I heard her pain and swallowed my reluctance. “Sure. I’ve had some cancellations because of all the snow, so I could see you at 1:00 this afternoon.”
§ § §
I’d always thought of Allie as attractive. She’s petite, with thick wavy blonde hair and laugh lines that crinkle when she smiles. But today she was a wreck. Her face was splotchy, her eyes were red, and her limp hair badly needed a shampoo.
She collapsed into a slump on my couch. “My brother keeps telling me I should be over it by now,” she said, “but I don’t know how to do that.” Her face contorted in an attempt to control her emotions, but she lost the struggle, breaking down into heavy sobs.
“It takes time,” I said passing her a box of Kleenex. “And the amount of time is different from one person to another.”
Allie wiped her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath and continued. “Mom was in her eighties, and sick, so I guess I should have been prepared to lose her. But I wasn’t. I miss her every day. I cry. I can’t sleep. I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. My friends don’t understand why I’m having such a hard time. They tell me it was Mom’s time to go. They say it’s good she’s not suffering anymore. They try to cheer me up by inviting me out. But I don’t want to go. I’m not interested in doing things just to help me forget Mom.”
“Of course you don’t want to forget her,” I said. “Can you tell me about some of the good times you and your mom had together?”
Allie brightened as she talked about her mother who was a teacher, a loving grandmother to Allie’s three children, and a valued volunteer at the local historical library before Alzheimer’s stole away her mind. “It was painful to watch her fading away, but even in these last few years when she mostly didn’t recognize me, I felt her spirit connecting with me at some deep level. You must know what I mean from when you visit your grandmother.”
“I do,” I said, thinking of how I cherish my time with Gramma even now that so much of her is gone.
Allie’s face darkened. “But I don’t think the doctors and nurses at the hospital understand that,” she said. “They think a person whose mind is gone is a useless person who doesn’t deserve to live.” Her voice was angry, her eyes hard. “I don’t think it was Mom’s time to go. She was getting better with the antibiotics. Then all of a sudden she was dead. I think someone gave her something that killed her.”
I kept my face and voice impassive. “What makes you think that?” I asked.
She gave me a withering look. “It was pretty obvious that some of the nurses there thought I should let Mom die. They kept asking me if I was sure I wanted such aggressive treatment for pneumonia, given that Mom has Alzheimer’s. They said she might be suffering. They’d ask if Mom had ever said what she’d want in this situation.”
“But she was continuing to get the antibiotics?” I asked.
“I think she was,” Allie said. “At least they said she was. But I think someone put something else into her IV.” Her face quivered. “I wasn’t even with her when she died. The hospital called me in the middle of the night and said she had passed. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Have you talked to her doctor about your suspicions?” I asked, thinking that the physician might help her accept the rapid deadly course pneumonia can take in a frail elderly woman.
“Yes, but it doesn’t go anywhere. He pretends to listen, but I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m just a hysterical woman who can’t face reality.”
I thought to myself that he might think that. Anger and blame so often accompany grief. And he might well believe that a woman in her eighties who doesn’t recognize family members isn’t a good candidate for life-prolonging measures. It’s possible that he discussed that with Allie before Charlene died, but once she was gone, he’d be unlikely to have that conversation.
But the hospital couldn’t ignore her so easily. “How about the patient advocate at the hospital?” I asked.
“I did talk to the advocate several times. And I filed a written complaint. But she won’t tell me anything except that they’re investigating. What I think is that one of Mom’s nurses did it. I suspect that woman who disappeared in the mountains last month—Sabrina Larson. She was Mom’s nurse some of the time in ICU and she was one of the ones who questioned me about the antibiotics. After Mom died, I asked Ms. Larson a lot of questions. She acted anxious and defensive. Denied trying to influence me about the antibiotics. I think the hospital administration did investigate and made an accusation against her. I bet she disappeared or committed suicide rather than face it. She couldn’t stand the shame.”
I struggled mightily not to show any reaction to Allie’s accusations of Sabrina. My involvement with Sabrina’s disappearance had no place in this therapy session. But I was shaken and shocked. Could Sabrina have been a suspect in a hospital investigation? Would she have run away because of it? I wanted to know more. “So no one at the hospital has told you anything about their investigation?” I asked.
“Of course the hospital won’t tell me anything. They’re covering their butts. Last week I talked to a lawyer about suing them. I’m not going to stand back and do nothing while elderly patients are being quietly euthanized. I can’t bring Mom back, but maybe I can save someone else—it might be your grandmother.”
At this point I felt we had gone as far with her suspicions as was likely to be helpful—especially if she was planning legal action. I had been careful to give Allie the opportunity to express her anger without any judgment from me. Now what she and I needed was time to explore her special relationship with her mother, so I could help her accept her mother’s death. That would be her first step toward moving on to remembering her mother while living in a world without her.
“I can’t help you with what might have gone on at the hospital,” I said. “I’ll leave that part to you and your lawyer. But we can work on your grieving process and ways of getting through the holidays if you’d like to do that.”
She agreed, so we spent the rest of our time talking about the ups and downs of her relationship with her mother over the years. Then we set up a series of future appointments and I left her with a piece of homework. “Finding a way to acknowledge and remember your mother on her birthday and special holidays like Christmas can help you keep a positive connection with her on those days. This week try visiting a special place that you shared with her, going to her gravesite, or making a gift to an organization or charity that was important to her.”
§ § §
After Allie left, I got myself a cup of tea, sat down, and thought about her accusations against Sabrina. From what the Moxie women had told me about Sabrina—that she was a loving caregiver who liked helping and comforting those in need, that she believed that what you put out comes back to you—she didn’t sound like the Dr. Kevorkian type. But people are complex. And I’d never even met Sabrina.
I decided I should pursue these accusations to find out more about Sabrina. But how? The hospital patient advocate wasn’t going to violate confidentiality by discussing Allie’s complaint or any subsequent investigation with me. Mary Ellen at Glenwood Gardens wouldn’t be a good source either. She had pretty much dismissed Allie’s suspicions of the hospital as a symptom of unresolved grief.
Then I thought of Lark, a Moxie member, Sabrina’s good friend, and a fellow nurse who worked with her at the hospital. I called her on her cell to see if we could meet. Conveniently, she said she’d be off at 3:00. I live right at the base of the canyon, so she’d basically be passing my house on her way home to Nederland. It only took a little arm twisting to get her to agree to stop by for a short talk. I hustled home, made coffee and tea and got out some cookies. One of Gramma’s lasting legacies will be, “when you want a favor, feed them.”
Despite the weather, Lark showed up wearing green scrubs and New Balance walking shoes, with only a light down parka for warmth. No hat over her long blonde hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Mountain people are hardy.
<
br /> We sat at my kitchen table with our mugs—coffee for her and tea for me—and a plate of ginger cookies perfect for dunking. “This is awkward,” I said. “But I’ve promised to do what I can to find out what happened to Sabrina, and now I have a question you’re the only one I can think of who might be able to answer.”
“Sure,” she said, her gaze direct and open. “Anything for Sabrina. Ask whatever you want. I’ll do my best to answer.”
Before I could reply, my phone rang. Caller ID said “Brandi.” I let it go to voicemail and turned off the phone.
“Sorry for the interruption,” I said. “Anyway, the question I need to ask you is, do you know how Sabrina feels about euthanasia?”
Lark stared at me as though I had slapped her. “Why do you ask that?” she gasped.
I couched my information carefully so as not to violate Allie’s confidentiality. But I put my question out there. Time was short and I needed answers. “Someone whose relative recently died at our hospital believes that a nurse might have been involved in the death—and that nurse might have been Sabrina. If it’s true, it could be a reason Sabrina disappeared.”
Lark shook her head. “Oh, I know that woman. She’s the one whose mother in end-stage dementia came in with pneumonia. The mother had no idea what was going on, but the daughter wanted everything done. Mom got IV antibiotics, but she died anyway. The daughter’s been all over the hospital blaming the nurses.”
I didn’t acknowledge the accuracy of her description. “Was Sabrina that patient’s nurse?”
“That patient was in ICU for a couple of weeks before she died. All of us in ICU took care of her.”
“Did Sabrina think the patient shouldn’t be getting the antibiotics?”
Lark threw up her hands. “Look,” she said. “There are worse things than death. End-stage dementia is one of them. Most nurses don’t believe a person in end-stage dementia who has no quality of life should be treated with antibiotics. Most of those patients can’t recognize family members and friends, can’t tell anyone what they need, and can’t swallow solid food. They’re incontinent, and often wheelchair or bed bound and prone to bedsores and infections.”
I had asked Allie’s question for her and for myself. Now I paused, thinking about Gramma and what I would do if she ended up in that situation. “Is that because the nurses think those patients’ lives aren’t worth saving?”
Lark sighed. “Mostly it’s because demented patients don’t understand why they are being poked and prodded or hooked up to beeping machines. Sometimes they fight the IVs and have to be tied down to keep them in. Sometimes they wind up on a ventilator with an endotracheal tube down their throat. Sometimes the pain caused by the treatment is worse than the pain of the illness. We don’t want to be doing that to them.”
“But it’s your job, so you have to do it, no matter how you feel?”
Lark nodded. “Exactly. We don’t have a choice. If the physician orders the treatment, we have to provide it. But the antibiotics are really prolonging the death rather than prolonging the life. Even if we cure the pneumonia, most of these patients will have another episode soon and be back in the hospital where we have to torture them again.”
“I can see where that would be uncomfortable for nurses,” I said. ‘Why do physicians order antibiotics for these patients?”
She grimaced. “Most people don’t have advance directives. Most families don’t understand that a long life isn’t necessarily a good life. Some of these family members believe in aggressive care always, and will fight ferociously to get the patient every possible intervention, even when there’s no quality of life. The physician can advise comfort measures only, but it’s not the physician’s choice.” She looked at her watch. “I really need to get going.”
“Sure,” I said. “I appreciate your answering my questions. Just one more thing. Do you think there’s any chance Sabrina might have gotten fed up and taken action to put the patient out of her misery?”
Lark gave me a stony look. “Of course not,” said. “Sabrina’s a licensed nurse. She could have her license revoked for even neglecting a patient. As far as willfully endangering a patient’s health in a way that resulted in death, she could go to jail. That’s not Sabrina.”
Chapter 24
I was in the kitchen still trying to decide how I felt about Lark’s critique of the medical treatment of Alzheimer’s patients when I heard loud knocking on my front door. Figuring Lark had forgotten something, I ran in to the living room and pulled the door open without looking out to see who was there.
My heart jumped into my throat when I saw Brandi and Erik Vaughn. I would have guessed he had a gun in her back, except he was in front of her. And they were both smiling.
I tried to slam the door in their faces and lock it so they couldn’t get in. But Erik was too fast for me. He stuck his foot in the doorway so I couldn’t shut it. Then he pushed the door open and walked in. Brandi followed. Why would she be with him after I’d told her how dangerous he is? “I called you six times,” she said. “But you never picked up.”
“Oops, my phone’s turned off,” I said. I realized it was still sitting on my kitchen table and headed out to get it. But Erik went around me and blocked my way.
“Hey, Cleo. Good to see you,” he said, coming toward me grinning, his arms stretched out for a hug.
I backed off like I’d seen a snake. Which I had. A snake in the grass. The usual Erik, all glib and charming on the outside, but evil and manipulative on the inside.
Why would he be so friendly when the last thing he said to me last summer was that he’d come back and make me pay for exposing his scams? He must want something. But what?
I gave him my fiercest glare. “I know it’s too much to expect that you came back to Boulder to make restitution to victims of your herb-growing scam. So, what do you want?”
He grinned. “Whoa! Ease up there lady. Why do you always see the worst in people? Investments go south all the time. That doesn’t make them scams. Investors take risks. That’s life. I don’t owe anyone anything. I came here out of the goodness of my heart to help Brandi find her sister.”
Brandi sat on the couch, uncharacteristically silent, smirking at us like we were a reality show devised for her entertainment.
I took a step toward Erik, shoulders back, spine straight, trying to make myself look bigger. “Do you know where Sabrina is? Did you take her somewhere and do something to her?”
He shook his head slowly like I was a two-year-old throwing a tantrum. “There you are with the negative again. No, I didn’t take her somewhere. I haven’t seen her since last summer. I haven’t even been in Boulder since last summer.”
“Why would I believe that?” I folded my arms across my chest. “As I recall, you have very little regard for the truth.”
“Believe what you want. I am telling you the truth.” His cold eyes belied the innocent expression on his face.
“Brandi said you called her when Sabrina was going up to the mountains with her friends and you said you had a surprise for Sabrina, so she told you where to find her.”
Brandi squirmed in her seat and looked down at the floor.
Erik laughed. “I didn’t call Brandi. I haven’t talked to Brandi since Sabrina broke up with me last summer,” he said.
Omigod! Who do I believe? Is anyone telling the truth here? They both strike me as antisocial personalities—impulsive, manipulative, and lacking concern or remorse for people they mistreat. Erik is an accomplished scammer who has been lying to anyone and everyone since he learned to talk. Brandi is impulsive and irresponsible, but I don’t have direct experience of her lying. If I have to choose one of them to believe, I’ll choose Brandi.
I turned to face her. “Brandi, why is Erik saying he didn’t call you about Sabrina?” I asked.
She looked up at me, rolling her eyes. “Because he didn’t call me.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say “duh.”
“I made up the phone
call. Okay? Everyone was so sure Sabrina was dead. But I knew she was still alive. I knew she’d be back. But no one would listen to me.” She shrugged with a cocky little tilt of her head. “I didn’t want Ian to think she was dead. I made up the phone call to help him believe Sabrina could still be alive.”
“You say you knew she was still alive.” I speak slowly and deliberately, as though that will eke the truth out of Brandi. “How did you know?”
Brandi crossed her arms and looked away. “I just knew,” she told the wall. “I felt it. Even now, I can feel her presence out there in the world. I just don’t know exactly where.”
I could see that line of inquiry was going nowhere, so I turned back to Erik. “If you didn’t call Brandi and you haven’t seen Sabrina, what do you know about the situation? In fact, how did you even know she’s missing?”
“I have a Google alert set up for my name,” he said. “It notifies me when my name appears somewhere on the web. Last week it took me to Brandi’s YouTube video.”
“What YouTube video?” I asked.
“After I put Sabrina up on the missing persons’ website, I made a YouTube video,” Brandi jumped up and went to my computer in the far corner of the living room. “Boot up your computer. I’ll show you.”
I sat at my desk and they stood behind me as we watched the two-minute video. Brandi, wearing a clingy white sweater, faced the camera holding a picture of Sabrina. “I need your help,” she said in a teary voice. “My sweet sister Sabrina has been missing for a month. The police have no leads. I’m pretty sure they think she’s dead. But I believe she’s still alive. I believe she went off with a man named Erik Vaughn. He may be dangerous. My sister is a beautiful, caring person. I need your help to find her. Look carefully at this picture of Sabrina. If you’ve seen her, send me information at the website www.FindSabrinaLarson.com. I’m offering a $5,000 reward for information that leads to finding her. And Sabrina, if you see this, I want you to know that I miss you very much. Please call and let me know you’re okay.”
Lynn Osterkamp - Cleo Sims 03 - Too Many Secrets Page 14
