Blind Eye; Silent Waters; Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  But you know the Adrian men. We don’t have such a good survival record. So here we go. You’re smart. You know what to do with what’s inside if you need to. But again, let’s hope you don’t have to.

  Dad

  No greetings. No endearments. No closings. This was her father. Worried about dying when he was just going in for a routine test he’d put off for years.

  He would have been just fifty-nine this coming week.

  She shook her head in disappointment. She loved him very much. She already missed him terribly. But there were more than a few things she hoped she and Shawn would do differently once they had their own children.

  She laid the note aside and opened the small white envelope first. In it, she found another folded note and a safe deposit key. The note contained only the safe deposit box number and the bank’s name and address in Santa Fe.

  Cynthia stared at the key and frowned. She hoped her father didn’t plan on pitting her against her mother, now that he was dead. Helen had a lot of problems. Most of them stemmed from being an alcoholic, but she was still Cynthia’s mother.

  She put the key back in the envelope and laid it on the folded note beside her. She’d simply send it to her father’s attorney.

  Cynthia opened the first of the large manila envelopes. “This isn’t much better.”

  Inside, there was a thick, folded blue document. “Of course,” she murmured. “Your will.”

  Taking one look at the date, Cynthia knew she wasn’t ready to see more of it now. The will had been revised the week before her father had gone in for his colonoscopy.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  She was suddenly so weary. She slipped the will back into the envelope and dropped it onto the pile beside her. She thought maybe tomorrow she could read it and try to figure out the logic in what he was doing.

  She looked at the last envelope, wondering what more could he be putting on her. This one appeared to be packed with more papers. Cynthia thought about not opening it.

  “Okay, Dad,” she said finally with a sigh. “What other surprises do you have for me?”

  She tore open the flap of the last envelope and pulled out the stack of paper. A large black clip held together what had to be two hundred pages.

  No explanatory note. She fanned through them.

  The packet seemed to consist of technical documents, information about testing and test sites. The first dozen pages were an extensive report on a nuclear test facility in New Mexico. Some of the pages were stamped as company classified.

  Naturally, he would send backup data about projects he had in the works. Her father was an engineer by education and training. He always said he was the ‘belt and suspenders’ type. Detail-oriented to the last. He believed Cynthia was cut from the same cloth and had pushed her to get her engineering degree, too. She’d gotten the degree but had never worked in the field; she’d been working in management from day one.

  She put the bundle beside her, too, making a mental note to call Nellie Johnson, her father’s assistant, on Monday to see what she wanted done with the stuff. Certainly, she had no use for information about any research projects.

  With a sigh, Cynthia got up and slipped her shoes back on. Standing by the small mirror inside the front door, she pulled her blonde hair back into a short ponytail and fastened it with a black elastic from her pocket. As she scrutinized her face, she realized she looked as tired as she felt.

  She would look at the will tomorrow, she thought. What she really wanted right now was to go and get her cat back from the neighbors.

  CHAPTER 25

  Waterbury Long-Term Care Facility

  Connecticut

  In the thirty-five years that he’d been practicing law, Juan Viera could count on one hand the number of days that he had worked on a Saturday. The decision to maintain a five-day work week had been a conscious one. He’d had many offers to work for prestigious law firms in Manhattan, as well as opportunities to participate in state politics, but he’d turned his back on it all.

  Attorney Viera liked his profession, but he also had a life that included his wife and grandchildren and golf and travel. It was a life that he enjoyed very much.

  Of course, the business with the patient at the Waterbury facility could have waited until Monday. Dr. Baer had been the one who’d called him, and the physician had given him the option of putting off the meeting until whenever was convenient for him. Viera had decided to call the facility first, though, and speak directly with the researchers who were doing the testing.

  The contact name he’d been given was Dr. Sid Conway, and the young man had answered right away. The excitement of finding a name and possible contact information for the patient had been palpable in the young man’s voice. The people at the facility clearly were more than doing their job. Viera appreciated the effort and made this exception of his Saturday rule. He could do his part, too.

  He’d agreed to meet with Dr. Baer and a person named Mark Shaw at the facility this afternoon. Shaw was coming up from Pennsylvania. The other staff who were involved with the testing he’d approved yesterday would be on hand, as well. The earliest Mark Shaw could get to Connecticut, however, was six o’clock, so Viera had put in a call to the Waterbury PD. They were sending one of the detectives with the old files from the case to the meeting.

  This was a very sensitive situation. Attorney Viera wanted to have as many facts as possible before he contacted the patient’s next of kin. He could imagine the shock. For six years, these people must have been living with the worst case scenario possible. The young woman had been completely missing off the radar. And now, once he contacted them, there would be thousands of questions. He needed to be prepared.

  He arrived at the facility half an hour before the scheduled meeting time. The receptionist at the front desk directed him to the conference room, but he asked to see the patient first. The receptionist made a call and then told him the nurse in charge would be down in a moment to escort him to the room.

  Viera had been assigned as conservator by the state one other time in his career. That had been a case involving a minor with a terminal disease and unfit parents. Viera had visited the young boy a number of times over the years before he’d passed away at the age of sixteen. In this case, he’d only seen this young woman twice over the six years…once at the beginning and another time two years later, when he’d made a surprise stop at this facility to check on the care the patient was receiving. Everything had been fine.

  He looked around the lobby. The place had changed since his last visit. A pang of guilt nagged at him that perhaps he should have come and checked on her more often. But the periodic reports appeared to be complete and satisfactory, the facility was reputable, the physicians in charge kept him in the loop when there were changes, and the fact that she was an MCS patient made his own laissez-faire attitude more excusable in his mind.

  “Attorney Viera.”

  He turned to the double doors leading into the facility. A woman in her forties, dressed in a sweatshirt and khakis greeted him. She was not wearing a name tag.

  She extended her hand. “Jennifer Sullivan.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sullivan,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  She gave him a curious glance. “You have?”

  He nodded. “From Dr. Parker and Dr. Baer. You appear to be JD’s leading advocate.”

  “Her name is Amelia Kagan,” she told him.

  He nodded, not bothering to argue the point that it was still premature to call her by that name. They needed something more concrete as far as identity.

  “You want to see her?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do.” He nodded again. “I’m early for the meeting, so there should be time.”

  She motioned for him to come with her. “Dr. Baer is already here, and the neurologist from UCONN, Dr. Conway, has been here all day. His research is what helped us to come up with the phone number.”

/>   “Yes, I spoke to him on the phone.”

  The administrator in charge of the facility wasn’t here today. But Attorney Viera had spoken to her on the phone this afternoon. He had been told that Jennifer Sullivan was qualified to provide him with any kind of information he needed from the patient’s files.

  “We’re waiting for someone from the police department…and for Mark Shaw,” she added.

  “You spoke to him on the phone.”

  “I talked to him several times. Hope that was okay.”

  The attorney shrugged. “I can’t see why not.”

  There were many times when Viera knew it was important to be a stickler about following procedure, but this was not one of those times. In this case, it was obvious the nurse and everyone else involved had only the patient’s best interests in mind.

  The hallways were quiet, with the exception of the aides who were delivering trays of food to some of the rooms. The wing of the facility where JD’s room was located, however, lacked that little bit of distraction.

  Jennifer knocked on the open door before they walked in.

  Attorney Viera’s gaze first fell on the patient. She seemed thinner than he remembered, much more fragile. She was lying on the hospital bed with a safety strap around her middle. Her eyes were closed. She was facing away from where two physicians were standing before a group of computers. He tried to imagine how someone related to this young woman would feel, seeing her like this. Six years was a long time.

  “Attorney Viera,” the older of the two men said politely, stepping toward him. “We’ve been speaking on the phone.”

  “Dr. Baer,” he said shaking the man’s hand. He’d done a bit of research on the physician after Baer had been made the visiting physician for this facility. Of German and Persian descent, the man had impressive credentials right down the line.

  Introductions were made to the younger doctor. Viera was glad that he’d looked over the curriculum vita that had come with Sid Conway’s research documentation papers. It was surprising to see someone so young in such a critical position. Conway was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, but the expression on his angular but handsome face was all business. About medium height, lean yet muscular, the young man had a head of curly brown hair that was in desperate need of cutting. There was a deep shadow on his face that said it might have been at least a couple of days since the last time he’d shaved. He looked pretty casual for a neurologist, the attorney thought.

  Viera had to remind himself that it was Saturday, though, and he himself was only wearing a polo shirt and sport jacket. Also, when they’d spoken earlier on the phone, Viera had gotten a clear sense of the neurologist’s confidence in his own abilities. He’d come across as a man who knew his business.

  “You must be excited to see your project producing practical results so soon after getting started,” he told Conway.

  “I am…but I’m glad we’re getting this chance to speak face-to-face beforehand, though,” the young man told him. His voice was anxious. “Do you know how quickly Amelia’s family will be contacted?”

  “It all depends,” Viera answered noncommittally. “Why do you ask?”

  “I believe what we were able to capture is only the beginning. She has a lot more to tell us. And, considering the circumstances of her accident, I think it would be beneficial to continue with the study.”

  Viera considered the neurologist’s words. Dr. Baer had been forthright telling the conservator about the objections to the study by family members of other patients at the Health Center. He’d been thorough in explaining the pros and cons of what could be discovered and of the limited control they had over the type of information the patient would give them.

  Before signing the documents giving Conway authorization for testing, Viera had asked Baer’s opinion on JD’s prognosis as to recovery. The physician had told him that his best estimate was that she had less than a five percent chance of progressing beyond her current state, and that was being optimistic.

  “I’ll tell you this,” Viera told Conway. “You already have my authorization with regard to her being a subject in your study. We still don’t have any definitive, admissible proof that she is Amelia Kagan. You can continue with the study until we have court authorization to transfer decisions about this young woman’s care to her next of kin.”

  Sid Conway seemed visibly relieved.

  “So what’s next in your testing? What’s your schedule?” Viera asked.

  “I work with two other resident neurologists at the UCONN Health Center, and so far we have it set up to have a set of readings done every morning for a week, starting Monday,” Conway explained. “Meanwhile, I intend to be here as much as I can over the weekend, as the patient has had a number of episodes of agitation this past week. I hope to be able to capture a reading if that occurs again.”

  Jennifer Sullivan said something under her breath to Conway that Viera didn’t quite get. But it was obvious it had something to do with spending too much time there.

  “Is this schedule of testing okay with you?” Viera asked Baer.

  “Absolutely.”

  A nurse poked her head into the room. “There’s a Mr. Shaw in the lobby.”

  Attorney Viera glanced at his watch. The man was fifteen minutes early.

  “You mentioned that he’s never met this young woman,” he asked Jennifer Sullivan.

  “That’s correct. He’s an acquaintance of the twin sister,” she said. “I’m sorry. He was an acquaintance of Marion Kagan.”

  If JD was in fact Amelia Kagan, the twin sister to the dead scientist, Viera dreaded the conversation he was going to have with the parents. The bad news, good news situation wasn’t quite applicable. Aside from losing one daughter, the condition of the other one simply meant more bad news on top of all they were undoubtedly trying to deal with already.

  “How about if we ask Mr. Shaw to take a look at the patient in person?” he asked.

  “I’ll go and bring him in,” Mrs. Sullivan offered, heading for the door.

  Viera turned his gaze toward the bed.

  “She’s awake,” he said, shocked.

  “Yes, so she is,” Baer said quietly.

  “She looks like she’s aware of what’s going on,” the attorney said. The two times he’d seen her, she’d been asleep. “Does she understand us? Hear us? Does she know what’s going on around her?”

  Viera felt like a fool, asking the questions. He should know all of this.

  “Sorry…it’s strange to actually see her awake,” he continued before either doctor could make an explanations. “I didn’t expect this. I mean, she is considered to be in a minimally conscious state, no?”

  “That’s no problem, Mr. Viera,” Baer replied. “You’re correct. Her condition is MCS, but that classification covers a rather broad range of clinical features, and those features can change for each individual patient…for better or worse…over the course of time.”

  “I guess I half expected her to be…well, comatose.” Viera, realizing he was whispering, recovered his composure. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been caught so off guard.

  “Well, that would put her in a different medical classification,” Baer replied. “If she were classified as being in a coma, her condition would entail a lack of consciousness, her motor functions would be reflex action only, and she would demonstrate no auditory, visual, or emotional functioning. And, of course, she wouldn’t be able to communicate.”

  “But that’s clearly not her condition,” the attorney said remembering that this had to be part of the explanation he had to make to her family when he spoke to them later.

  “Not now,” Baer responded. “She was in a coma for a time after the accident, but that condition changed before she was transferred here.”

  “So, being in a minimally conscious state, she has different…what did you call them…clinical features?”

  “That’s correct.” Baer looked at Amelia. “MCS patients can appear
to be awake. At different times, they might demonstrate the ability to reach for an object or even hold an object that requires making accommodations for its size or shape. Like Amelia, they might, at times, localize a sound’s origin or show sustained visual location or even follow an object with their eyes.”

  Viera thought he should be taking notes. At one time or the other he’d heard all of this, but it hadn’t sunk in until now.

  “Also, there might be gesturing or verbalization that is intelligible. An MCS patient might even smile or cry appropriately in response to stimuli.”

  “She can do all that?” Viera asked, happy for this information.

  “No, she can’t. Not all of that. And not all the time,” the doctor replied. “These features constitute a range of functions that MCS patients might demonstrate, depending on their condition…and their recovery. One patient might be able to hold an object one day, but be unable to sustain visual pursuit. And that can change the next day.”

  “It must be frustrating for the family,” the attorney said, looking at the patient.

  “It is hard for everyone, especially her,” Baer put in.

  “Of course,” Viera said.

  Sid Conway spoke up, directing his words to Dr. Baer. “I noticed this morning that she reacts to hearing her sister’s name. Even just now, she was asleep until Jennifer mentioned Marion’s name.”

  It was impossible to miss. All of them saw it. The patient’s gaze moved until she located Conway. He’d been the one who had mentioned the sister’s name.

  “I’d like to get a reading as she meets Mark Shaw,” the young neurologist said hurriedly.

  “How much time do you need to set up?” Baer asked.

  Juan Viera sensed that there was something in the air of this room. It obviously had something to do with the patient. You wanted to help her, wanted her to improve. The pang of guilt was back again, but he pushed it away. Conway and his gadgets hadn’t been available during the past six years. The research was cutting edge…and seemed to be making a difference in terms of understanding her.