“And wild sex with my arresting officer?” she finished his sentence.
They laughed together: a short, bittersweet laugh. They both sighed afterwards. He started up the engine and they drove off.
When they entered the hospital waiting room, the boyfriend was sitting in the corner, staring into space with a disillusioned expression on his face. Vera went to him, followed by the detective. When he noticed her, he stood up, growing more animated. She hugged him. All the while, the detective stood at a distance, watching them.
“Everything will be fine,” she said, trying to reassure him. He only held her tighter. At last, she disengaged from him and looked up into his haggard face: “Is she conscious?”
“Yes. …But they put her in restraints. They have her in the psych ward.”
“Is she still saying she didn’t do it?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t believe her story?”
“I’m the only one who was in the room with her,” he said pleadingly, as if her acceptance of this one point would clarify everything.
“Okay. …Can I see her?”
“Yeah, she’s been calling for you. …She told me to get lost when I went in,” he said, looking aggrieved.
She smiled. “Don’t worry—I’m sure that once things settle down, and all this is sorted out…”
He nodded. Vera placed her hand on his arm to reassure him.
“Where do I go?” she asked him then.
“Just go up to the information desk.”
“Okay.”
As she began to move off, the police detective came to her side and announced, “I’m going to take a walk. Call me on my cell phone when you need me.” He had given her the number during the drive over. She nodded and smiled, then gave him a hug.
“Thanks,” she said.
“No problem.”
The nurse at the information desk was a woman in her fifties with a scowl permanently engraved on her face, from years of trying to reason with the panicking, grieving relatives and friends of the hospital’s patients.
“I’m here to see Stacy Grant,” Vera said by way of introduction. The scowling woman glared at her suspiciously, then consulted the computer.
“What’s your name?” she said abruptly.
“Vera Alexander.”
Once again, the woman consulted the computer. This was probably the point where she usually told people to go home, or that it was too late to see the patient, but something on the screen confounded her, and she seemed disappointed. “Wait here,” she said. She then picked up a phone. When the person on the other end of the line answered, she said, “The woman you were waiting for is here, Dr. Baptiste. …Okay. She’s waiting out here. Okay.” She put down the receiver, and gave Vera one last look. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”
Vera nodded. She moved away from the desk a few steps, feeling somehow that she was invading the woman’s space. She glanced back at the boyfriend, who was still sitting there as if wounded. He was staring at Vera. She waved at him, and he immediately brightened, as if her gesture had been a great act of kindness.
Just then, the locked doors that led to the main part of the hospital opened. A tall man exited and walked directly to Vera. “I’m Michael Baptiste,” he said. “I’ve been treating your patient, but anything you have to tell me about her case might be helpful.”
Vera looked at him confusedly. “My patient?”
“Stacy Grant.” And then, looking at Vera curiously, “She’s not your patient?”
It suddenly occurred to her that Stacy had probably told him that so he would allow Vera to see her. On impulse, she decided to continue the lie. “Oh,” she began uneasily, “…I’m sorry. It’s late. How is she doing, Dr. Baptiste?”
“Actually, you can call me Michael—since we’re both doctors.” He smiled, and she smiled back. “…Anyway, she’s well physically. Luckily, she didn’t cut too deeply into the wrist. However, of course, it’s her mind that troubles me.”
“She seems unstable to you?”
“No, she seems calm and rational, but her denial troubles me.”
“You mean her saying she didn’t slit her wrists?”
“Exactly.”
Vera sighed as she thought about it. “Can I talk to her? I’m sure all of this can be sorted out if I just talk to her.”
“Sure—especially since she doesn’t seem to want to talk to anybody else.”
“I’ll tell you if she tells me anything pertinent.”
Baptiste nodded, seeming grateful. Then, he began to lead her to Stacy’s room.
Stacy was in a ward with about five other women—all of whom seemed to be drugged out of their minds. Stacy’s face was turned away, so Vera could not tell if she was awake or not. Vera did notice, however, that her arms were in restraints. Baptiste walked Vera up to Stacy’s bed. As they neared, Stacy turned her head and looked at them. She smiled faintly when she saw Vera, but had a look of disdain in her eyes when she saw Dr. Baptiste. He decided to leave the two women alone.
“I’ll wait outside,” he said. When he was gone, Vera smiled at Stacy and joked: “That gown looks good on you.”
Stacy looked at her pleadingly: “Get me out of here, Vera.”
“That won’t be easy. They think you tried to kill yourself.”
“Did I ever seem suicidal to you?” Stacy said in annoyance.
“Nah—just homicidal.”
They both smiled.
“Get me out of here, Vera.”
“How did all this happen? How did your wrists get cut?”
“I already told them everything,” she said in frustration. “After the food came, I ate for a while, then I went to bed.”
“You ate all that food by yourself?” Vera asked.
“I tried,” Stacy said with a sorrowful laugh, tapping her bloated belly. “I practically passed out after I finished eating. I crawled into bed next to my boyfriend; then, the next thing I knew, he was waking me up, screaming at me, asking me why I had done it.”
“That’s all? You don’t remember anything else?”
“No.”
“If you didn’t do it, then that only leaves one person,” Vera mused. “What do you mean?”
“Your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend?”
“He was the only one in the apartment with you.”
“But why would he do it?”
“You forgot how we spent the afternoon, Stacy? He had a total psychotic break just hours ago, remember. He thought he had superpowers; he was seeing things that weren’t there—”
“But he’s fine now,” Stacy protested.
“Is he, Stacy?”
“Yes, he’s fine,” she said with a kind of religious certainty.
Vera stared at her. “Anyway, just keep that in mind. It had to be one of you. If you didn’t do it…”
“I know he didn’t do it,” she said simply, looking away.
About five seconds of brooding silence passed. Somehow, seeing Stacy in such a combative mood reassured Vera that she would be fine. Vera changed the subject: “What do you have against me dating the police detective?”
Stacy looked up at her, and then smiled. “I think you can do better, that’s all.”
Vera laughed at her: “You sound like my mother.”
“Maybe you have a history of dating men who are beneath you?”
“Beneath me? That’s what you think about the detective?”
“You can do better,” she said again.
“What does ‘doing better’ entail? Getting a guy with a Benz and a country house?”
Stacy groaned. “Let’s not argue about it, Vera. Just get me out of here, will you?”
“I can’t get you out of here if I think you’re a danger to yourself, or that you’re going to put yourself in danger.”
“I’m not suicidal, Vera. You know I’m not.”
Vera sighed. “…Then come home with me. I wouldn’t feel right about leavi
ng you alone with your boyfriend.”
“Okay…Whatever you want. Just get me out of here.”
“I’ll try to talk to the doctor.”
“Thanks.”
She left the ward; as Dr. Baptiste had said, he was waiting outside.
“Look,” Vera began as soon as she saw him, “I talked to her and she said this was all some kind of sex fantasy that got out of hand.” The lie came flowing out of her seamlessly.
“Really?” he said, eying her.
“Yeah. I know her—she’s not suicidal, just a bit of a freak.”
The doctor laughed. She went on: “I can take her home to my apartment and look after her—you wouldn’t have to worry if you released her.”
“You’re going to take full responsibility?”
“Yeah, I take full responsibility. You can release her into my care.”
The doctor stared at her for a while, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll fill out the paperwork.”
Vera returned to the waiting room. The boyfriend jumped up as soon as he saw her.
“Any news?” he said, rushing up to her.
“Stacy seems fine,” she began. “She’s going to stay with me for a few days.” He seemed hurt again: “She can’t come home with me?”
“It’s only for a few days. It’s a medical decision—I can keep an eye on her.”
“I could keep an eye on her, too—I’m her boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you could, but she needs some special attention for now.”
He looked distraught—heartbroken.
“I’m sure she’ll be back home before you know it.” And then, to get his mind off Stacy, “How is your mother doing?”
“Mom’s fine. She’s still in and out of consciousness, though. Everyone I love is getting hurt.”
“You’re a good son,” Vera said then, seemingly apropos of nothing.
He looked up at her distractedly. “I feel as though everything’s falling apart. I feel so confused about things nowadays. I can’t explain it….”
“Maybe you should go home and try to get some sleep.”
He shook his head: “Sleep is all I seem to get nowadays. Every time I turn around it’s like I’m waking up from some kind of strange dream—as if the real world is passing me by. …I can’t explain it.”
Vera felt uncomfortable, remembering how Stacy was always commanding him to sleep after killing him. “…Still, try to get some rest,” she suggested. “It’s the best way. I’ll call you in the morning and tell you how Stacy’s doing.”
“Can I come and visit her?”
“Sure—once I get her settled in. I’ll call you after everything’s settled. Go home now…try to get some sleep.”
He nodded again, before walking off.
After the boyfriend had left, Vera sat down and waited for Dr. Baptiste to return with the release forms for Stacy. Vera knew that the entire thing was unethical. If anything happened to Stacy, and it was discovered that she really was not a patient of hers, then Vera could lose her license. She tried not to think of it. She called the detective and told him to be ready with the car.
Forty-five minutes later, Dr. Baptiste returned with the release forms. Vera signed them in the same careless, illegible way that she autographed her books. The doctor admonished her about keeping Stacy’s stitched wrists clean and dry. He handed her a bag with bandages, ointments and painkillers, then he left. Vera called the detective again, and told him to drive up to the entrance. Five minutes after that, Stacy was wheeled into the waiting room by an orderly. Vera only then noticed how pale Stacy looked. Of course, she had lost lots of blood. She was wearing a robe over her gown. Vera guessed that the clothes Stacy had been wearing when she was admitted were probably all bloodstained. Stacy nodded to her, but otherwise said nothing. Then, she, Stacy and the orderly (who was still pushing Stacy on her wheelchair) exited the hospital. The detective was pulling up in his car when they got outside. He got out of the car and helped Stacy into the back seat. Within thirty seconds, they were driving away.
No one said a word. Stacy was in the back, staring out of the window blankly.
“Hey,” Vera suggested, “why don’t you tell another driving story, Stacy?”
Stacy grunted; in a sullen tone, she went on: “That’s only for when I’m among friends.”
Vera was too stunned to say anything. The detective only shrugged and drove on. After a while, he put on the radio to drown out the silence.
When they got home, the detective was going to help Stacy upstairs, but she said that she’d be fine. Vera gave him an awkward hug—or rather, a hug made awkward by Stacy’s disapproving presence. After that, he got in the car and drove off.
“Good riddance,” Stacy said under her breath.
Vera was holding her around the waist for support. “That was rude,” Vera said as she began to lead Stacy up to the building.
“What can you possibly see in that guy?” Stacy said in bewilderment.
“He’s great,” Vera said, resisting the impulse to raise her voice. “I don’t see what your problem is.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
“What if I did?” she said with growing combativeness. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business anyway.”
Stacy chuckled. “Don’t get defensive—I think it’s good that you finally got some.”
“What do you mean, ‘finally?’”
Stacy laughed. “Admit it, Vera: it’s been a while.”
Vera stared at her for a moment. They had stopped and were staring at one another, perhaps sizing one another up. At last, Vera chuckled and shook her head. They began to walk on.
“Was he any good?” Stacy pressed her.
“Yes,” she said with a strange mixture of annoyance and joy. “…It was nice.” And then, remembering it all again, “I felt really free for some reason. I like being around him.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in love?”
“I don’t, but I know you do.”
Vera smiled. Then, in answer to Stacy’s question, “I don’t know,” she said, wishing that Stacy were more discreet. “…I think he’s a great guy. It’s only…”
“It’s only what?”
They had made it to the glass door. Vera got out her keys and opened the door. She continued: “He’s great, but there’s sadness in his heart. His wife and daughter were killed in a car accident. I asked him if he had the opportunity to do something that would allow him to forget it all, if he would do it.”
“Why’d you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was thinking about your boyfriend—all the things we made him forget.”
“Let me guess,” Stacy started in a disgusted tone, “your detective said he’d rather remember and hold onto the pain because he loved his family so much.”
“He said he’d rather remember, but what’s your problem with him? You’re acting as if you’re jealous or something.”
They were now before the elevators. Vera pressed the “Up” button.
“I hate bullshit, that’s all,” Stacy went on. “Most people, in their honest moments, would choose to forget—especially if they were in real pain. But people are too dishonest, especially when they’re talking to others. They give diplomatic, politically correct answers. They tell people what they think they want to hear—and what they think will make themselves look best in other people’s eyes.”
Vera shook her head: “I don’t think he’s like that at all.”
The elevator door opened. They got in. On the ride up to Vera’s apartment, they both stared straight ahead, at the elevator doors. Vera was holding Stacy’s upper arm to support her, but it was as if they were miles apart. The sullen silence continued when they were inside Vera’s apartment. Vera took Stacy to her bedroom. She got Stacy a nightgown. Stacy stripped from the hospital clothes right there and put on the nightgown. Her body was flawless. After that, Stacy crawled into bed. Vera s
tood staring at her. There was a petulant expression on Stacy’s face; and with Vera’s big, lacy nightgown, she looked even more like a little girl. Vera chuckled. At the noise, Stacy looked up at her. Vera began:
“What’s the point of this argument, Stacy? I brought you here so that you could rest and be safe. I don’t want to argue with you.”
“I don’t want to argue with you either,” Stacy said in the same petulant way.
“Then what’s going on? What’s bothering you? I sensed it in you since I told you I was going on a date. You can’t hate the detective that much, so what’s the problem?”
“It’s nothing,” she said curtly.
“It has to be something, since every time I bring him up you act like you’re going to have a stroke.”
“I do not!” she said with a laugh.
“Yes, you do…so what’s this about? You were just talking about how dishonest people are. Why don’t you be straightforward now?”
Stacy looked over at her. Eventually, she sighed, bowing her head for a few moments. “Okay,” she said at last. “…Well, the thing is, this weekend was for us. After all we did together, why are you wasting time with that guy? We were supposed to hang out.”
Vera eyed her for a moment, before laughing heartily. “I knew it! You are jealous.”
“I am not!”
“Are too!”
“Am, not, infinity!”
They were both laughing by now. When the laughter died down, Vera came over and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Try to get some sleep, Stacy. We’ll spend tomorrow together, doing girlie stuff if you want.” They both smiled. “Sleep well,” she said, getting up. At the door, she said, “Do you want me to leave the light on?” When she realized how it sounded, she snickered to herself and switched it off.
Vera was lying on the couch when her cell phone rang. She opened her eyes and realized that it was morning. Her back was stiff. She groaned and looked around confusedly, until her eyes rested on the cell phone—which was on the coffee table. She picked it up and smiled when she saw the number.
“Hey, Holmes,” she said, lying back down on the couch. “What time is it?”
“It’s about 10 a.m. Did I wake you up?”
How to Kill Your Boyfriend (in 10 Easy Steps) Page 18
