Beneath the Cracks
Page 9
"I hate hospital gowns, and I swear to God, it'll be a cold day in hell before I ever use their watered down lotion on this skin."
"How are you?"
Maya grinned. "I may come out of the butcher shop one breast light, but I go in a very happy woman."
"Who is he? Anyone I know?"
She reached across the counsel and gripped my hand. "Oh Helen, for someone so observant, you can be the most obtuse woman on the planet. Yes you know him. I'm surprised you never noticed the way I've shamelessly flirted with him after all these months."
I felt my forehead wrinkle. "You've been flirting with someone – and I've seen this?"
"Ken Forsythe," she said.
"Oh! Really? I thought he was married and had kids."
"Divorced and two daughters in college."
"Well, this is a surprise. And here he was determined to hate you until the end of time when I talked to him yesterday."
"You, my dearest friend, are far more persuasive than you know."
I wished. If that were true, Mark Seleeby would be nothing but a distant memory. A buzzing mosquito that I effectively swatted away in search of sweeter blood instead of the sour venom that masqueraded as mine. "Tell me what happened."
"I was up in my office getting ready to go home and drown my tears in a case of Heineken when he knocked," she said. "I figured this was round one of the knock-down-drag-out rematch, you know? I told him I was really tired and not up to another go over how much garbage should've been collected from the dumpster by CSD as evidence."
"Ah, so that's why you were going for the jugular when I walked in."
"At the time, I thought it was a reasonable notion that all the garbage be carefully searched for drug paraphernalia. If there was a needle in there, it could've given us something to go on in terms of identifying the specific methamphetamine that killed our vic, right? I mean, none of it is chemically identical. It could've provided another avenue of investigation."
"I'm not arguing."
"Anyway, Ken comes in my office, even though I was really in a foul mood and ready to attack if he insisted on continuing the fight. He closes the door and leans against it."
"And?"
"He says, I won't pretend to know what's got you out of sorts, Maya, but I didn't come up here to fight with you. I figured that if something is wrong, maybe you ought to know that you've got a lot of friends around here. We're here for you too, you know. Even if we haven't known you as long as Eriksson has."
"Bastard," I muttered.
"Oh, Helen, don't be upset with him."
"I'm not. Not really anyway. How did this declaration of friendship make you feel like you're going into the hospital a very happy woman who no longer seems to dread whatever lies ahead?"
"You just missed him."
"Ah. Congratulations then. I'm curious how the olive branch of friendship ended up in a sleep over."
She laughed softly. "Who said we slept?"
"You're awful. Now tell me, what happened?"
"I guess it hit me wrong. I don't mean another meltdown wrong. I was mortified. Here was this man, being kind to me after I had been a complete ass –"
"Tears?"
She nodded. "I couldn't stop crying. So he just held me and told me that whatever was wrong, he hoped I knew I could trust him."
"And you told him about today?"
"Not at first. I apologized for acting so mental and tried to compose myself. He suggested we have dinner and talk. I tried to beg off on the grounds of fatigue and not really wanting to be around people."
"And he didn't take that personally?"
"Thank God no. He suggested we pick up takeout and hide out at my house. After about beer number four, I told him the truth."
"I see."
"Will you do something for me, Helen?"
"Anything. Name it."
"After it's over this morning, and you know what happened, will you call him? He wanted to take the day and be there, but I couldn't let him do that. I mean, it might've been an offer out of pity anyway…"
"Do you think it was just pity?"
"I don't know," insecurity crept into my friend's voice. "I guess we'll know how much of last night was sincere and how much was pity when the day is done, won't we?"
"He'd better hope for his sake that he wasn't lying," I muttered.
"It's a lot to ask of someone, Helen. I mean, if it's the worst case scenario, I could be looking at chemo and radiation and a terminal diagnosis."
"You are not going to die."
"I appreciate your optimism, especially knowing how out of character that is for you, but I have to be prepared for the worst case scenario. If I let myself hope…"
"You know, studies have been done that conclusively prove that optimism aids in recovery far more than anybody believed it would," I said. "I think a little positive thinking is in order here."
"If I expect the worst, and the news is devastating, I'll be a little more prepared for the blow. If the news is better than the worst, I'll be so thrilled that I'm not dying of cancer that even if a mastectomy is the only option, I'll feel like I just heard the best news possible."
"That is some seriously twisted psychology."
"Will you call him?"
"Of course."
"He wants to know either way, but I told him I completely get it if he doesn't want to have anything to do with me if…well, if I'm terminal or they lop off a boob or something."
I knew. Forsythe would be there for her. The attraction was mutual between them, which made his reaction to my apology on her behalf make all the sense in the world. What I saw as hate was really hurt. And Forsythe couldn't hold onto it without seeing for himself if he missed a huge clue that something else was going on in Maya's life.
The morning dragged on for me, waiting in chairs outside surgery for the doors to swing open and tell me Maya's fate. I defied hospital rules and kept my cell phone on. I checked email religiously. Somehow, the address landed on several mass mailing lists, including one for cheap Rolexes (cheap knock-offs is more like it). I sighed, deleted, refreshed. Drank more coffee than a camel's hump could hold. Paced. Got sick to my stomach. The horrible magazine collection in the waiting room consisted of Field and Stream and some local women's rag called Sync! which held zero interest for me. Its Cosmopolitan-style test-your-love-life quizzes seemed oddly inappropriate as reading material while people waited for news in life and death situations.
It was just after one when the doors to the inner sanctum of the surgical department swung open and the surgeon who spoke to me before Maya went under the knife appeared looking completely fatigued. I leapt to my feet.
"Dr. Eriksson, she's in recovery right now. I'm afraid the frozen section revealed news we hoped we wouldn’t get – not the worst, but not great either."
"Oh God."
"Don't despair. I'm reasonably certain we got all of it. Unfortunately, it included a modified radical mastectomy. She'll have to go through at least one course of chemotherapy, but despite the less than optimal result, we think she stands an excellent chance of recovery without recurrence."
"Modified? I’m sorry, you’re going to have to refresh my memory on what that is exactly."
"Of course. A modified radical mastectomy is the removal of the breast and lymph nodes, but it preserves the underlying chest muscle. Your friend had pair of widely spaced tumors that prevented simple lumpectomy with preservation of a normal breast appearance."
I dashed at the drizzle from my nose. "How soon can I see her? I don't want her waking up alone to this."
"I've made arrangements with her nurse in the PACU. She's going to come get you as soon as Maya is settled. We don't usually allow visitors back there, but since you're a doctor…"
I didn't correct him on the assumption that my PhD was actually an MD. Not if it meant the difference between Maya waking up alone to her bad news in the post-anesthesia care unit versus having me there to help soften the blow. "Than
k you, doctor."
I dialed Forsythe's cell phone number that Maya had entrusted to my care before going to surgery. He answered half way through the first ring. "Helen?"
"Yeah."
"Is she out?"
"Yeah."
The pause stretched. "I'll be right there."
"She's in recovery. They aren't going to allow you to see her until she's transferred to the surgical care floor, Ken."
"I won't stand for her being alone when she wakes up."
"The surgeon is letting me go into the PACU as a professional courtesy," I said. "Aren't you going to ask me…? I mean…"
"I don't care how bad it is," he said. "I told her that this morning when she insisted that I come to work instead of going to the hospital with her. I'm in this for the long haul, Helen."
Relief washed over me in waves. "It wasn't as bad as it could've been. The surgeon said he thinks she has a shot at recovery without recurrence. She's still going to be devastated. They did the mastectomy."
"She's alive. That's all that matters."
"I agree, but I suspect that Maya will feel differently about this. She's not out of the woods yet. The doctor said she'll have to have chemotherapy."
"She will get through this. We won't abandon her, Helen."
"I wasn't suggesting that we would."
"Can you help her understand that I'm not leaving her?"
A tear leaked from the corner of my eye and seeped into the fine lines around it. "I don't think I'll have to do that, Ken. Be here for her today, and she'll know the truth."
She wasn't awake until long after the transfer to the surgical care unit. In fact, she woke up too groggy the first three times to realize where she was or what was happening. Ken Forsythe sat silently on one side of the bed, petting the back of Maya's hand and watching for signs of lucidity.
I alternated between pacing and going out for coffee. It let me check my email without prying eyes, though I doubt Forsythe realized that I had come and gone from the room at all. At five, I felt the phone vibrate in my pocket and excused myself from the room again.
It was a text message from David. Call me ASAP. Urgent.
I dialed the number and ignored the censoring glares of staff at my audacity for ignoring hospital cell phone rules.
"David?"
"That was quick. Are you still at the hospital with Maya?"
I gave him a quick update on her condition. "What's so urgent?"
He chuckled softly. "Good news for a change. This rumor mill around here is something else."
"What happened?"
"Seems a close buddy of the president made an unofficial complaint this morning. This pal happens to be a favored golf partner of both our commander in chief and my boss, the director. He wanted to know why the FBI would harass someone who his state's top cop had completely vetted and authorized to be a consulting partner to the police in Darkwater Bay."
"Oh my God. Are you telling me that Orion actually has some clout?"
"The guy's got juice, my dear. From the gossips, it sounds like Seleeby got reamed pretty bad by our fearless leader, and ordered in no uncertain terms to cease and desist in his investigation of your former marriage to one Rick Hamilton."
"Just like that? It's really over?"
"I got a call from one of the director's many drones. He wants to talk to me first thing in the morning about you."
"Why?"
"I'm not entirely sure, but I think they might be investigating why the advice of a supervisory special agent was ignored in this matter, Helen. Particularly the supervisory special agent who served as your direct supervisor for ten years."
"They're going to ask you if it was possible that I didn't know about Rick's money laundering business for Marcos."
"Yep, that'd be my guess."
"David…"
"I never doubted you, Helen. Not for one second. I remember what you did when you got the call about his arrest. We were in Milwaukee working that child abduction case, remember? You snapped your phone shut, plucked the cigar out of the lead detective's mouth, smoked it until you turned green, and called your lawyer to initiate divorce proceedings."
"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement for my ignorance."
"I believed at the time, and later had that belief confirmed, that you smoked the cigar so you'd be sick and have something else to think about beyond what you felt like doing. Remember what happened at our hotel that night?"
"Not really. As I recall, things got a little fuzzy after the first carafe of wine at dinner."
"You cried your eyes out, Helen. No way were you going to break down in front of the local cops."
"I felt like a fool," the familiar emotions rippled through me all over again. "How could he do that to me, to us?"
"Exactly my point. You didn't know. It still pisses you off to this day that he lied to you, Helen. Believe me. I know the difference between the truth and the charades you play for the viewing public. You're a private person, and that's not a crime."
"Thank you, David."
"Don't mention it, my dear. You know I'd do anything for you."
I did know it, up to a point. I was pretty sure that to knowingly help me conceal a murder was a line David would never cross, no matter how much he loved me.
"Listen, I should get back inside with Maya. I'm getting the evil eye from the nurses for using the cell phone inside the hospital anyway. I'll talk to you soon, David."
We disconnected with promises to stay in close touch, and I slipped back into the hospital room where Maya drifted closer to consciousness. "Did she wake while I was gone?"
"Not really," Forsythe said. "Should she be sleeping this long?"
"They've kept her regularly medicated for pain," I explained the periodic doses of fentanyl to him again. "But when the anesthesia from surgery is gone, she'll become more lucid during the times when she wakes up."
"Does that mean she'll be suffering?" His fingers continued to dance over the back of Maya's hand. "I don't want her in pain, Helen."
"She can start giving herself a booster shot with the PCA pump when she's awake. Believe me, they don't want her suffering either."
One of the nurses brought in a pitcher of ice and a glass. "It shouldn't be much longer before she wakes more fully. Would you like me to stay to explain what happened today?"
"She's a doctor," Forsythe said. "So is Helen."
"I'm a PhD," I corrected, "but Maya is a medical doctor. She fully understood the potential outcome this morning. We'll call if she needs anything."
When her eyes fluttered open again, I noticed that she was beginning to recognize her surroundings instead of the groggy haze that seemed to coat the world before her eyes. She whispered my name.
"I'm right here, Maya."
Ken pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I'm here too, sweetheart."
Apparently things went very well for Maya last night.
Forsythe squeezed her hand and waited for her to look at him. Maya didn't. Instead she pulled her hand free and patted the bandaged side of her chest. Then she cried. I watched, overwhelmed with her grief and my own sense of helplessness. Some friend I was, huh?
Forsythe didn't hesitate. He perched on the edge of the bed beside her, gathered her into his arms and held her. The murmured nonsense that fell from his lips must've been coherent to her. To me, it was garbled, shouting under deep water. The room swam in front of my eyes.
Ken looked up at me. "She'll be all right, Helen."
"I…I have to…go," I stammered. "The case. I should…I haven't checked in with Briscoe and Conall today."
"I'll call if she needs you," he said. "Go ahead. I've got this."
Thank God he did. Turns out I'm pretty worthless in a personal crisis. I couldn't erase the moment of realization on her face, when her hand patted the flat side of her chest, and she grieved for her lost identity.
Having never been what men called buxom, I once wondered how women could attach such importance
to a body part. Before today, that is. It was no different than losing and arm or a leg or an eye. Part of who Maya was had been taken away. No matter what anyone said, she had become less in her own eyes than she used to be.
I drove for three miles before I realized why the world was still swimming. I dashed the tears away and pulled into the first parking lot I came to – outside a liquor store. Dad's words floated through my ears again. Hard liquor is for hard women, Helen.
Well, I could stand to toughen up a little bit. I dashed inside the store and bought three bottles of scotch.
"You okay lady?"
I thrust the hundred dollar bill I won from Tony across the counter and muttered, "Keep the change."
The first bottle was half gone by the time I parked in front of the courtyard. I don't remember shutting the gate behind me, or the door to the Expedition or even the front door. Instead, I stumbled blindly through the house to the covered lanai and sat with my liquor out in the cold wondering how long it would take before the hardness hit me.
Chapter 11
I'm not sure which event propelled me from grief stricken into a bawling idiot. Was it what happened to Maya? Was it the stress of Seleeby lurking around without my knowledge for two weeks? Was it because even in Maya's moment of deepest pain, she had someone with the strength to pull it together and comfort her?
Images of Forsythe holding her flitted behind my drooping eyelids. What was it about women like Maya that naturally attracted the good guys? My track record was less than stellar in that regard. Of all the men in all the cities in all the world…and the one who found me had been Rick Hamilton.
Stupid!
I cursed myself while at the same time wondering if what I needed was a little bit of reverse psychology. Every time my gut told me to do one thing, I should do the opposite. Would that work? My instincts told me I should run away from Johnny Orion. Scratch that. My common sense told me to run away. My hormones had other ideas.
It was surely a sign of his fatal character flaw, one beyond his overbearing personality that I had yet to uncover. Maybe my tastes had deteriorated from white-collar criminal to dirty cop. After all, for months I'd been plagued with homesickness for Dad. Who better than a surrogate just as twisted as Wendell was? But Orion wasn't a dirty cop. I'd proved that months ago.