by Debbie Burke
“No, I’d rather walk to the hospital.” Tawny needed time alone to settle herself and prepare. She crossed the street behind the gray Ford.
Chapter 6 – Sylvia Plath
Tawny waited outside the closed door of Mimi’s room in the psych unit, while Tillman went in first.
What should she say to the girl? Pretty warm for April? How ’bout those Bobcats?
The door cracked open. Tillman peered around the edge and nodded for her to come into the room.
Tawny sucked in a deep breath then exhaled slowly. Stay calm.
As she went in, he stepped out, pausing for a quick touch to her cheek and a faint smile of gratitude. Then he closed the door, leaving her alone in the room with Mimi.
The girl sat in a recliner, an IV line attached to her wrist. Tawny wondered what the doctors were giving her. Anti-anxiety? Anti-depressant?
Mimi took after her mother, dark, billowing hair, delicate features, pale skin that didn’t reflect Tillman’s African heritage from his father. She stared out the window, showing no reaction to Tawny’s entrance.
A hospital gown printed with playful puppies hung loose, her nubile breasts almost exposed because of heart monitor lines pulling down at the neckline. Magenta bruises showed on her chest.
Tawny flexed her swollen fingers and wrists, still aching from performing CPR, and noticed a camera mounted near the ceiling. The nurse’s station must monitor psych patients.
The bed formed a barrier between her and the girl. She wondered if that sent a wrong message and moved around to stand closer to the recliner. Every twitch was critical and could be misinterpreted. “Hi.”
Mimi’s dark eyes penetrated, just like Tillman’s. “Dad said you gave me CPR.” Her voice sounded rough, hoarse.
Tawny nodded at the bruising. “I’m sorry I hurt your chest.”
She rubbed her neck. “My throat’s sore, too, from the tube.”
“I was intubated once. Felt like someone jammed a wire brush down my throat.” Tawny offered a small smile. “Ice cream helps.”
Mimi lifted one slender shoulder.
Long seconds ticked by in silence. Tawny had run out of conversation. Finally, she said, “Well, I better go.”
“No…stay.” Mimi gestured toward the bed. “You can sit there.”
“OK.” She perched on the edge of the mattress. What did Mimi want? Tawny couldn’t help this troubled young girl. She wasn’t a psychiatrist or a counselor.
Mimi asked, “Remember last year when Dad invited you to dinner at the house?”
“I sure do.”
“What’d you think of us?”
Tillman’s children asked the toughest questions. “I thought you all seemed like you were hurting and I felt bad.”
An unreadable expression came into Mimi’s eyes. “Steve was there, and Kemp.”
Tawny had almost forgotten Tillman’s partners had been at the dinner, too, because she’d been so preoccupied with her own awkwardness and uncertainty.
Tillman had introduced her to everyone as his new investigator. She felt like an imposter with an overrated job title that she couldn’t live up to. Between her dyslexia and lack of education, she’d been sure the demanding lawyer would fire her at any moment. But she desperately needed work and had resolved to do the best she could. Somehow, her performance had convinced Tillman to keep her on.
Mimi’s voice interrupted the memories. “My brother and sister and I talked about you afterward. We thought you were nice.”
Tawny swallowed hard. “That means a lot.”
“Dad never brought new employees home for dinner. We figured you were special.”
Special? Tawny shifted on the bed. Back then, Tillman hadn’t given the slightest hint. At that point, she still disliked him and only accepted his invitation because she felt obligated. Had his children picked up on clues she’d missed?
“Mimi, it’s important you know I didn’t break up your parents’ marriage. They were already getting divorced before I met your dad.”
“I know that.” Disdain colored her tone. “Stuff has always been bad between them, for as long as I can remember. The divorce was inevitable.” She freed the IV line tangled around her ankle. “About a month ago, Dad called us all down to his suite. Told us you and he were together.”
Tawny would have loved to hear Tillman tap-dance through that conversation. “Before then, there was nothing going on between us. Honestly.”
Mimi shrugged. “I don’t care.” She looped the IV line between her fingers. “Anyway, we were glad.”
Tawny blurted, “You were?” Damn, she needed to control herself better, especially with this fragile girl.
An unexpected laugh, immediately followed by a groan of pain. “Ow, that hurt.” She shifted and tucked a bare foot under her thin thigh. “The look on your face…Dad says you can’t hide anything. It’s painted all over you like a mural.”
A blush heated Tawny’s neck. “It’s a problem I have. Pretty embarrassing.”
Mimi tilted her head to the side. “It’s nice. I mean, you’re real, you’re not pretending. You’re not a phony hypocrite like Mom.”
Uh-oh. Tawny didn’t want to talk about the resentful, jealous Rochelle. Change the subject, fast.
Maybe a broken heart had prompted the suicide attempt. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
Mimi’s expression chilled. “Waste of my time. Boys at school are immature. They only care about sports, beer, and weed.”
“I get that,” Tawny said. “The guys I dated in high school were pretty lame. My husband was fifteen years older than me.”
Mimi’s brows lifted and she leaned forward. “Really?”
“Um-huh. He’d been in the Army during the Vietnam War. He told me combat makes you grow up, whether you want to or not. He knew what he wanted. We valued the same things. That was more important than the age difference.”
She pondered. “Fifteen years older? Were your parents mad?”
Tawny smiled at the recollection. “They weren’t too happy at first but Dwight grew on them. He was a good husband and father.”
Mimi finger-combed long curls, then twirled the ends. “Age is just a number. I’m more like thirty in my mind. That’s how old Sylvia Plath was when she killed herself.”
Who was Mimi talking about? “Is Sylvia a friend of yours?”
The girl gave Tawny a strange look and didn’t answer for a long time. “I guess you could say that.”
“I’m sorry your friend died. But, Mimi, life won’t always be like it is right now. Things change. What you’re going through won’t last forever.”
Mimi’s expression went flat again. She rose and stalked past Tawny, pulling the IV pole. “I have to go to the bathroom.” The restroom door banged shut.
Uh-oh. Should have just listened. Tawny prayed she hadn’t upset the girl more.
After five minutes, Mimi still hadn’t come out. Tawny tapped lightly on the door. “Do you need anything?”
“No.” The word snapped like a whip.
“Should I call the nurse?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” Polite but forced.
“OK, um, I’ll go and let you rest.”
“Bye.”
Tawny left, stopping at the desk to ask the nurse to check on Mimi. Damn, she hoped she hadn’t said the wrong thing.
Outside the locked unit, she walked the hospital corridors, looking for Tillman, glancing through open doors. Where could he have gone? She checked the coffee shop and waiting areas but found no sign of him.
Outside on the street, his Mercedes still sat parked beside the baseball field. Empty.
Finally she texted him, Where R U?
****
Kemp Withers lay back in the pillowy recliner as the chemo cocktail burned into his veins. The chair in the hospital’s infusion center should have been as comfortable as a cloud stuffed with goose down. But since the cancer had metastasized into his bones, pain never ceased.
He opened his
eyes to see his law partner sitting in a chair pulled close, lanky legs crossed ankle to knee. “Thanks for coming, Tillman.”
His friend nodded. “The loan funded on Thursday. Money went into your account yesterday.”
Kemp sighed. Good, the last matter wrapped up—the sale of his interest in their downtown office building and land. “I appreciate you buying me out. You could have just waited until I croaked and picked up my share out of the estate at a fire sale price.”
Tillman frowned. “You know I’d never do that to you and Gloria.”
Yeah, Kemp knew. That’s why he’d gone into partnership with the much younger hotshot shortly after the kid had gotten out of law school. Between Tillman’s meteoric energy and brilliance, and Kemp’s experience and contacts, they’d built the firm into a legacy to be proud of.
Unlike most young hot runners, Tillman had a solid moral core. A pain in the ass at times, but Kemp could trust him entirely. He’d never felt the same about their third partner, Steve Zepruder. “Does Steve know?”
Tillman shook his head. “I haven’t told anyone. Not even Tawny.”
“Good.” Kemp shifted, trying to relieve the excruciating pressure on his hip. “By the way, she’s a jewel. Don’t let her get away.”
“I don’t intend to.” Tillman leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Kemp, I have to be out of touch for several weeks. Is there anything you need?”
Kemp reached over and gripped his partner’s forearm. In contrast to Tillman’s sinewy muscle, the skeletal appearance of his own hand startled him. “It’s been good, hasn’t it? We built something. We made a difference.” Kemp knew he wouldn’t be here by the time Tillman got back.
“We sure did.” The crack in Tillman’s voice said he knew it, too.
Kemp painfully closed his hand into a fist and brushed Tillman’s jutting jaw with a mock punch. “Always keep your left up, son.”
Tillman rose. He cupped Kemp’s now-bald skull with his big hand and bent low to kiss his forehead. Then he left the infusion room.
****
Without Tillman, Tawny couldn’t access the locked unit again to check on Mimi so she spent the next half hour pacing in the meditation garden. Tillman’s reply text finally chimed on her phone. ER. Fausto in accident.
She had to think for a moment who Fausto was. Then it came to her—Consuelo’s husband. What on earth? She followed signs to Emergency. In the waiting room, she scanned the crowd of parents holding sniffling, whimpering children, people with makeshift bloody bandages, and addicts imploring nurses for pain medicine.
In a far corner, she spied Tillman leaning forward, sitting knee to knee with Consuelo. The housekeeper wiped her nose with a wadded tissue.
Tawny approached slowly, catching his eye. He motioned her toward them.
Consuelo tried to smile through tears. “Señora, lo siento. I am sorry to be trouble.”
Tawny dropped into a chair beside the woman and squeezed her forearm. “What happened?”
Tillman answered, “Before dawn this morning, Fausto was driving on Zimmerman Trail. Evidently a boulder broke loose. Happens a lot during spring thaw. He swerved to avoid it and went over the edge, about forty feet down. At least that’s what the Highway Patrol thinks happened. No witnesses. A couple of rock climbers in the Gregory area finally spotted the wreck an hour ago and called it in.”
Tawny murmured, “We saw that skiploader clearing a boulder off the road when we drove down.”
He nodded. “That’s where it happened. Anyway, they’re doing an MRI right now. He’ll go into surgery once they assess the damage.”
Tawny recognized the anguish in Consuelo’s expression, that paralyzing terror she’d experienced often during the many crises of Dwight’s long illness. The helpless uncertainty, knowing that, even if they survived, life would never be the same. Waiting for the last bitter goodbye she could never prepare herself for.
When she put her arm around Consuelo, the woman leaned into her and sobbed. Tillman looked grim.
A clerk behind a desk called, “Mrs. Calderon?”
Consuelo jumped up, gathering her coat and purse.
Tillman rose and touched her shoulder. “Do you want me to stay?”
The woman shook her head. “Gracias, señor. I am OK. You see to Mimi. I call you later.” Then she hurried to the doors that swung open for her.
Tillman and Tawny moved past the waiting crowd of misery, outside through the hospital’s meditation garden. “How’d it go with Mimi?” he asked.
Tawny bit her lip. “I tried to tell her that life would get better. She shut herself in the bathroom.” Her voice quavered. “I hope I didn’t make things worse.”
He put his arm around her shoulder. “You saved her life. That’s everything.”
She knew he meant to reassure her but doubt still plagued her. “By the way, who’s Sylvia Plath?”
He frowned. “The poet who stuck her head in the oven? What made you ask that?”
“Mimi mentioned her. I figured she must have been a friend.”
Tillman grunted. “Not likely. She died back in the Sixties before I was born. The Bell Jar was required reading when I was in high school. Mimi’s probably read her books, too.”
“Well, that makes me feel even stupider. In my dumbbell English classes, we never tackled anything more advanced than ‘See Spot run.’”
He pondered a few seconds. “I’ll mention it to her shrink. Maybe Mimi sees that whack job Sylvia Plath as a role model, made her think suicide was a glamorous, romantic way to go.”
They crossed the street and climbed several steps to the stadium entrance gates, where a life-size statue of a baseball player crouched. Behind the statue, donor plaques filled a wall.
Tillman flicked fingers at one plaque. Tawny squinted, struggling to read the words without her glasses. She made out a date thirteen years earlier and the inscription: In honor of Judah Rosenbaum’s birth.
“The day Judah was born, I made a donation to rebuilding this field. It’s called Dehler Park now. Judah was still in the nursery at Deaconess across the street and already I’m planning to teach him how to catch and pitch and field.” He grimaced. “He hates sports.”
He wandered through the entrance gate onto the baseball diamond. Tawny followed but lagged back, sensing his need for space.
A bat and ball lay forgotten near home plate. He picked up the bat and took a couple of warm-up swings. Then he stooped for the ball, his big hand almost swallowing it. He tossed it in the air and swung the bat.
A crack sounded, sharp and hard. Tawny watched the ball arc high into the sky, sailing across left field like a cowhide-covered bullet. She thought it would clear the fence, but it slammed into the top crossbar of the chain link and bounced to the ground.
Tillman tossed the bat over his shoulder. “Guess Barry Bonds doesn’t have to lose sleep over me breaking his record.”
He sat on a bench, knees spread wide, head lolled back, staring at the sky. Tawny stood beside him and pulled his face against her breast. They stayed there for a long time, as she ran fingers through his springy curls.
Regret welled in her for her angry outburst earlier. He was manipulative but she understood his desperation for his children. “I’m sorry, about before. I’m really scared, Tillman. I feel like you’re throwing me in the deep end of pool and I can’t swim. Every time I try to climb out, you throw me back in.”
He faced her with a wry smile. “I want my kids to be around you. They need your good influence. God knows, their own parents are lousy examples.”
“I don’t want to be a wedge between them and Rochelle.”
“She’s the one driving the wedge.” He shook his head. “But now you’re going to think I’m an even bigger asshole.”
Uh-oh, she thought, but forced a joke: “I don’t know if that’s possible. You’ve already pushed the limits.”
He rolled his eyes and continued, “Chell and I have to take Mimi to suicide camp tomorrow. Consuel
o was going to stay at the house with Arielle and Judah. But with Fausto hurt, she can’t take care of the kids…”
Tawny stared up at the marshmallow cumulous clouds against the blue sky. She finished his sentence: “And you want me to stay with them.” Dammit.
“I’ll pay you, twenty-four-seven.”
She rotated her neck, trying to release the tension, but gave up. “It’s not about money.”
“I know.” Those dark, piercing eyes. “There isn’t anyone else I’d trust with my children.”
She sank to the bench beside him, tugging on her braid. “You know I won’t leave you in the lurch in the middle of a crisis but, holy crap, Tillman.”
His muscles stiffened against her arm. “What Chell said to you this morning…I wanted to knock her across the room.”
Tawny shrugged. Compared to Mimi’s suffering and the agony Consuelo and Fausto were going through, Rochelle’s snarky insult had paled to insignificance. “In case you were wondering, I wasn’t named after a pole dancer.”
His mouth soured. “What is wrong with that woman?”
Tawny wanted to avoid the subject of his ex. “When I was born, I already had a headful of reddish hair. My dad said I looked like a tawny little lion cub. The name stuck.”
Tillman’s arm came around her shoulders. They sat close, both staring up at the shift of billowing clouds. Finally, he said, “You’re an incredibly understanding woman. And this is a helluva situation I’ve dragged you into.”
She rubbed her palm over his taut thigh. “Mimi needs help. Give this camp a chance to work. Please don’t go into it with your mind already made up that it’s a bunch of crap.”
He fingered her braid. “OK, Pollyanna.”
Did she believe him? No. He was too cynical to hope for any good. But at least he’d agreed, something he never would have done a few months ago. Maybe she had influenced him a little bit.
“Let’s go,” he said, rising. “I need to pick up Judah’s bar mitzvah gift. It just came in at the Electronics Emporium.”
Tawny tried to visualize Tillman at thirteen, using Judah’s appearance as a model. But she couldn’t make the vast leap between the pudgy son with the shaved head and oversized white glasses to the lanky, long-legged, hard-eyed father walking beside her. “What’s going to happen with the bar mitzvah?”
