Angie’s phone buzzed as a text came in. Sweetheart it’s Dad . . . call me ASAP 911. It’s Mom.
Angie’s breath caught and her hand went to her mouth.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Carolyn asked, taking notice of Angie’s distress.
“Hang on, hang on.” Disoriented, Angie dialed her father, her hands shaking violently.
“Daddy? Daddy, what’s going on?” Angie said soon as her father answered.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.” Her father’s breath came in spurts. He was crying, something Angie had never heard him do before.
“Daddy, where’s Mom? What’s happened?” The tremor in Angie’s voice made it hard to get the words out.
“She’s gone, sweetheart,” Gabriel said. “Your mother had a massive stroke this afternoon. She’s gone.”
CHAPTER 6
Kathleen DeRose wasn’t gone, not exactly. Angie was completely shocked at the sight of her mother motionless on her hospital bed, even though she knew that the brain damage from the stroke had been extensive and catastrophic. They had shaved the front of her head and made a hole to alleviate the pressure. A thin plastic tube drained blood from the brain while machines clinked and hummed and breathed for her. Kathleen did not have enough brain function left to breathe without mechanical help.
Her mother’s eyes were perhaps the most disturbing sight of all. They were milky gray, gazing at nothing, vacant. The eyelids fluttered in a reflexive way, as if dust had gotten stuck underneath.
The doctor on call explained the situation as best he could. Other doctors who’d treated Kathleen when she was first admitted would have to fill in details later. Still, a picture formed in Angie’s mind that was devastatingly easy to understand.
Kathleen had suffered a hemorrhagic stroke, the least common but most often fatal of the two types of strokes. An aneurysm had burst, causing blood to spill into places blood didn’t belong. The result was tremendous swelling and pressure that damaged most of the cells and tissue in the brain. The aneurysm could have been related to the lupus, but chances were they would never know.
Angie’s mother was alive, but dead. She had a heartbeat and lung respirations, but it was all because of the machines. The staff at Virginia Hospital Center had been incredibly solicitous, and answered every question Gabriel and Angie could think to ask.
Hours went by. Nothing major happened, because the major thing had already occurred. Angie had nothing to do but wait at her mother’s bedside.
Night turned to day and the doctor who first treated Kathleen finally interrupted the all-night vigil. Gabe and Angie were alone at Kathleen’s bedside. Because of a long-standing feud and an unconventional upbringing, Angie’s family was her father and her mother—no siblings, cousins, aunts, or uncles were in the picture. They’d never been a part of Angie’s life; instead, Walter and Louise Odette had served as honorary aunt and uncle.
The doctor, a thin, kind-eyed man with graying hair, led them to a room where the reality came into sharper, grimmer focus. Kathleen’s heart was failing. They would need to put in a PICC line to give her medicine that would prevent a fatal heart attack.
“But she’s brain dead already,” Angie said.
“Yes, she is—ninety percent, we believe, but technically she’s alive as long as her heart continues to beat.”
“Ninety percent?” Gabriel said, hope coming to his voice.
“Well, it could be closer to a hundred percent,” the doctor said, “but to test we’d have to put in the PICC line. However, I’ve read her advance directive, and this is an invasive procedure.”
Angie flashed back to the lunch that had foreshadowed this tragedy. Hadn’t her mother used this exact scenario?
Her father was crying again. “She doesn’t want any extraordinary measures,” he said, choking back tears. “Ninety percent or one hundred, what’s the difference? We have to let her go.”
The doctor’s empathic look made it clear he concurred.
They had to wait for the respiratory team to arrive before any of the machines keeping Kathleen alive could be disconnected. In those tense, tear-filled hours, Angie and her dad passed the time singing some of Kathleen’s favorite songs to her. Paul Simon, James Taylor, Cat Stevens, The Band. Neither Angie nor her father were decent singers, but the music came from the heart and the performance quality didn’t much matter.
Angie went into “handle it” mode. She started to make calls, arrangements, dealing with logistics of dying. She always operated at a higher level during a crisis. This fit that category. She was not frozen by grief, but propelled by purpose. She wrote an obituary while her mother’s heart continued to beat without that PICC line in place. The funeral home offered sympathy, but ended the call by asking her to phone back when her mother “officially expired.”
“Officially expired?” she repeated for her father’s benefit. “What do they think, Mom’s a carton of milk?”
In between, Angie spent a lot of time talking to her mom, telling her all the things she loved about her, the memories she’d always cherish. She sat on an uncomfortable chair, drinking coffee, holding her mother’s hand, talking like a daughter who never had enough time to properly catch up on all she had to say.
She spent some time going over Nadine’s case. When Angie left Carolyn’s house, she’d called another private investigator, Michael Webb, to come in and continue the hunt with Bao. Webb ran a bouncy house business and did PI work on the side as part of Angie’s & Associates contingent.
She was in the middle of explaining her strategy for locating the missing girl when the respiratory team arrived.
Angie went to the waiting room to get her father, who had fallen asleep on a thin-cushioned couch that was too small for his tall frame. “It’s time to let Mom go.” She had nothing more to handle, she realized, and the tears came.
CHAPTER 7
Exhibit D: Excerpts from the journal of Nadine Jessup, pages 7-12
Let’s start here. This is so screwed up! Date unknown. Place unknown. All I have to get down my thoughts is my journal and a pen I brought from home. My phone and wallet are gone and I’m totally freaking out. When I finally woke up, I felt sick, not like I was going to puke or anything, just really weird. My head was fuzzy and it was hard for me to stand. I don’t drink much so I guess I took too many swigs of that vodka in Ricardo’s flask. I don’t even know how to feel except for stupid. I thought this was a good idea, but now I’m not so sure. Where am I? Who am I with? And I don’t have a phone or my wallet!! I’m such a moron (lol just ask my dad).
I needed to get my stuff back, so I walked to the door, more like stumbled, turned the knob, but it’s locked! The door is effin’ locked! Now I’m really freaking out so I turned the handle some more, but it doesn’t budge. So I banged on the door really hard and nobody answered and then I think I screamed, but nobody came. My mouth felt funny. My tongue was like a sponge sucking up every bit of water. And the room was spinning around so fast I couldn’t stand anymore. I went to the futon and just fell down and the next thing I knew my eyes were closed and when I opened them again I saw Ricardo hovering over me.
Ricardo stared at me and for some reason I wasn’t scared or grossed out. I liked how he’s looking at me, like he’s really seeing me. Somebody is finally seeing me! His eyes are beautiful, big and brown, and his smile is something you can’t imagine. Like it warms you from the inside. He’s not touching me or doing anything creepy, he’s just kneeling on the floor beside the futon, hanging out, watching over me like he’s my protector or something. He’s wearing jeans and a tank top white undershirt and you just know he works out. His body is really amazing. Strong arms with really well defined muscles.
I’ve always wanted to be someone’s special somebody. There was this boy at school, I’m not naming names, but I had a wicked crush on him for so long and I smiled so hard every time we talked my mouth hurt. But nothing ever happened between us because he already had a girlfrien
d, or I think he did. Either way I wasn’t going to say anything because I didn’t want to get rejected. But I loved that feeling of a guy caring for me even if it was only in my imagination. Why can’t I have a real boyfriend? Somebody who really cares about me IRL? Ya know . . . in real life. I always wondered what it would feel like and I can see it in Ricardo’s eyes.
My phone. This is my biggest worry. I asked Ricardo about it and he tells me he doesn’t know anything about it. He tried to help me find it. We looked all over the room. Maybe I dropped it somewhere because I was drinking. I try to remember. Did I have it in my hand when we were going into the apartment? Ricardo thinks I did. Or more specifically he thinks I had them both in my hand when I got out of the car. That’s what he remembers anyway. It’s possible because I was looking at my phone. Maybe I wanted my wallet for something. I don’t remember. But Ricardo’s so certain of it that now I’m certain of it.
I feel sick because I must have dropped it or something and I remember a little bit about the neighborhood. It’s a pretty rundown part of a city. God, which one? Where the hell am I? Right?! I ask Ricardo and he says we’re near Baltimore, that’s where the studio is, he tells me. Then I remembered the photo shoot (How did I forget? How much did I drink?) and suddenly I’m worried about something completely different. Ricardo tells me that Stephen Macan had to go home. Probably to give his daughter the present I told him to buy, probably to have cake and ice cream with his perfect family, and then he’ll post pictures on Facebook or Instagram, which is something my father would never do for me. Now I’ve really screwed up. I’m always screwing things up. The photo shoot got cancelled because I got too drunk.
Get it together Nadine! I’m more worried about upsetting Stephen Macan than I am about my damn wallet and phone and Ricardo feels terrible about both things. He’s also being so super sweet to me. I told him I didn’t feel that great and right away he got me a glass of water. I asked him how long I’d been asleep and he said all night! ALL NIGHT! I guess I really did drink too much.
I don’t know if we’re doing the photo shoot or not anymore. I’m not sure I even care. I’ve spent the whole day talking to Ricardo. He’s AMAZING! Really amazing. He’s older. Twenty-three I think, but he thinks I’m almost nineteen and that’s not too big a difference. That’s totally normal. We could go out together and nobody would think anything of it. Not like he’s sixty and I’m twenty-five or something. To prove my point we did go out. Ricardo took me to this restaurant that serves Mexican food, but it wasn’t like the Mexican restaurants near my house. This was a lot, I dunno—more authentic, I guess. Everyone spoke Spanish and they talked really fast. Ricardo did, too, but it was really hot to hear him talking Spanish. Anyway, he ordered me this burrito thing and it was great, but I was soooooo hungry I would have eaten the aluminum it was wrapped in. I drank a big glass of water and I was starting to feel a whole lot better, a lot more like myself. But I still didn’t have my cell phone or wallet. I had no money and maybe that’s why my stomach was in knots. Or maybe it was Ricardo who kept looking at me and smiling at me but in the sweetest way imaginable.
He asked me about my mom and dad. I’m thinking “you don’t want to hear about them,” but really I was worried if I talked about home I might cry. Guess what? I talked about home and I cried. Not the ugly cry, but I definitely needed some napkins and people looked at me and I got really embarrassed. And all I could think is “oh my God, I’m such a loser.” But you know who didn’t care? Ricardo, that’s who. He moved his chair closer to mine and brushed a strand of hair off my face. Then he wiped away one of my tears with his finger and told me it was ok to cry. He didn’t have a good relationship with his parents either, he said, and it made him really sad. He understood.
I asked him if he thought I was stupid to run away from home. He said no, they didn’t understand me or appreciate me and you know, he’s right. They didn’t. I feel badly leaving my friends, but they’ll get over it or maybe they’ll see me in the movies! Ha! That’ll be so awesome.
It still can happen, too. Ricardo told me that I’m really special. There have been a lot of girls who have had photo shoots at the studio and there’s something unique about me. Me! Ricardo told me that’s what Stephen Macan said after I fell asleep (Ha, fell asleep, lol. Passed out is more like it). Anyway, Ricardo said he’s been instructed to look after me because I guess I’m really important to their business. I’m going to make them all a lot of money! Can you believe that? The most I ever made was a few hundred dollars working as a babysitter.
Ricardo touched my hair again and he didn’t have to because I wasn’t crying and it wasn’t in my face. But I liked it. And I wanted him to do it again, but he didn’t. He did say I should get used to the idea of being famous and that I shouldn’t be Nadine anymore. It’s not a famous name. Can you think of one really famous Nadine? I can’t. He called me Jessica. I liked it. There are a lot of famous Jessicas out there.
CHAPTER 8
The home of Angie’s parents (now just her dad) in Arlington was crammed wall-to-wall with mourners who represented the varied interests and activities of Kathleen DeRose. It was difficult to move around among so many bodies, so Angie stayed rooted in one spot. People found her, one after the other, each offering their sincere condolences. There were people from the Lupus Foundation, of course, and the Arlington County Fair, as well as kids Angie’s mom had taught to swim, and the parents who had driven them to the service and the reception.
Angie wore a loose-fitting black dress, accented by an understated strand of pearls. She’d tried to cover her pale and waxy complexion with a generous application of makeup. She had washed her hair, but didn’t give it the treatment to make it look pretty. It didn’t feel appropriate.
She felt strangely detached from the moment, an observer more than a participant in both her mother’s memorial service and this reception. She would hug whomever approached her, thank them for their support and condolences, and assure them she was doing all right, hanging in there best she could, but she was numb, and had been since the hospital.
The reception, especially, was too much for her to process. Too many bodies, too much noise. She wanted to be alone with her father, to grieve privately—but right now, it was about her mother, not Angie. Kathleen needed to be celebrated, appreciated, and memorialized.
The service was lovely, or so people said. Angie had delivered a eulogy, one of three presented to a room of more than five hundred mourners who filled the church and spilled out into the hall. She’d talked about her mother’s unconditional love and support, her passion for helping others, her loyalty to causes she championed. Kathleen DeRose was, in Angie’s words, a roadmap to a life well lived. “Be kind, love fully, and embrace the moments as they come.”
Angie felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. Walter Odette was standing behind her, smiling at her. He had broad shoulders and a square-shaped head topped by a thin covering of hair that still had plenty of brown. At five-foot-nine, Walter was taller than Angie by only a few inches, but his barrel chest made him an imposing figure at any height. He had the kind of eyes that sparkled and laughed even when he wasn’t telling jokes as old he was.
Today the glimmer was gone. He smiled, but his teeth were yellowing, and Angie took note of how much older he looked. He had more creases on his face than she remembered. Everyone looked older to her, including her father and her mother’s friends. Even her own friends looked older. In this regard, Kathleen’s funeral was a celebration of her life and a wake-up call to the living that death was coming for them all.
“How you holding up, kiddo?” Walter asked.
Kiddo. Angie liked that he still saw her as the little girl who grew up calling him Uncle Walt. She returned a wan smile and gave his hand a squeeze.
“Hanging in,” she said. “You?”
“Numb,” Walter said, his voice warm but a bit more gravelly, a bit tired.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Louise has been crying
her eyes out for days. She can’t believe your mom is gone.”
Angie looked across the room and saw Walter’s wife of forty years at the buffet table talking with a group of Kathleen’s friends. Over the years, they had become Louise’s friends as well. They all sort of looked alike—women in their sixties, early seventies, put together, hair kept short but styled, bodies kept in decent shape by frequent visits to the health club, friendships maintained through book, movie, and bridge clubs, as well as various charitable endeavors.
“I haven’t been able to get over to her,” Angie said. “I actually haven’t left this spot.”
“I know you’ve heard it a million times,” Walter said, looking Angie in the eyes. “But if there’s anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here for you.”
“You always have been, Uncle Walt.”
They hugged as a familiar voice spoke. “Any room for me in there?”
Angie’s face lit up. She broke from Walter’s warm embrace to give her good friend Madeline a hug.
“Hey! I’ve been looking for you,” Angie said, her smile genuine and bigger than any she had made all day. Tears stung her eyes. She hadn’t realized the importance of having her friends there until they began to arrive. Paying their respects were a dozen or so people from various facets of her life—some she knew from high school, others from college, a few from the PI biz.
Of all who had come, none was more important to Angie than her dear college friend, Madeline Hartsock.
Back in college, Sarah, Madeline, and Angie had been an inseparable trio—the Three Musketeers some had called them. When Sarah vanished, the tandem of Angie and Madeline led the search for their missing friend. They’d seemed to merge into one over the many months they hung posters, managed the website, fielded leads, and worked with law enforcement, all to no avail.
Forgive Me Page 5
