by Gerry Boyle
He smiled. I smiled back, said nothing.
“When you leave here, where you gonna go, Mr. McMorrow?”
“Probably the hospital, see how Mandi is doing, then home.”
“Nice of you. You always take such good care of people you interview for stories?”
“No,” I said.
He looked at me. “I believe you,” Raven said. “That one had truth written all over it.”
Chapter 10
The woman cop was named C. Lord, according to her nametag. She was standing by the reception window at the emergency room. She looked at me like I was dirt.
“How is she?” I said.
“Does Detective Raven know you were coming here?”
“Yes. We just talked about it. So how is she?”
The cop looked at me, then turned and left.
I was left with the television and an old woman sitting with her portable oxygen, a tank in a stand with wheels. She wheezed, a tube in her nose. We both stared at the television screen, where a young couple was arguing, the man shaking his manicured fist in the woman’s made-up face. I thought of Mandi, wondered if there’d been time to argue or just a sudden blow. Then another and another.
I stepped up to the reception window. The guy behind the glass looked up from a crossword book, pencil in one hand, mug of coffee in the other. He was red-nosed and thick and looked like an impostor, like he’d stuffed the regular receptionist under the desk.
I smiled. He slid the glass open.
“I’m here for Mandi,” I said. “You know how long she’ll be in there?”
He scowled. “I just told the officer,” he said.
“Well, she’s not here,” I said.
“I can’t divulge patient information.”
“Okay. But could you tell me whether I’ll be waiting for twenty minutes? Two hours? Two days?”
I leaned closer and smiled. His pencil was poised on the crossword, partway through ten letters, across—“Great Apes.” He had C-H-I. With a weary sigh, he reached for a yellow sticky-note. The pencil moved to it grudgingly.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Jack McMorrow.”
“All I can do is let the staff know you’re here.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“Jack what?”
I leaned closer.
“McMorrow.”
He wrote that down.
“And you’re here to see what patient?”
I wondered how many there were. Did the oxygen lady make two?
“Mandi. It’s the Mandi with the ‘i’.”
“Last name?”
I sighed, inwardly. “I don’t know,” I said.
His eyes glanced up, pink-rimmed and brimming with judgment.
“I can’t confirm that we have a patient here by that name,” he said.
“Fine. But if you do have one, could you let her know Jack McMorrow is here?”
He didn’t acknowledge that, just said, “Relationship with the patient?”
Hard to keep secrets in this town, I thought. “Friend,” I said.
He wrote that down, too. The sticky-note was full. He looked up, this time his glance lingered. How was I connected to the young woman brought in beat up in black underwear. Exactly what sort of weirdo was I?
I tried to get back into his good graces.
“The word,” I said. “It’s not chimpanzee. It’s orangutans.”
He looked at the puzzle, counting the letters in his head.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I’m a writer,” I said, and smiled.
“Oh.”
“So, two hours? Two days?”
“I’d guess closer to twenty minutes,” he muttered softly, erasing carefully. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”
I sat alone after the oxygen woman was taken inside. I called Mary, who said Sophie was taking a nap, worn out from following the chickens. I tried calling Roxanne back, left a message at her office and on her cell. I was checking my voice mail when a side door opened and Officer Lord stepped out followed by an attendant pushing Mandi in a wheelchair. She saw me and smiled.
She was wearing green hospital scrubs and her right ankle was in a blue soft cast. Her right wrist, too. Her hair was pulled back and her face had been washed. Her nose was swollen and bruised and there were scratches on her face.
She looked exhausted, medicated.
I got up from my seat and Officer Lord gave me the cold stare, then strode out of the room, fiddling with the radio on her belt. The attendant, a middle-aged woman, pushed Mandi over. The door swung open again, and a doctor came out, stethoscope on her neck.
“Hey, Jack,” Mandi said, sounding a little woozy.
“Hi, Mandi. How are you?” I said.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “On the road to recovery.”
The doctor, a fortyish woman, stood with her hands on her hips. She was tanned and fit, looked like a runner. “Are you her caregiver?” she said.
I considered it. Mandi looked up at me, bruised and battered.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, then you should know, as I told Mandi, the ankle is a very bad sprain,” she said, “but no fracture that we could see. A lot of soft tissue damage. We put it in a soft cast to protect it. The wrist is fractured, three different bones, including the trapezoid bone, which is a tough one to heal.”
Mandi held her arm out, looked at it.
“You’re not going to be able to do stairs for a couple of weeks, Mandi,” the doc said. “And once you get a walking cast, crutches are still going to be difficult with the wrist.”
Mandi smiled wanly. “Once I’m home I’ll be—”
“You’ve got enough pain meds for a couple days. Prescription for more, and anti-inflammatories.”
The doc looked to me. “We got her started on both, but she’s gonna need more by tomorrow.”
“Right,” I said, wondering what I’d gotten into, where she would stay.
“You’re signed out for the wheelchair until next Friday,” the doc said. “If you need to keep it longer, call Patient Services.”
The doc looked down at Mandi, patted her shoulder. “You take care of yourself now, ” she said, her tone suggesting that was unlikely.
Then she looked at me. “And you take good care of her,” she said. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. I nodded.
“Where can I reach you?” the doc said, like she was going to check up. She took a prescription pad out and I gave her my cell number and she scrawled it on the back of a page.
“I’m going to put this with the records,” she said.
“Good idea,” I said, and then off Mandi and I went, down the hall and out into the parking lot.
“So,” I said, “where to?”
“Home,” Mandi said.
I started wheeling her toward the truck.
“You can’t get up those stairs.”
“But I’ve got to take care of Lulu.”
“You can’t even walk. Or get in and out of bed.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“You have friends in town?”
She hesitated.
“No.”
“How ’bout another town? I can drive you there.”
“No,” Mandi said. “I’m pretty much on my own.”
We were at the truck.
“You must have somebody,” I said.
I moved around and bent toward her.
“Not here,” she said softly.
“Where then? Family?”
She shook her head.
“Mandi,” I said. “I can’t be the only person you know.”
She was looking away, a scowl settling over her, her face pale in the sun.
“You’re the only person I trust.”
“You barely know me.”
“I’m a good judge of people,” she said, then added, “Usually.”
I looked around. A white-haired couple walked by carrying a pot of
flowers wrapped in pink foil. The woman glanced at Mandi’s bruised face, then at me, then quickly away. I opened the truck door, wheeled Mandi into position.
“In you go, then,” I said, and I took hold of her under her arm and lifted her out of the chair. She stood on her good foot, reached for the door with her good hand. She hopped twice, started to lose her balance, and I caught her by the side, under the breast. I was instantly self-conscious and moved my hand to her shoulder, and eased her onto the truck seat.
“Thanks,” Mandi said, and as I started to close the door she looked up at me. “I’m sorry. Just get me home. I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I said, and closed the door, folded the wheelchair, and lifted it into the back of the truck. I came around and got in and started the motor. The Toyota’s cab seemed very small.
I drove across town, sat at the red light at the corner of Mandi’s block. She stared straight ahead, her eyes starting to droop. Noticing me looking at her, she said, “The drugs.”
There was a space in front of her building and I pulled in and shut off the motor. We looked at the door, left wide open.
“You can’t stay here,” I said. “Not alone. He might come back.”
I turned to her. “You know you should give the police that phone number.”
“No,” Mandi blurted, as though frightened at the thought. She added more calmly, “Maybe there’s a shelter. Do you think they’d take cats?”
I hesitated, decided not to press it.
“I can take your cat,” I said. “What else do you need from upstairs?”
She winced.
“Everything. Toothbrush and all of that. Clothes. Shoes. No, I’ll be fine. Can you just get me up the—”
“I’ll get enough for a day or two. You can make a list and we can come back.”
She looked away. “Thanks,” she said.
I got out, closed the truck door, and locked her in. Shutting the entrance door behind me, I went up the stairs, pausing at the landing. I listened, heard a fly buzzing, nothing else.
I went to her door, turned the knob, and the door swung open. The apartment was stuffy, the windows closed from the previous night. I crossed to the bedroom, which was as I had left it. The bed was rumpled. There was blood on the bedspread, droplets in a line. It seemed like the room should be sealed with crime-scene tape but it wasn’t, so I walked over and looked again.
It looked like Mandi had first been beaten on the bed. Her nose bleeding, she’d rolled over and fallen. I wondered if the wrist and ankle had been done on the bed or on the floor. Had she been kicked? Stomped?
He could have killed her very easily. She was lucky to be—
Something fell in the living room and I whirled, walked to the door. Paused, then stepped out. The cat had knocked a picture off the windowsill. I walked across the living room and picked it up.
It was small, two frames connected by a hinge. One photo was of a young girl, maybe six, blonde and smiling, standing in a meadow. The other was a family, a couple with two kids walking on a beach.
I looked more closely at the smiling faces. These weren’t Mandi’s photos. They were generic ones, the kind that come with the frames. Photos of models of a happy family.
I put the frame down and turned back to the room. It seemed cold and bare. A couch. A small TV on a wooden box. A wooden beer crate stood on end to make a bookshelf. It was filled with paperbacks, all worn bestsellers, like you’d see at a book swap. On top of the crate was a Harry Potter. Next to the book was a ceramic bowl filled with Hershey’s Kisses. Next to the bowl were several foil wrappers, rolled into tiny silver balls.
There were two wooden straight chairs, one by the window where Mandi could sit and look out. A couple of cheap art prints: a tropical sunset, a polar bear with cubs. It was like a dorm room but with nothing personal. It revealed nothing.
I went to the kitchen, opened the drawers. The bag of Hershey’s Kisses, more balled up wrappers. Yard-sale silverware, a few cheap hand towels. Pots and pans in the cupboard by the sink; mismatched dishes on the shelf. Nothing on the refrigerator door except a menu from the pizza shop across the street. Inside, there was yogurt—all strawberry Dannon Light— and a plastic jug of cranberry juice. An unopened bottle of Chardonnay, two sticks of butter, and half a loaf of whole-wheat bread.
It was like she was only staying a couple of nights.
I filled the cat’s dish with dry food and added an extra water bowl. Then I went to the bedroom, where the cat was crouched on the bed. I reached to pat it and it bolted again, out of the room. I opened the middle bureau drawer, found gym shorts and T-shirts. I grabbed three of each, made a poor attempt to have them match. From the bottom drawer I took a pair of nylon running pants and a pair of jeans. From the top drawer I scooped out a fistful of underwear in various colors.
And then I paused. Slid my hand under the bras and underpants and rummaged around. I felt something and pulled it out. Condoms. Reached back in and, at the back of the drawer, I felt a small box. I hesitated, then parted the clothes and took it out.
It was a small, green jewelry box covered in crushed velvet, something a child would have. I flipped it open and inside was a heart-shaped locket, gold, on a chain, the size of a pocket watch. I pried it open with my fingernail; inside there was a photograph of a baby.
The baby was nine months old, give or take. She had big dark eyes and soft-looking dark curls, and was wearing a pale pink top with darker pink flowers appliquéd on the front. There was a woman’s hand under the baby’s rump, but someone had cut the woman holding the baby out of the picture so that all you could see was a dismembered arm.
The baby’s wide-set eyes, the mouth; it was Mandi. I looked at the picture for a moment and then closed the locket. Put it back in the box and slid the box back into the drawer. I closed the drawer, went to a small closet and opened the door. Inside were dresses and skirts, shoes on the floor. I considered them, took flat leather sandals and black Nike flip-flops. I took the shoes and clothes to the kitchen and found a garbage bag in a cupboard. I placed everything in, looked around the apartment once more, and spotted Mandi’s pocketbook, a gray leather bag.
I grabbed that, made sure her keys were inside. Went to the bathroom and scooped up the toothbrush, a few toiletries that were out on the counter. At the door, I tried the keys until I found the one to the apartment. I paused, dug out her wallet. It was black, shiny leather. I flipped it open and pulled out her I.D.
A Maine driver’s license, Mandi’s photo. It had been issued to Sybill M. Lasell, 14 Ellsworth St., Apt. 2, Portland. I stuck it back in the sleeve, opened the wallet, and slipped out the cash. Counted it. $436, fifties and twenties. I shoved it back, dropped the wallet in the bag, locked the door behind me, and left.
Mandi was in the truck, head back, dozing. I got in and she opened her eyes, looked at me.
“Find much?” she said.
“I got clothes and some shoes and your pocketbook. We can come back for the cat. I gave her food and water.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Mandi said.
“What?” I said.
“It’s okay. I’m sure you want to know who this girl is who just landed in your life.”
I looked at her. “But I still don’t think I do,” I said. “Know who you are, I mean.”
“No,” she said. “Probably not.”
And she closed her eyes again.
Chapter 11
There was a homeless shelter in Galway. I called the police department and the dispatcher told me it was on Congress Street, a mile south of downtown. I drove there, Mandi quiet on the way, and pulled up in front of a shabby Victorian with a small hanging sign that said, “Refuge House.”
There were four young guys standing outside smoking. I pulled up and they turned, all bad teeth and scraggly beards, their jeans hanging so low their boxers showed. They looked at Mandi. One of them, a guy in a sideways Yankees hat, said something and the others laughed and le
ered.
I frowned.
“I can handle them,” Mandi said.
I left her in the truck and walked up to the house. The guys gave me the stare and I gave it back. The guy who had made the comment said, “Hey,” and I looked at him, but didn’t respond.
“Ain’t too friendly, is he?” he said.
“Another time, chump,” I said, brushing through them. I went inside, noting the steps. The door opened to a kitchen, a woman at the sink, her back to me. She was broad, strong-looking. I said hello. She turned to me, hands dripping dishwater.
“I’m sorry, we’re full up,” she said. She dabbed at her hair, left a spot of suds. “Might have a bed in a couple of days. Male?”
“No,” I said. “It’s not me. It’s a friend. She’s been in an accident and can’t get up the stairs to her apartment.”
“But she has an apartment?”
“Yes, but the stairs are steep and she broke her wrist and hurt her ankle and—”
“We’re not equipped for that kind of care here,” the woman said. “Sometimes it’s just me. I volunteer. I mean, this isn’t a rehab center.”
“I see,” I said.
“I’d say the best bet would be to stay with her in her apartment until she’s up and around.”
“I can’t really do that,” I said.
“Well, see if someone else can. Friends, family. Our mission is really for people who have no other safety net, no place to stay at all. It sounds like your friend, she has options.”
“I suppose she does,” I said, and I thanked her. She started to turn back to the sink, then stopped.
“Don’t let the wise guys out there bother you,” she said. “A couple of bad apples.”
“Never do,” I said, and went back out.
The bad apples were still there, smoking, standing, propping each other up. The mouthy one called over to Mandi, “Hey, honey, what the hell happened to you? Hope you got the number of that truck.”
They all laughed. Saw me and stopped. I walked up to the mouthy one and said, “You think that’s funny?”
“Dude,” he said. “Chill.”
I stepped into him, fast. His arms came up. I grabbed both wrists, twisted them, hooked his ankle and shoved with my shoulder. He went over backwards, his Yankee hat flying, cigarette, too. The others held back. The mouthy one tried to scramble to his feet, got tangled in his jeans, ended up on his knees.
