Self-Defense

by Jonathan Kellerman

  My heart rocked and rolled. “How is she?”

  “Stabilized. She’ll survive.”

  “When did she come in?”

  “Sometime last night. She’s been going in and out of consciousness. Claims she’s never done this before. Has she?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but I’ve only seen her a few times.”

  “Well, we’re putting her on a seventy-two-hour hold—One second!” Then: “You know how those seventy-twos go?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll be seeing one of our staff psychiatrists. You can probably get some kind of temporary privileges—you’re an M.D., right?”

  “Ph.D.”

  “Oh. Then I don’t know. Anyway—”

  “What method did she use?”

  “Gas. Turned on the stove and stuck her head in.”

  “Who found her?”

  “Some guy brought her in. I just came on shift and saw the message in the chart to call you.”

  “Did she take any drugs or alcohol?”

  “According to the chart, she denies any drug use, but we’ll see when the blood work gets back. Does she have a drug history?”

  “Not that I know of, but she has been through some rough times recently.”

  “Uh-huh—hold on. What? Tell them just to wait! . . . Anyway, I have to go now.”

  “I’d like to come over and see her now.”

  “Sure,” he said. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  After I hung up, I realized I had no idea where Woodbridge Hospital was. Obtaining the number from Information, I connected with a bored receptionist, who said, “They call it Woodland Hills, but it’s really Canoga Park. Topanga just north of Victory.”

  I got dressed and drove south on PCH, taking Kanan Dume Road to the 101 Freeway, where I got stuck in a jam. Squeezing out at the next exit, I drove north till I found Victory and followed it ten miles to Topanga Boulevard. The hospital was a three-story brown-brick column that resembled a giant chocolate bar. Small smoked windows, small brass letters, and an illuminated emergency entrance sign bright enough to pierce the morning light.

  Parking was free, in a giant lot. The guard at the door barely glanced up as I passed. I gave the clerk my name and she buzzed me in.

  The place was brimming over with misery, injured and sick people propped up in plastic chairs. Periodic moans soloed above efficient medical chatter. A colostomy reek hung in the air.

  As I passed, someone said, “Doctor?” in a weak, hopeful voice.

  Shapoor was outside a room marked Observation 2, reading a chart. A tall, elegant Indian around thirty, he had wavy black hair, humid eyes, and nicotine breath. His badge said he was a second-year resident. His necktie was hand-painted, and the disks of his stethoscope were gold-plated. I introduced myself. He kept reading.

  “Lucy Lowell,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Pointing to the door.

  “How’s she doing?” I said.

  “We patched her up.”

  “There were wounds?”

  “I was speaking figuratively.” He snapped the chart shut. “She’s fine. We saved her. For the time being.”

  “Has her blood work come back yet?”

  “No narcotics that we pick up.”

  “What are the side effects of the gas?”

  “A very unpleasant headache for the next few days, some general weakness, maybe disorientation, congestion, shortness of breath—it all depends on how much she actually took in. We cleaned her out thoroughly.”

  “Was she conscious when she came in?”

  “Semi. But she keeps going in and out. Typical.”

  “Is the person who brought her in still here?”

  “Don’t know. The psychiatrist on call can fill you in. She won’t be in till later today, but she feels an involuntary hold is definitely called for.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Dr. Embrey. You can leave your card with the front desk or the triage nurse and ask them to give it to her.” Pulling his stethoscope off, he walked to the next door. I pushed Lucy’s open.

  She was in bed, eyes closed, breathing through her mouth, hands flat on her thighs. Her hair had been topknotted with a rubber band. A plastic bag of something clear dripped into her veins; oxygen hissed into her nose from a thin tube that ran from a pressurized tank. A bank of monitors behind the bed beeped and flashed and gurgled, trying to quantify the quality of her life.

  Her vital signs looked good, the blood pressure a little low. Her face was sweaty but her lips were dry.

  I stared down at her, replaying our sessions, wondering if there had been warning signs.

  Of course there’d been, genius. All that shame and rage.

  Confession gone very sour.

  Nothing to indicate she’d go this far, but what the hell did I know about her?

  Out of my hands now. She was in the system, locked up for three days. More, if the psychiatrist convinced a judge she remained a danger to herself.

  A woman psychiatrist. Maybe it was what she needed. God knows I wasn’t her savior.

  She made a deep snoring sound, and her eyes moved under swollen lids.

  More fragile than I’d thought.

  Was her summer as a prostitute the cause or, more likely, a symptom?

  I wondered if everything she’d told me was true.

  For all I knew, her father was really a truck driver from Bell Gardens, no closer to fame than a subscription to People.

  Who’d brought her to the hospital?

  Who’d pulled her head out of the oven?

  Her eyes opened partially. She tried blinking but couldn’t. I moved into her field of vision; at first she didn’t focus. Then I saw her pupils dilate. One hand moved, the fingers stretching toward me. Suddenly, they dropped.

  I took hold of them. Her mouth shifted, struggling for an expression, finally settling on weariness.

  I smiled down at her. She gave a feeble nod. The oxygen tube fell out of her nose, the hiss growing louder as precious gas leaked.

  I replaced it. She licked her lips, and her eyes opened completely.

  Trying to talk, but all that came out were wordless croaks. Tears in her eyes.

  “It’s okay, Lucy.”

  She fell back. Her fingers grew cold and loose.

  For the next twenty minutes, she slept as I held her hand. A nurse came in, checked her, and left, closing the door hard. Lucy woke up with a start, systolic pressure jumping.

  Panic in her eyes.

  “You’re okay, Lucy. You’re in the emergency room at Woodbridge Hospital, and you’re doing fine.”

  She started coughing and couldn’t stop. The oxygen line flew out again. Each spasm lifted her from the mattress, an involuntary calisthenic that tightened her face with pain. She coughed harder and spit up vile-looking gray mucus that I wiped away.

  When the coughing stopped, I put the line back.

  It took a long time for her to catch her breath.

  “What,” she said, very softly and hoarsely, “happen?”

  “You’re in the emergency room. Woodbridge Hospital.”

  Confusion.

  “What’s the last thing you remember, Lucy?”

  She gave a mystified stare. “Sleeping.”

  Her face screwed up and her eyes closed. More pain—or shame? Or both?

  The eyes opened. “Hurts.”

  “What does?”

  “Head.”

  She moaned and wept.

  I checked the contents of her IV bag: glucose and electrolytes, no analgesic. I pressed the nurse call button. A bark came through a wall speaker. “Yes?”

  “Miss Lowell’s in pain. Is there anything she can have?”

  “Hold on.”

  Lucy had another coughing fit and spit up. She stared at me as I wiped her lips.

  “What . . . happened?” She started to shiver and her teeth chattered.

  I put another blanket over her. She said something I couldn’t
make out and I bent down to hear her.

  “Sick?”

  “You’ve had a rough experience.”

  “What?”

  Tears trickled down her cheeks, flowing under the oxygen line and into her mouth. Fear was twisting her face like taffy.

  “Sick?” she repeated.

  I took her hand again. “Lucy, they say you tried to commit suicide.”

  Shock widened her eyes.

  “No!” A whisper, more lip movement than sound. “No!”

  I gave her fingers a soft squeeze and nodded.

  “How?”

  “Gas.”

  “No!”

  Behind her, the monitors jumped. Heart rate up, systolic blood pressure rising. The hand in mine was a sodden claw.

  “No!”

  “It’s okay, Lucy.”

  “No!”

  “I believe you,” I lied. “Try to relax.”

  “Didn’t!”

  “Okay, Lucy.”

  “No!”

  “Okay, just calm down.”

  She shook her head. The oxygen line shot out of her nose like a slingshotted stone. When I tried to replace it, she turned her head away from me, chest heaving, breathing harshly.

  The door opened and the same nurse came in. Young and heavy-faced with chopped hair. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s upset.”

  “What happened to her line?”

  “It came loose. I was just putting it back.”

  “Well, we’d better get it right back.” She took the line from me and tried to insert the nosepiece into Lucy’s nostrils.

  Lucy turned away from her, too.

  The nurse put one hand on her hip and twirled the tube with the other.

  “Now you listen to me,” she said. “We’re busy and we don’t have time for fooling around. Do you want us to run tape all the way around your head to keep the line in? It’ll have to be really tight, and believe me, your headache will get a lot worse. Do you want that?”

  Lucy bit her lip and shook her head.

  “So be still, it’s for your good. We’re just trying to take care of you and fix you all up.”

  Nod.

  The line went back in. “Good girl.” The nurse checked the monitors. “Your pulse is up to ninety-eight. Better relax.”

  No response.

  “Okay?”

  Nod.

  The nurse turned to me. “Are you family?”

  “Her therapist.”

  Quizzical look. “Well, that’s good. Maybe you can get her calm.” She headed for the door.

  “About her pain,” I said.

  “She can’t have anything. Not until we really make sure she’s been cleaned out.”

  Lucy croaked.

  “Sorry, hon, it’s for your own good.” The nurse swung the door open, letting in fluorescence and noise. “Just try to think of something pleasant. And don’t get upset again, it’ll only make your head feel worse.”

  The door closed. I picked up Lucy’s hand again. Lifeless as a glove.

  She said, “I didn’t.”

  I nodded.

  “Really!”

  “I believe you, Lucy.”

  “G’home?”

  “They want to watch you for a while.”

  Her back arched.

  “Please?”

  “It’s not up to me, Lucy.”

  She tried to push herself up from the bed. The line flew out, hissing and coiling on the bedcovers like an angry snake. The monitors were dancing.

  “Listen to me,” I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and easing her down without resistance.

  Again, I replaced the line. She pushed up against me.

  “Take m’home!”

  “I can’t, Lucy. That nurse was no diplomat, but she was right about one thing: You need to relax right now. And to cooperate.”

  Terrified looks, roller-coaster eyes.

  More coughing.

  “Why,” she said, nearly breathless, “can’t . . . home?”

  “Because they think you’re a suicide attempt. They’ve got you on something called a seventy-two-hour hold. That means legally they can keep you here for three days and offer you psychiatric treatment. After that, if you’re no danger to yourself or anyone else, you’ll be free to go.”

  “No!” She moaned and rolled her head from side to side.

  “It’s the law, Lucy. It’s for your own protection.”

  “No!”

  “I’m really sorry you have to go through this, and I want to see you up and around as soon as possible. That’s why you need to cooperate.”

  “You . . . treat?”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. I’m not on the staff here. A psychiatrist named Dr. Embrey will be treating you, a woman. I’ll talk to her first—”

  “No!”

  “I know it’s frightening, Lucy, but please ride it out.”

  “Three days?”

  “I’ll stick by you. I promise.”

  More moans. She flinched and managed to raise a hand to her temple.

  “Ohh!”

  “Settle down,” I said. “I know it’s hard.”

  “Ow!”

  Her hand left her head and settled at her side. She poked her rib cage with one finger.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Broken.”

  “You think you broke a rib?”

  Headshake. “Me. Broken.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said, stroking her face. “Just a little bruised.”

  “No . . . broken.”

  “You’ll be fine, Lucy. Try to get some rest.”

  “Milo.”

  “You want me to tell Milo you’re here?”

  “Tell him . . . someone—”

  “Someone?”

  “Someone—” Struggling for breath, she took a deep, wheezing inhalation.

  Her heart rate had climbed over a hundred. A hundred and ten . . .

  “Someone—” she repeated. Poking her ribs. Terror in her eyes. “Someone . . .”

  “Someone what?” I said, leaning in closer.

  “Killing me!”

  CHAPTER

  9

  She sank back and fell asleep. It took the monitors another minute to slow down.

  I waited a while, then left to find some coffee. A man down the hall said, “Excuse me, are you her doctor?”

  He looked to be around thirty. Five-ten, broad-shouldered, stocky, and round-faced, with light brown hair, a golf-course tan, and wide brown eyes. His blue blazer had some cashmere in it, his burgundy shirt was broadcloth. Beige linen trousers broke perfectly over oxblood tassel loafers.

  “I’m Dr. Delaware, her psychologist.”

  “Oh, good.” He extended his hand. “Ken Lowell. Her brother.”

  Movement down the hall distracted both of us. An old man, waxy white and skeletal, was being eased by an orderly into a wheelchair. Blood dripped from under his hospital gown, painting a winding, crimson trail on the gray linoleum floor. His eyes were blank and his mouth was open. Only his tremoring limbs said he was alive.

  Ken Lowell stared as the chair was wheeled away. No one rushed in to clean up the blood.

  He turned back to me, looking queasy. The good clothes made him seem a tourist who’d wandered into a slum.

  “Dr. Delaware,” he said. “She was asking for you. I thought she was delirious and wanted to go to Delaware for some reason.” Shaking his head. “How’s she doing?”

  “She’s recovering, physically. Did you bring her in?”

  He nodded. “Has she done this before?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Pulling a burgundy silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket, he mopped his forehead. “So what happens to her now?”

  “She’ll be here involuntarily for at least three days, and then a psychiatrist from the hospital will determine a treatment plan.”

  “She could be committed against her will?”

  “If the psychiatrist—Dr.
Embrey—believes she’s still in danger, she can go to court and ask for an extension. That’s unusual, though, unless the patient makes another suicide attempt in the hospital or experiences some sort of massive breakdown.”

  “What led up to this, doctor? Was she very depressed?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t discuss details with you—confidentiality.”

  “Oh, sure. Sorry. It’s just that I don’t know much about her. For all practical purposes, we’re total strangers. I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”

  “How’d you come to bring her in?”

  “Pure chance. It’s pretty scary. I was looking for Puck—my half brother, Peter—Lucy’s brother. We had a dinner appointment at my hotel at seven, and he didn’t show. It bothered me; I didn’t think it was something he’d miss. So I waited for a while, then drove out to his apartment in Studio City. No one was home. He’d told me how close he and Lucy were, so, on a long shot, I decided to look for him at her place. It was after ten by the time I got there, and I wouldn’t have gone up but her lights were on and the drapes were partially open. When I got to the door, I thought I smelled gas. I knocked, got no answer, looked through the window, and saw her kneeling on the kitchen floor. I tapped the glass hard and she didn’t move, so I broke the door down and pulled her head out of the stove. She had a pulse and she was breathing, but she didn’t look too good. I called 911. It took a really long time to get through. While waiting for the paramedics to arrive, I looked up hospitals in the phone book and found this place. When they still hadn’t shown up, I said, Screw this, and brought her in myself.”

  He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and shook his head.

  “You’re from San Francisco?” I said.

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Lucy told me.”

  “She was talking about me?”

  “I took a family history.”

  “Oh. Actually, I’m from Palo Alto, but I’m down in L.A. quite a lot on business—real estate, mostly buyouts and bankruptcies. What with the economy, I’ve been down here more than usual, and I started thinking about connecting with Puck and Lucy—it seemed wrong that we never even tried to get together. Lucy wasn’t listed but Puck was, so a few weeks ago I called him. He was shocked to hear from me; it was awkward. But we talked a few more times, finally agreed to try dinner.”

  “Was Lucy going to be there, too?”

  “No, he didn’t want her to be—protecting her, I guess. It was a trial balloon. The deal was that if it worked out, we’d get her involved . . . he was pretty nervous about the whole thing. Still, I was surprised when he stood me up.”