling?”
I blinked away the haze of whatever it was the nurse had poured into me.
“Baby?” I managed to get out, seeing the outline of my husband’s beautiful face. But the sight of him became clearer, and I could see the damp tracks on his cheeks, his lower lip trembling. “All this is just a bad dream.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. He kissed my hand as a sob stole his words.
“It was a bad dream,” I said again, trying to reason my way out of the situation. “Steve? It was a dream . . . wasn’t it?”
“No,” he managed to say, shaking his head.
“My baby!” I cried. Anguish came at me like a storm, and I rolled over to my side, curling up to face away from Steve. Guilt cut to the core of my being. I couldn’t look at my husband. As much as he wanted me to, I just couldn’t. I clutched my belly, holding a cramp instead of my baby. The pointless contraction passed, telling me what wasn’t there anymore, telling me that I’d lost the life I’d carried. Steve put his arm around me, but it didn’t help—couldn’t help. I shivered in the throes of a cry and lost his words as thunder rained into my head, splitting my mind and stealing any semblance of reason. I was empty. “God, I lost our baby!”
TWENTY-TWO
ECTOPIC PREGNANCY. THAT WAS what the doctor called it. “Mrs. Sholes, I assure you that there was nothing you could have done to prevent it . . . or to stop it.” I heard the words but didn’t hear them, didn’t want to hear them, chose instead to blame myself for losing our baby. For days I cried guiltily, thinking my visit to the disco was the cause. My head throbbed in shame to the tune of that music’s bass, to the feeling of bodies against mine, to swimming across the crowded dance floor. I should have been home. Selfish.
I did this to us, to our baby.
But everyone assured me that what had happened couldn’t possibly be my fault—my baby never had a chance.
And there were more complications too.
I pawed impatiently at an itch, scratching what would become new scars around my middle. I hadn’t found the courage yet to lift my hospital gown, to see the incisions they’d made to take my baby. But in my mind I saw a run of bloody staples, a Frankensteinish attempt to sew my body back together. My chest shuddered as I held back a cry.
Whatever horror I find, I deserve it.
“Reminders,” I said to myself. I’d been moved to a single room. And while the room smelled like medicine, it was nice to be alone. As if hearing my thoughts, a portly nurse walked through the door, interrupting my quiet. She balanced a full tray in her hands and kicked out the point of her foot, waving it until she found the leg of a rolling table. The smell of food hit me like a hot wind, instantly turning my stomach.
Is that lunch? Already? I had no idea what time it was. But I knew I couldn’t eat.
I glanced out the room’s huge window and realized I had no idea what day it was either. The first of the afternoon sunlight slipped in from above, painting bright fingers across the floor and telling me it was already past midday. Michael and Snacks would be eating lunch, restless since I hadn’t been home. I needed to see my babies.
“Could you crack that?” I asked, motioning to the window, wanting to listen to the world continuing on without me. Without a word, the nurse forced the window upward with a struggled grunt. The room filled with the low rumble of traffic and other distant city noises.
“Beautiful day,” she said, returning to finish placing my lunch on the tray.
“I like to listen,” I told her, shutting my eyes, hoping she’d take the hint. I wanted to be alone.
A minute went by yet the nurse stayed with me, chitchatting, making small talk. I wanted to scream.
“Are we hungry today?” the nurse asked, inching the tray of food toward me until it was beneath my nose. She jockeyed plastic utensils and a pair of miniature salt and pepper shakers. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the food. “No, then? Still not feeling it?”
“No,” I answered and rolled over on my pillow. “I’m not feeling it.”
“Let me get that for you,” she said, tugging on the pillow.
“That’s better, thank you,” I offered, wanting my space. She was nearly on top of me, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable, claustrophobic even. I pushed on her chest, my hand sliding against her scrubs. I heaved and gagged suddenly.
“Okay, food is definitely out. Sometimes the smell can do that.”
I nodded and coughed, but didn’t have the heart to tell her it wasn’t the food. I quickly grabbed the Jell-O cup and bottled water, straining to reach it before she rolled the tray back from my bed. My incisions jabbed a reminder of why I was there.
“Reminders,” I repeated.
Scars are forever.
“Reminders of what, dear?” the nurse asked as she helped me settle.
I waved my hand, telling her to ignore me. If I tried to speak, tried to say a word, I knew I’d start to cry again. My cheeks were already so tight and my eyes so sore. I needed a break. I focused on the shifting sunlight, watching it like sand falling in an hourglass.
The scars were forever. We couldn’t have any more children either. When the doctor explained the surgery, explained the complications that followed, Steve had held me lovingly. But when the doctor told us the extent of the damage, Steve let out a grunt—the kind he gave when hearing bad news. I squeezed his hand and searched his face, but his fingers went loose and he turned away to hide his reaction. The doctor explained the details, but I could only think of one thing: Steve had wanted another baby. While we’d never talked about it, I saw the truth in his reaction. I knew his turning away was an involuntary flinch—a knee-jerk reaction. But it still hurt.
When Steve finally turned back, he thanked the doctor and gave me a sad smile. He told me that we had the most family he’d ever imagined for one lifetime. I loved him for what he said, but soon after he stood up and left the room. I had never felt so alone in my life.
When I was alone again, I hid beneath the bedcovers and remembered the days following Katie’s death. I stayed inside the warm, cozy bubble of blankets, closed off from the world around me, thinking about what might have been if I hadn’t lost our baby.
“Katie, will you take care of my baby?” I asked, sending her a prayer and hoping she heard me.
TWENTY-THREE
“I’M READY TO GO,” I said, sounding impatient while Steve tuned to a different channel on the television set. The television’s speaker spat tinny static while the screen filled with a rumbly snow. “Did you hear me? Where are my clothes?”
“Almost have it,” he answered—a baseball game appeared briefly, an umpire yelling the batter’s count. “Ha! See that? Much better.”
“My clothes?
“Too soon,” he answered without turning around. “You know what the doctors said. I mean, with a fever, they’re not going to let you come home, babe.”
“You mean the fever they gave me,” I countered, annoyed at having picked up the flu. But it wasn’
t just the flu. I knew that. I’d picked up something else too: a small infection around the incisions. Feverish and with a chill, I was sick.
“No clothes here anyway,” he continued, turning back just as the screen filled with snow. “Damn it!”
The television’s hissing and Steve’s complaining grated on my nerves. I pushed buttons on the remote with my thumb, shutting it off, bringing quiet to the room. He turned back with a childish pout, disappointed I’d taken his plaything away from him. I patted my bed.
“Just sit with me. Tell me about your day.” He moved to the chair next to me, but stood behind it, fidgeting and scanning the room and darting looks out the window. I knew the hospital was making him uncomfortable—bringing back memories of being shot, of nearly dying. I could see it in the way he clutched his leg, covering a wound that had already healed, protecting it like a gem. The television had kept him busy, kept his mind occupied. I needed to get his mind clear of where it was going. “And what do you mean, no clothes?”
“Home,” he answered, finally sitting down. I leaned over the edge of the bed, stretching my hand to take his. I winced at a fresh ache in my side. “You okay?”
“Just sore,” I told him, but a knifing throb came next. The infection wasn’t getting any better. “Can you bring me some clothes when you come back? Doubt you’d want me going home in this thing.” I pushed the thin gown against my chest, giving him something playful to see, though I didn’t feel playful.
He nodded and joked, “Maybe keep the gown? I especially like how it opens in the back.” He smacked his lips, playing along.
“I’ll leave it open for you,” I answered, flicking my brow up and down. It felt good to joke, particularly to make bedroom jokes. We hadn’t talked once about not having any more children. The silence sat heavy like dreadful news I had to give. The playful banter was one thing, but I had no idea how we’d ever approach sex again. “And some makeup too? Bring my travel bag with you. I’m not going outside looking like this.”
“How about your ring?” he asked, putting on an ugly grimace. I sat up, reaching to turn Needle, but found only a bare finger. I’d had my ring at the club, played with her as I danced with Theresa. Faint images shuffled in my head, and I saw myself on the dance floor. I saw Needle, a strobe light glinting off its sharp point. The muddled images of the night went black then, and my memory filled with glaring red lights and the shrill of a siren. “What a God-awful, ugly thing that is.”
“Hey . . .” I said, raising my voice and trying to sound hurt. I had to think of what to tell him. From his reaction, it was clear he had no idea what it really was, had no idea there was a deadly syringe buried inside. “Watch it. That ring was the last gift Katie ever gave to me. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder—or something like that. It’s special to me.”
Steve pressed his lips together, turning them white, his face filling with his typical apologetic I’m-a-dope expression. “I’m . . . I’m sorry, babe.” The humor in his voice was gone. “Really. I had no idea.”
I shook my head, playing the hurtful role in the scene I’d staged. “It’s not exactly my style, but I like to wear it.” I told him. “Can you bring it?”
He agreed, adding, “Still ugly, though.”
“Hey!” I warned again, and jokingly raised my hand.
“I’ve got something to show you,” he said. His face lit up as he pulled a small sheaf of papers from his jacket.
He shifted from the chair over to my bed—the single motion was smooth and without effort. As he settled next to me, I curled myself around him and encouraged him to lean back. He did, and I felt whole. The unfurled papers fought against his hands, wrapping around his fingers while he pressed to hold them open. But I saw enough on the face of the first page to make my heart swell with excitement for him. I shook against a passing shiver and huddled closer, stealing his heat.
“First one. My first law-school paper—got a B! I’m officially a law student.”
“Babe, that’s awesome,” I told him, motioning to my lips for a kiss. “How’d you like writing it?”
“You know, it wasn’t all that bad . . .” he began, talking as he rocked his head on his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, hated the writing part. But having been a detective for so long, I found I only needed to change my viewpoint—give it a lawyer’s perspective. So that’s what I wrote.” He traced the waxy-red, penned grade with his finger, admiring it like a boy winning his first trophy. A sting came to my eyes, and I pushed myself up to hug him. “I can do this, Amy. I don’t think I’ll need to be a cop forever.”
“You’re right,” I told him. He looked at me with a confidence and sense of accomplishment I hadn’t seen since he’d passed his detective’s exam. I took his face in my hands and added, “I know you can do this.”
TWENTY-FOUR
THE DAYS GREW LONG as I sat in the hospital and waited for nothing to happen. I felt like a butterfly trapped in a mason jar, bouncing off the glass, desperate to get out. And the doctors? To them I was a butterfly and they were the children who had captured me; they passed me around, poking and prodding. I could tell they were bored of me as well, and that was okay. Every day I’d ask if that day was the day I could leave, and every day they’d tell me, “We’ll see about tomorrow.”
Tomorrow never came. I wanted to go home, though. I needed to go home.
“Can I get some aspirin?” I asked, motioning to indicate a headache.
“Let me see what I can give you, dear,” a nurse answered, trading glances between me and the program on the television screen. When she disappeared I fumbled for the television’s remote, hit the power button before her return. The screen went dark, leaving behind a faint mirror image of my room.
“Time for some sleep?” she asked when she returned, disappointment on her face.
“Something like that,” I answered, taking the aspirin and chasing them with a gulp of water. A chill instantly ran through me, giving me a fresh shiver. Fever played with my body, keeping me cold while I sweated like an icy drink sitting in the sun. The nurse saw me shiver and helped with the blankets before leaving me alone to gaze out my window. The truth was, I couldn’t sleep—but I didn’t tell her that. I closed my eyes and listened to her scratch a new note in my chart, flipping the pages before leaving.
“I am the butterfly in the jar,” I muttered into my pillow, feeling choked with loneliness and self-pity. “And the butterfly always dies.”
“Butterfly?” I heard a strange voice and tried to sit up. My incisions echoed a painful jab, slowing me. “Maybe because you’re leaving the window open.”
“Brian!” I said, smiling at the sight of Nerd. I did a double take. It was his voice, but his hair had been neatly combed back and he was dressed for a night out.
Must be a dinner date, I thought, immediately jealous. Becky the librarian? I wondered next.
“Don’t you look all spiffy when you’re not hiding behind your computer?”
“They must have you on some decent drugs, if you’re calling me by my name,” he answered, but then jokingly turned to his side and modeled his outfit. “Had some help, but that’s a story for another time,” he confessed.
“Why another time?” I asked, wanting to hear more. “Please, do tell.”
“It can wait. I have to talk to you.”
“Come here,” I said. There was urgency in his voice, but I ignored it and held my hands out to hug him. Admittedly, the hug was a touch out of character for me, and he hesitated. “I think you’re right. They’ve got me on the giddy stuff—take advantage of the moment.”
“I will,” he answered. He sat down on the edge of my bed and got right to business, slipping a computer tablet over the sheets. With a push of the home button the screen came alive, prompting me for a code. “You’ll want this while you’re away from the office.”
I held the tablet, my hands trembling. Brian noticed. Embarrassed, I laughed it off, explaining: “Must be the drugs.” I shook my han
ds to get the jitters out and perched my finger over the display. “I can pick any code?”
“Something only you’d know,” he confirmed. The urgency in his tone returned, telling me there was a problem.
I quickly put in six digits, using what would have been the birth date of our unborn child. The emotion was still fresh, like my scars. It was a date only I’d know, and one that would stay with me forever.
“What am I looking at?” I asked. The screen refreshed with a listing I didn’t recognize. The tablet was light enough, but my hands continued to shake and Brian took hold of one end to steady the screen. He pointed at the left-hand column, showing me street addresses and long numbers that could have been computer MAC addresses. But these numbers were different.
“Those are vehicle identification numbers,” he began. “The addresses of where the vehicles are located.”
“VINs?” I asked, my gut soured then, as I realized why he came to talk to me. “You’re talking about the cars and the list I sent you?”
“Your husband,” he exclaimed reluctantly. “Not just him, actually. This is a full-on investigation. They’re working a list from the DMV.”
I thought back to the pictures of the tire treads, and asked, “How did they go from tires to actual cars?”
“Not like the old days. Today, every tire is searchable online. A simple query and you’ve got a list of car models that used them and their years. Another search against the DMV, and you’ve got addresses.”
“Like a glass slipper,” I mumbled, realizing that what couldn’t be solved easily thirty years ago was a few keystrokes away today.
Nerd swiped the screen, and images of cars appeared. Fat cars, skinny cars, all of them from an era I only remembered through classic songs heard over the radio. Two screens in, I saw my mother’s car again. This time, though, I didn’t see just a Xerox photocopy like I’d seen in Steve’s file—it was my parents’ old car. Nerd swiped, showing another blur of rusted car bodies and broken windshields. I lifted his hand from the screen and swiped back to the picture of our station wagon.
Painful Truths Page 13
