Whisper Me This

by Kerry Anne King

  “If this is about the fire or the call to 911, I don’t think he was trying to burn the house down,” I say, before the cop can say anything. “I’m the one who called it in, I’m afraid, before I’d realized we could easily handle the problem. It wasn’t a prank.”

  “I’m the one who called it in,” Elle corrects. There’s a spot of color in each cheek, and her eyes are clearly full of uniform and dark hair and deceptively sensitive lips. Lord have mercy.

  “I don’t know anything about a fire, ma’am. I’m here about allegations of criminal negligence and possibly attempted manslaughter.”

  My lips feel too stiff to answer. I put one hand protectively over Dad’s. His fingers twitch. His eyes move beneath the lids, but he doesn’t wake.

  “I’m Officer Mendez. I believe we spoke on the phone. You are Maisey, yes? Walter and Leah Addington’s daughter?”

  I nod. There doesn’t seem to be any air in my lungs.

  “Obviously I don’t want to arrest him. Will you be able to stay with him? Mental Health doesn’t think he’s dangerous, but they don’t think he’s able to stay alone.”

  Air rushes back into my lungs with a whoosh, too much of it now, making my head spin.

  “He didn’t hit her,” I protest. “He didn’t shove her. He’s never hit anybody.”

  “We’re looking at him for criminal negligence, not assault. Although, in light of the new X-ray evidence—”

  “What evidence? What are you even talking about?”

  He fumbles in his shirt pocket for a small notebook and flips through it. “Excuse me for a moment. I’m not a medical professional, and I need to consult my notes. This is what we know. The cause of the brain bleed is undetermined, but her doctor was able to confirm the discovery of an aneurism in your mother’s brain several months ago. It is her opinion that the most likely cause of your mother’s current condition was a rupture of this aneurism, although she probably struck her head on the counter as she fell.”

  I stare at him. My mother had an aneurism? A weak balloon of an artery, slowly growing in her head, and nobody bothered to tell me? No. Of course she wouldn’t tell me. I might try to talk her into sharing the control, giving me a copy of this now-mythical advance directive.

  Mendez coughs. “So far, we only have Walter’s word that he was acting on her wishes. And with the X-ray evidence of multiple broken bones—”

  “What broken bones?”

  “The doctors performed a chest X-ray to confirm pneumonia. They found—let me see—three old rib fractures and a fractured clavicle. They then did additional X-rays and discovered an old fracture of the humerus—”

  “And you think my father did this?”

  “It fits the pattern for domestic violence. There is also an old fracture of her left eye socket.”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. I told you on the phone—he’s not capable of hurting anybody. Does he look like he could inflict deliberate injuries?”

  I wave my hands over my father, who looks ancient and pathetic at the moment. His comb-over has come undone, long strands of gray hair trailing across the pillow. His cheeks are sunken. Under the thin cover of the sheet he looks gaunt and skeletal.

  “You’d be surprised, ma’am, what can happen in domestic violence situations. I had an elderly female who eliminated her husband with her cane—bashed him right across the head.”

  “You’re making that up,” Elle accuses.

  Mendez clears his throat. His voice is softer when he speaks again, almost sympathetic. “Perhaps he is not a violent man. Alzheimer’s can dramatically alter the personality. Gentle people become violent. Very proper ladies suddenly begin to swear.”

  I shake my head to clear it. None of this makes any sense. I feel like I’ve walked through a mirror into a darker version of Alice’s wonderland. Leave it to Elle to articulate the gist of the thing.

  “Grandpa’s a wife beater? That’s crazy!”

  Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it. My oxygen problem is beginning to balance itself out, only now my knees are wobbly. Letting go of Dad’s unresponsive hand, I wrap both of mine around the bed rail, squeezing as tight as I can, trying to find sensation in my fingers.

  “Listen, Officer. I can tell you that there have been no beatings. Even if my father has . . . dementia. Which he doesn’t. My mother bosses him, not the other way around. She would have taken care of the problem. Trust me.”

  “Evidence is evidence,” he says, consulting his notes. “Three old rib fractures. Left clavicle. Left humerus. Left eye socket. The pattern is suspicious.”

  “And I’m telling you nobody has been beating my mother. Especially not my father.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Maybe an accident, then? She fell down the stairs? Ran into a door?”

  If I were a snake, I would strike now. Bite him right on the nose. I picture poison pumping into his body. His face turning purple and black, maybe a nice spasm or two.

  “Ma’am?”

  Elle presses her arm against mine. She has reason to know that my affliction of indecision is balanced in the scales of character flaws by a true redheaded temper.

  Warnings disregarded, I welcome in the anger, gather it.

  Heat floods through me, right down to my once-cold fingertips, bringing energy behind it. Even my hair has energy; I can feel all the tiny roots tighten in my scalp. I picture my hair flying out in a cloud of electric sparks all around my head.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, Mr. Mendez, or who decided to let you play dress-up in that police uniform, but this is ridiculous.”

  His face flushes. A hit. My anger responds with a surge of vindictiveness. Before he can say anything, I let it carry me forward.

  “Let me guess. This looked like low-hanging fruit to you, and you volunteered. Nobody else wanted to come over here and grill an old man while his wife is dying upstairs.”

  “Mom,” Elle protests, putting a hand on my arm. If I so much as glance at her, I know little tiny cracks will start running through my lovely rage. I keep my eyes fixed on Mendez.

  A vein bulges on his forehead, and his jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle bunches.

  “Ms. Addington—”

  “Don’t try to placate me. Do you have a warrant? Are you going to arrest him?”

  “I’m merely investigating—”

  “Merely? I don’t think you’re merely doing anything. You’re expanding the boundaries of your specified investigation. That’s what you’re doing. Go fight some criminals or stop some speeders or something. Hey, I’ll give you five bucks, and you can go buy some doughnuts to take with you.”

  I’m on a roll. Somewhere inside, a tiny voice of self-preservation tries to make itself heard, but I know that the next thing out of my mouth is going to have the word pig in it.

  Dad saves me. Not for the first time.

  His eyes open, surprise and confusion crossing his face.

  “Maisey,” he says, tremulously, reaching for my hand. “Why are you angry? What’s going on?”

  He peers up at Officer Mendez, squinting as if trying to focus, and the fear smacks me yet another whack over the top of my head. Dad’s not acting. He’s genuinely lost. If this is true, if it’s true that my mother is upstairs in a coma, then anything could be true. All the horrible things this officer is saying Might. Be. True.

  My body sags at the knees, the railing digging into my ribs as I collapse against its support. I’ve got no more stuffing. There’s a loud buzzing in my ears. Somebody should fix the fluorescents; they’re way too dim.

  “Mom?” Elle’s voice sounds far away.

  I can’t seem to turn my head. The floor is disappearing under my feet, and the buzzing drowns out further words.

  Something solid behind my knees; hands lower me to sitting and push my head forward so I’m doubled up over the emptiness in my belly. My own breathing grows louder than the buzzing in my ears. My heart is beating in my head now, instead of in my chest where it bel
ongs, and it’s beating way too fast.

  “She hasn’t slept in forever, and I don’t think she’s eaten anything. Plus she’s worried.” Elle sounds frightened. I need to comfort her, but I can’t move.

  “I can’t imagine being grilled by the police has been helpful,” a woman’s voice says. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, steadying, gentle. Another slips onto my neck, checking my pulse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the voice says. “She’ll be fine.”

  My heart begins traveling in the right direction, out of my head and back toward my chest. I can feel all my fingers and toes, along with a growing sense of embarrassment. It’s tempting to pretend I’m unconscious, but of course I can’t.

  “I’m okay,” I croak. “Sorry.”

  “Take your time,” the voice says. “No rush.” And then to Elle, “Maybe you could go ask the nurse if they have some juice or something for your mom?”

  I manage to get my eyes open.

  Dad has drifted back to sleep. A woman in a white lab coat stands beside his bed, looking at the monitors, then placing a stethoscope to his chest and listening. She drags the other visitor chair close to mine and sits, holding out her hand. “You must be Maisey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  When I take her hand, it feels small and fragile in mine, bird bones, but what I read in her dark eyes more than makes up for her physical stature. This is not a woman you want to tangle with.

  “I’m Eliana Margoni,” she says. “I’m your mother’s doctor. The nurses told me you were here with Walter. I’m sure you have many questions.”

  Her calm compassion undoes me. Tears well up, and I’m powerless to hold them back.

  “If it helps,” Dr. Margoni says, “I’m certain that the bleeding in your mother’s brain is from a ruptured aneurism. We discovered it about three months ago and knew her death was just a matter of time. The idea that your father hit or shoved her is ludicrous.”

  “Why didn’t they tell me?”

  Through my tears she’s a distorted blob of black and white, the expression on her face unreadable.

  “That is a question I’m afraid I can’t answer. It was a ticking time bomb. Your mother opted not to try a repair, which had a high probability of leaving her brain damaged and incapacitated. Your father disagreed. As long as there was hope, he wanted to try. But you know how she is.”

  “I know.”

  Dr. Margoni squeezes my hand. “I understand that we’ve been unable to find her advance directive. I can tell you that she told me one had been done and that they would bring a copy to the clinic. That didn’t happen. But I can attest that she told me she would like to die quietly at home and was not interested in extraordinary measures. I have that note documented. I would need a subpoena to release it to the police, of course, unless Leah’s next of kin gives permission.”

  Even though I am the next of kin, and this means making a decision, a warm ray of sunshine pierces the frosty coldness inside me. Her tone is incisive and authoritative, turning the world right-side up.

  “If it would be helpful, then I would totally support releasing that to the police. Of course.”

  Dad makes a louder snoring sound and jolts awake. His eyes are wild, scanning the room, but before I can get up, the lids drift closed again, and he falls back asleep.

  “We’ve given him a sedative,” Dr. Margoni explains. “He was exhausted, poor man.”

  “I understand there is a matter of broken bones,” Mendez says, stiffly. “Can you explain those away?”

  “How did you hear about that?” Dr. Margoni sounds severe now. “I’m quite sure you don’t have a warrant.”

  “Sources,” he says. “Small town. People talk.”

  “Small town is no excuse for a breach of client confidentiality.”

  “Look. I heard about it. I’m investigating. It’s my job. You think I want to be here? Walter’s done my parents’ taxes. He goes fishing with my uncle.”

  Dr. Margoni glares at him, then turns back to me. “I’m here because I just heard myself. Small-town news travels faster than radiology to a doctor, apparently.”

  Elle comes back, carrying a can of Coke. “Vending machine,” she says. “It’s ice-cold.”

  I’m not thirsty, but I take the can because Elle brought it for me. The curve of the can in my hand, its weight, the cold against my palm, all serve to calm and ground me. I take a swig, the sweet fizz ending in a bitter taste. I want Elle to leave the room again but can’t think of an excuse.

  “What’s up?” she says. “Is it Grandma? You all look like a funeral or something.”

  Dr. Margoni gives me a questioning look.

  “Elle already knows,” I say, giving permission to carry on the conversation. I glare at Mendez, the one who is responsible for her knowing, but he ignores me and talks directly to the doctor.

  “I heard there are a lot of old fractures. Highly suggestive of domestic violence.”

  “All old fractures, as you say. Healed.”

  “But how old is old?” Mendez persists. “Six months? A year?”

  “Ten years. Twenty. Once the fracture has formed a callus, there’s no way of knowing how long ago it happened. She’s been a patient at the clinic for ten years, and there are no documented injuries during that time frame.”

  “How would you know?” Mendez asks. “An abused woman won’t often tell you, am I correct? Maybe the injuries had time to heal between visits.”

  “Leah was not an abused woman,” Dr. Margoni says, dismissively. “She had an appointment to see me, by the way, to create a POLST form. That’s an official document outlining her wishes for treatment, Maisey. Based on our office conversations, I think it’s highly likely Walter acted on her wishes by not calling for medical assistance.”

  “Three days,” Officer Mendez growls. “That’s a long time to let somebody lie around unconscious.”

  “Three days in which, I understand, he somehow managed to get her into a bed, despite his significant arthritis and degenerative disc disease. Three days in which he bathed her, spooned water into her mouth, and watched over her.”

  “Serial killers have done the same for dead bodies.”

  While they are discussing my parents—my mother’s desire to die, my father as a demented killer—the tension and incomprehension within me keeps growing.

  “I don’t want her to die,” I blurt out, cutting short the legal discussion.

  “Nobody does,” Dr. Margoni says. “Death does not always comply with our wishes. I understand that you must be completely overwhelmed, but we need to decide what to do when she stops breathing. Or when her heart stops beating. She didn’t want any lifesaving measures; she didn’t even want to come to the hospital.”

  I look at my father again, asleep, drugged, unaware of us. A thin line of saliva trails from his open mouth, down over his chin. It makes me feel ashamed, like I’m looking at something I shouldn’t see.

  Dr. Margoni pats my hand. “This is hard, I know, and very sudden for you. But you need to understand that your mother is not coming back from this. The most you can hope for is that she’ll be able to sit in a wheelchair and stare out the window. Her cognitive function has been destroyed.”

  “You don’t know that.” My voice sounds desperate to my own ears. “People come back. There are all those stories. People who are in a coma for, like, years, and then they wake up.”

  “Maisey.” She drags the chair sideways so she’s sitting directly in front of me. “Think carefully before you decide. I agree that the decision is going to ultimately be yours, given your father’s current state. But I’d urge you to think of the kind of woman your mother was and what you think she would want.”

  This kind, competent doctor wants me to let my mother die. I can feel the pressure, a vise clamping my chest, probing at my brain.

  I close my eyes to shut her out, to shut out my father and the cop. My world has turned inside out. I feel like I’m floating above the chair. My butt has no sensation. I n
eed to talk to my mother. I need her to be here to talk to. She can’t die; not now. Not yet.

  I know what the doctor wants me to say. What my father wants me to say. Definitely what my mother wants me to say.

  For once, I don’t care about what anybody else thinks I should do. I open my eyes and try to make my voice authoritative. It comes out as a pathetic little squeak. “Keep her alive. Whatever that takes. God. She’s too young for this.”

  Dr. Margoni rubs the back of her neck. Up close, I can see fine lines around her eyes and dark shadows beneath them. She looks older than I’d originally thought. My age, at least. Maybe more.

  “We’ve already started her on antibiotics and oxygen, but I want you to think carefully about the other things. She’s unable to eat, and that’s not likely to change anytime soon. If the antibiotics kill the infection and she’s able to keep breathing, she will begin to starve.”

  “That’s horrible,” Elle says. “You can’t starve her.”

  It’s not right for Elle to be here. She shouldn’t even know about this. But I can’t send her to go stand in the hall.

  Dr. Margoni includes her in the conversation as if she has every right to be involved.

  “Your grandma is unconscious, so she wouldn’t suffer. However, we can insert a central line into an artery and give her some highly nutritious liquid called total parenteral nutrition. Or we can put a tube in her stomach and feed her that way.”

  There are no words for how much my mother would hate this, but even so I say, “Do that, the tube thing. Feed her. Don’t let her starve.”

  “And if she should stop breathing? You want us to bring her back? CPR and shock her heart? Intubate her and put her on a breathing machine?”

  And there I’m stuck. That’s a call I’m not able to make.

  “We really do need a decision,” Dr. Margoni says.

  I want to put my fingers in my ears and hum, the way I did when I was a defiant little girl and didn’t want to listen to one of my mother’s lectures.

  My stomach twists on itself and begins to rise. I feel acid in my throat. I’m going to puke, all over this nice doctor’s shoes.