Jason had heard of domestic poisonings using antifreeze or rat poisons, but rarely with pure cyanide, a difficult chemical to procure without a license. He figured somebody at the hospital had a grudge against someone or something but not Jen; she was just an innocent bystander caught in a crackpot’s vengeful plan.
“But why in the creamer? Couldn’t she have tasted it in there?” he asked.
“No, not in the one she used, the toasted almond creamer. Cyanide has a bitter almond odor so it’s hard to detect unless you happen to have a hyper-accurate olfactory sense and when one of our staff, Mac Greene, a poison-control trained orderly, smelled the coffee he identified that signature immediately. He basically saved her life.”
“Well then I need to thank---”He stopped and put a hand over his eyes shielding them from the lights when he realized the almond connection, but he hoped he was wrong. It must be just a wild coincidence, he told himself.
“And what time did all this happen?” he asked, fearing the answer.
Dr. V answered immediately, “Right after I came on shift at six a.m.”
“Would you say about six-oh-five?” he asked, his voice quivering, his body beginning to tremble. The lights around him grew brighter.
“Well, yes---that’s a curious question---but I’d say six-oh-five give or take a minute.”
His face went white as a crippling fear enveloped him, a fear of something he could not understand much less comprehend. He stood speechless, mouth open and eyes covered, frozen in the doorway until he collapsed seconds later, riding his cane to the floor.
* * *
“Honey? Honey, it’s Jen,” she said, trying to rouse him. “It’s almost noon and you need to wake up.”
“Good, that may work,” Lipinski said, standing at his bedside beside her, “There’s really no reason for his syncope, other than he shouldn’t have been out of bed that soon. It was just too early after trauma like that; his system is still weak.”
Suddenly from a peaceful supine position Jason jerked bolt upright in his bed, slammed open both eyes until they looked as if they could fall out, and began to scream, bringing bulging veins to his face and worried nurses and orderlies to the door.
Jen shook him but he ignored her attempt to intervene. He continued to stare straight ahead at nothingness and emit the nerve-racking, deafening, screech.
“Please stop, Jason, you’re scaring me!” she yelled, but her plea went unnoticed.
Lipinski, sheer panic on her face, trying to be heard over the din, called out, “Come on people. Someone, anyone, get me a sedative for this man, stat!”
In a moment of clarity, Jen immediately knew what she had to do. She reached back her hand and planted it firmly across his face with a resounding slap that echoed out into the hallway. If she broke a tooth or two it was just collateral damage; she had to bring him back.
“Wake up, dummy! You’re having a dream,” she shouted, trying to avoid the doctor’s use of the sedative that would put him back into another medically induced coma. She knew she could get through to him with the right stimulus: he detested her calling him dummy.
As quickly as it started, the screaming ceased, his face went flat, unemotional, and he slowly turned his head sweeping his gaze, now focused, over the room directly to Jen.
“Oh, hi honey,” he said calmly, as if nothing had happened. “I just had the weirdest most surreal dream, straight out of a horror flick.”
Then he noticed a figure on her right and looked curiously up at Dr. Lipinski.
“Am-am I in a hospital or a morgue?”
Soon after Lipinski had revived Jen with the antidote kit, leaving her with only a slight headache, the doctor had warned her that Jason might wake up with some confusion about his ordeal, but now he seemed lucid and coherent, except for the question he had just asked.
The doctor had also related the story of Jason’s entry into her room during their conversation about cyanide, but something else seemed to key him off and put him in his current state. It wasn’t the earthquake or their talk about the cyanide that bothered him; it was their mention of the toasted almond creamer and the time of the poisoning which happened right after six a.m. It had made no sense to the doctor at the moment but she thought Jen might have a clue.
She didn’t, but she offered to delve deeper into Jason’s mind searching for a reason for the strange triggers. If those words bothered him so severely, she needed to know why before she became his bride. She hated secrets and lies and this was one glaring example of both.
“You’re not in a morgue, you’re in a hospital, Dr. Godwin,” answered Lipinski, “on the CICU floor, room C605. But our CICU is not a Cardiac Intensive Care Unit; instead a Critical Intensive Care Unit. There is nothing wrong with your heart, rest assured.”
As the doctor spoke the words C-six-oh-five, she observed a curious reaction in Jason’s eyes. His pupils exhibited a profound dilation, near that produced by exposure to absolute darkness, at the number 605 then returned to normal seconds later at the words “nothing wrong.”
Suddenly a phrase from her med school studies in pupillometry flashed back: "The pupils reflect the extent of mental effort in an incredibly precise way." Theorized by Princeton University psychologist, Daniel Kahneman, countless medical trials had confirmed its validity. She knew she had just seen that same effect; an important clue to his condition.
Then she remembered that oddly, just before he fainted, he had specifically inquired about the exact time of the poisoning: six-oh-five a.m., impossible for him to know since he was still in a coma at the time. The same as the room number that triggered his pupils, she thought. Possibly a connection? Maybe just a strange coincidence. She jotted 605-? on his chart and continued.
“No, you’re not dead or near death, Dr. Godwin---”
“Please call me Jason,” he interjected.
“But you were injured in a terrible mudslide last evening caused by an earthquake not far from here.”
She paused to get a reaction but he remained calm and attentive. “Do you remember that?”
“I do, vaguely. But there’s something about the memory that scares me to death. It was in my dream.”
With raised eyebrows, she jotted a note. “And what would that be, Dr. God---, er, Jason?”
“Do-do you remember the exact time of that quake?” he asked, a trembling fear in his voice.
Closing her eyes, she tried to remember. “Hmm. Around six, last night,” she answered.
Jen’s face suddenly showed alarm, her eyes went wide, her veins pulsed and her mouth flew open, yet somehow she still managed to answer, “I-I know when it hit. According to the morning news, it-it hit at exactly six-oh-five p.m. twelve hours before I was---” Her speech stopped. She could say no more for fear of reminding Jason, if he didn’t remember.
She took a breath and grabbed Jason’s hand. “Oh, Jace, I’m so sorry. It’s the time of the earthquake you fear.”
“Jason can you walk?” she asked, without reason, darting her eyes out the door. “We need to leave here… immediately.”
“Wh-what are you saying, Ms. Lowe?” Lipinski stammered. She walked to the door, blocking it. “That’s against hospital protocol. You can’t just leave.”
“Oh, you hide and watch, Dr. Lipinski. Sorry to walk out on you like this. Send us the bill.”
Jason had some difficulty standing as she pulled him from the bed, but the cane she handed him helped. Seconds later, after fending off Lipinski’s feeble attempt to stop them, then pushing her aside, they were out the door and into the hallway. Behind them, she poked out her head and, defeated but understanding, yelled to the curious staff, “Let them go, they need more rest than they can get in here.”
“Next stop room P102,” Jen huffed, dragging Jason behind her. “We can’t leave her behind.”
“We can’t leave who behind?” he asked, hobbling on his cane, trying to keep up.
“Amy. Amy Whitethorn, a little girl whose parents wer
e killed in the quake. She’s in here all alone with no family left. I’m taking her home with me.”
“Whatever you say, doll. I’m trusting you now since my life has just gone to hell in a hand basket.”
At the end of the hall by the visitor’s lounge, they glanced back, and seeing no one behind them, slipped into an empty elevator, then Jen touched one. As the doors whooshed together, with a resigned sigh he chuckled, “Great! Now I’m a kidnapper, too.”
“No Jace, she has no one to claim her. She’s an orphan now. Get it? Besides, I know Nurse Hogue.”
The doors slid back to the first floor lobby just as they spied Nurse Hogue rushing through from the Pediatrics wing to another hallway labeled MRI/CT SCAN. Wanting to stay out of sight, they ducked back in until she disappeared. After a brief caucus, they walked casually through the swing-doors marked with a big P into the children’s wing and entered 102, keeping a vigilant eye out for hospital staff.
“You man the door; I’ll get Amy,” she whispered, motioning him back.
He stopped and turned toward the doorway swiveling on his cane. “You have to stop watching all those true crime stories, Jen. This is not an abduction caper,” he scoffed.
“Yes it is, Jason. Now be quiet and alert. If anyone comes by, just say, “Top of the mornin’ to you. That’s our code phrase.”
“Sheesh,” he scoffed, half-hidden, shaking his head, scanning the hall in both directions.
“Oh, hi Jen. I knew you’d come,” Amy giggled as she watched them enter, then she hopped down from the bed.
“Is that Dr. Godwin, your friend? He’s walking but he has a cane. Does it hurt, Dr. Godwin?”
“Shhh, Amy. We’re going to take you home with us. Put on your clothes.”
“Can I really go? Now?” cooed the little girl, quietly, her hands covering her mouth in excitement. At Jen’s smile and nod, she grabbed her shirt, shorts and shoes and ran into the bathroom to change.
While she changed, Jen grabbed her bed pillows and stuffed them under the covers to form a small body’s shape. It was close but another pat made it perfect.
Then she sat at the bedside desk, found a sheet of paper and a pen, and wrote a note:
Dear Nurse Hogue,
We have taken Amy home with us to avoid months of red tape with laws and Foster homes. Please understand, as I already love her as my own child. Just tell authorities that some long-lost family members came to pick her up and give her a home, with family, better than they could have chosen for her.
Thank you,
Jen Whitethorn
She smiled, signed it, and placed it under the covers on top of the pillows. They were ready to make their escape.
Seconds later, Amy with her pink bandage-hairbow, a cute pink flowered top, pink shorts, and sneakers entered the room and spun around. “How do I look, Jen?” she asked, poking her fingers into her dimples like a blond Shirley Temple without pin curls.
Even Jason smiled at her pose from the doorway, and understood how Jen had fallen so swiftly for her. Then thinking of himself at that age, he wondered if she could play piano. He would have to ask her, but later; they were on the move.
“Got your car out there waiting for our getaway, Jen?” he asked moving into the hall. “The coast is clear.”
She winked and took Amy’s hand to lead her. “Sure Clyde, Bonnie would never let you down. Let’s roll.”
They had decided before exiting the room to be nonchalant and blend into the hoard of people visiting relatives caught in the earthquake. Their trip through the lobby would last only a few seconds and then they were free, out the door, on their way home.
But at three steps short of the exit, against a largely incoming flow, a security guard called out and motioned them over to him.
As they neared, Jason gulped and readied himself to be handcuffed. But instead Jen smiled and spoke, “Yes, sir? Are we going out the wrong door?” Her eyes blinked innocence, obviously something she had done before.
The guard blushed then responded, grinning, “Oh, no ma’am. I just wanted to comment that you two have a darling daughter. What a fine family you make. You should be very proud. That’s all.”
Amy stared up at him through tearing blue eyes, pulled his coat sleeve, and smiled. “Thank you, mister guard; we’re taking my dad home to heal. It was a bad earthquake… but he wasn’t hurt as bad as a lot of other dads.”
With tears welling in their eyes, Jen and Jason, shook his hand, thanked him for the compliment, and bid him farewell.
Minutes later, they reached Jen’s car as Nurse Hogue returned to Amy’s room.
“Amy, pill time,” she called, musically. With no response, she pulled back the covers to administer the pill, covered her mouth, and shrieked. Then she saw the note, examined it carefully, and unfolded it, thinking she had found another of Amy’s pranks. Shaking her head, she sat quietly beside Amy’s pillow doll and began to read.
Brows furrowed, she held it out and read it, then she brought it nearer and read it again, anger ebbing from her face. Finally, on the third reading, she put it back on the pillows and looked through misty eyes up to the ceiling. Then she smiled. “Thank you Lord. Go with Him my child. You deserve it.”
Chapter 6
ALLA TURCA
N earing four p.m. the new family was finally headed home, to which one, they were yet to decide, but they had already stopped at a McDonalds for Amy’s birthday dinner: a Happy Meal with a special cupcake and ten candles on top. And happy she was as she grew closer to them. Jason, at first, was reluctant to accept her for fear of being sidetracked from his work, but he was finally relenting as he asked the inevitable question about her playing the piano. Her response made him laugh.
“Oh yes. I play it pretty well. It’s a very difficult instrument to play and almost impossible to master but my mom who teaches--- , um, taught music at Cal Tech made me learn it. Want me to show you how to tickle the keys someday? Do you have a piano I can use?”
Not one to boast, he was proud of his trophy. “Yes, Amy, I have a Steinway Grand. Play it almost every day for relaxation when I get home from work.”
Her face lit up. “Wow! That’s cool. When did you learn?”
“I started playing at three, got pretty good and by age ten I soloed at Carnegie Hall.”
“The Carnegie Hall?” she asked, her eyes saucers by now. “Holy cow, you must be really good. Do you play in a band?”
He laughed. “No, Amy, I traded my love of the piano for a love of computers… supercomputers. That’s what I play for work now.”
Her face beamed again. “That’s what my dad does---, um, did. He taught big computers, not the little ones like we had at home. But he never had time to teach me. He said they were too complicated to learn at my age. Can you show me how to play them, the big ones I mean?”
He looked back and smiled, wondering if she really meant it, but at least, unlike Jen, she showed an interest.
“I’ll put that on my calendar, Amy. If you’re really curious and pretty good at the little computers, I’ll be willing to give it a try.”
Jen loved that they were finding common ground so when she decided to pose the question about keeping Amy, in reply to his popping the question about marriage, he would find it easier to say yes. However, unknown to her, he had already considered making time for both Nissy and Amy; he actually liked the idea of a progeny, but he had to be positive she wouldn’t interfere with his work.
“So honey, are we going to your house or mine?” she asked as they neared the fork to the two homeward routes. She needed a decision.
He smiled back with a devilish grin. “Well I do have a piano. All you have is space junk. Which do you chose, Amy.”
“Whoa there, Kemosabe,” Jen laughed, slapping his knee. “Don’t forget whose car you’re in. Yours is totaled. Crushed. A worthless mud bucket Tesla.”
From the back seat, Amy giggled at the term mud bucket, and then said, “But I want to play the piano. Let’
s go there.”
Defeated, Jen rolled her eyes and turned off on the road leading to the big home on the hill.
The driveway up to his house, more like a mansion, was the half the length of a football field and lined with a rainbow of flowering shrubs.
Amy, nose to the window, taking it all in, rolled down the glass expecting to enjoy a bouquet of fragrances. Instead, her smile drooped; she turned away and tugged on Jason’s shirt. “Those flowers look so beautiful up close but why can’t I smell them?”
He didn’t answer at first, but rolled down his window, then took a deep breath and sighed. “Jen will have to work on that, Amy. They don’t smell because they’re artificial flowers, the finest money can buy.”
“Really?” she asked, disappointed but trying to stay upbeat.
“Yes. They even close at dusk and open at dawn just like real ones but they’re maintenance free. No watering, trimming, or raking fallen petals and leaves from the grass, which incidentally, is also artificial. The same plastic turf they use in all the football stadiums. Neat, huh?”
“It’d be cooler if they smelled like flowers,” she said with a disinterested yawn. “I don’t like artificial things. They’re never as good as living things.”
She searched on for something real and noticed a stone plaque near the road but couldn’t quite read it in the evening light. Pointing out the window she asked, “What does that rock sign over there say? It looks important.”
Jen glanced out and scoffed, “Amy, it is important… to him. It’s his idea of grown-up humor. It says Godwin’s Little Acre because he’s a hopeless dreamer like Ty Ty Walden in the book, always searching for that elusive golden cache.”
“But I’m almost there, Jen,” he said. “It’s within my reach and in one more revolution I’ll catch the ring and make it mine.”
NISSY Page 4
