Disorderly Conduct

by Mary Feliz

  “But then he held out his hand to Belle, and she wagged her tail.” He shrugged. “And Mozart didn’t freak out like he sometimes does with strangers. Then Martín started speaking in Spanish, urging us to get off the trail and into the bushes and hide. He’s super calm but insistent. Talking like a dad, except in Spanish.”

  Teddy took a drink from his water bottle. “He tells us bad guys will get us if we stay where we are. He points up the hill, grabs David’s arm, and starts helping him up.”

  “Do you know what his story is?” Max asked. “What was he doing there? Where did he come from?”

  “We didn’t, not yet. But we trusted him. Belle and Mozart weren’t afraid of him. And there were those gunshots. We already knew we weren’t safe where we were.” Teddy sighed.

  Stephen jumped in to give him a break. “Martín gave the EMTs part of his story, and I picked up a little bit before we got him on the chopper. So far, it sounds like he was kidnapped in Nicaragua by one of the cartels. He’s been here several years, he thinks. He knew he was in the United States but nothing more specific than that. The head of the crews in this area told them not to talk to anyone. If he tried to run or got sick, they’d kill him, and then kill his family back in Nicaragua. He’s got two kids who were toddlers when he was captured. He doesn’t know if they’re still alive, but he’s hopeful. One guy told him the kids were dead and they sold his wife to another drug lord, but he doesn’t know if it’s true.”

  Max cursed under his breath. I leaned into him and grabbed his hand. When had our lives become an action-adventure film? I wished I could change the channel to Animal Planet or a gentle British murder mystery. Something far away from here, where bad guys got what they deserved and good guys had it easier than life in Orchard View had been over the past week.

  “But how was he wounded?” Max asked. “And who was shooting? Were they shooting at the boys?”

  “Martín told the medics he’d taken advantage of the confusion caused by the fire to run away,” Stephen said. “But in his haste to flee from the area where he’d been working, he stumbled onto another illegal marijuana garden by accident. The guys working that plot fired on him to chase him off. The bullet went through the soft tissue of his upper arm, but he should be fine as long as they can get the wound cleaned out and stop the infection.”

  “Did he shoot them? Was that why his gun was empty?” I asked.

  Stephen shook his head. “Martín’s gun hadn’t been fired. He said it scares him and he never has it loaded. He took it with him when he ran, hoping he could sell it—or at least keep it out of the hands of guys who were likely to come after him. If they thought he was armed, he hoped they’d be less likely to shoot him.”

  The door squeaked open. An older woman in a pink smock came through and began fussing with the coffeepot until the aroma of warm, fresh coffee filled the air. On her heels was a doctor, trailed by a handful of white-coated young adults I took to be medical students, interns, or residents. Consulting a tablet, the doctor spoke without looking up. “McDonald? Brian and David?” Her voice was flat, not lending itself to interpretation. Max and I stood and walked toward her.

  As we approached, she raised her head and smiled. We made the appropriate introductions. “I’m Dr. Poppy,” she said. “I’m the emergency room attending physician, but I’m also a pediatrician. Your boys are both great kids.” She clicked the button on a ballpoint pen with her thumb as she spoke.

  “How are they? Is Brian still wheezing?”

  Dr. Poppy waved us to a seating area near the windows, as far away as possible from the rest of our group.

  The doctor spoke softly but clearly and patiently, giving us time to ask questions. She punctuated her sentences with the clicking pen. “I’ve called for X-rays and an orthopedic consult for David,” she said. Click click. “We’re backed up, so I’m afraid it will be a while.” Click. “We’ve got him on an IV for now, with fluids and some meds to manage his pain.” Click. Click. “He was a little dehydrated, but it’s mostly a precaution.” Click. “We’re icing the leg and keeping it elevated.”

  “Can we see him?”

  The clicking continued. “I’ll have someone take you back in a few minutes.” She looked at us, then at the rest of our group, all of whom were leaning forward, eager for information. “Are these people with you?”

  We nodded. “Friends and family.”

  “The boys were telling us about what happened to them, and we were going to call the police to investigate, but it seems you’ve brought your own.” The doctor nodded toward Stephen. “We checked in with the Orchard View Police.” She paused to check her notes. “And talked to Sergeant Bianchi and then Chief Mueller. They’re taking care of the gunshot victim your boys came in with.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “So, your boys are my immediate concern. It sounds like it’s been a rough few days for everyone, but especially for their friend Teddy. How’s he doing? Does he need a consult? I’d like to talk to him for a little bit, just to make sure.”

  It took me a moment to shift gears from focusing on David’s leg to considering Teddy’s state of mind. Did he need a mental health consult? Probably. Maybe we all could use one. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have someone on tap to call if he needs help,” I said. “Or to talk to him about what kinds of services are available and how mental health counseling works. Max and I are his temporary guardians while his mom is”—I considered my words carefully but then settled on the truth—“in jail.”

  The doctor made a note on her tablet. “I’ll do that, then. I’ve got a friend in pediatric psychology who can swing by while you’re still here.”

  “But only if Teddy approves,” I said. “I think it’s important for him to steer his health care himself as much as possible.”

  The doctor clicked her pen again several times. Since she was making notes on her tablet, I wondered if she carried the pen simply to indulge this nervous habit. “Does he still go by Teddy? Is that a family nickname? Is it Ted to strangers?”

  “Teddy. Short for Teodoro. It’s a family name. Thanks for asking, though.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “I was Bitsy to my family until I was thirty-five. Those childhood nicknames are hard to shake. I like to give teens whatever help I can.”

  “And David?”

  “Right. We’ll pop him in a wheelchair with an IV pole and bring him in here to wait for the X-ray tech, radiologist, and ortho. You’ll be happier if you’re together, and we need his bed.”

  “Is his leg broken?”

  She sucked on her lips, glanced at her watch, and clicked her pen again, a gesture that was now becoming annoying. “That’s really for the ortho to say, but I’d be surprised if it’s not. He seems like a pretty stoic kid. I would have said he was reserved before we gave him the pain medication. Now that he’s more comfortable, though, he’s cracking jokes and looking out for his little brother.” She shrugged. “We’ll need the X-rays to know for sure.”

  “So, a cast, crutches?”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Try not to look too far ahead. We’ll wait to see what the ortho says and go from there. Typically, if the break requires a cast, they’ll splint the leg until the swelling goes down.”

  “And Brian?”

  She clicked her pen. “He’s on an IV too. We’ll get him a breathing treatment and a chest X-ray. He’s doing much better. His oxygen saturation is above ninety. We’ll want to see it at least at ninety-five before we cut him loose, but he can hang out in here too. I want our respiratory specialist to check on him. Does he see a specialist for his asthma?”

  I gave her the names of Brian’s doctors, and we covered a few more details before Max and I were dismissed and she moved on to Teddy.

  She stashed the pen in the breast pocket of her white doctor’s coat, crouched at Teddy’s side, and held his hand in a way that suggested she was checking h
is pulse at the same time she was offering comfort. She gave him a business card and some brochures, patted him on the knee, and stood.

  She glanced at me, and I raised my eyebrows, but she shook her head. “I’ll let you get it straight from Teddy. He’s on top of things.” She winked and gave me a thumbs-up. I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding. I’d never been responsible for someone else’s child before, not like this. The pressure was huge, and my expectations for myself were high, particularly with a kid I already adored and who was under such intense strain.

  Before I had a chance to glean the details of Teddy’s discussion with Dr. Poppy, Brian and David rejoined us, looking considerably healthier than they’d appeared when we found them on the Arastradero Trail two hours earlier. Two hours? I checked my watch and compared the wall clock with the display on my phone. I’d lost all sense of time.

  The door squeaked open, letting in Jason along with the antiseptic smell and institutional sound of loudspeaker announcements. Behind him, a food service worker pushed a catering cart filled with sandwiches, snacks, iced drinks, bottled water, and cookies.

  Jason’s first words were for Teddy. “That Mozart’s a trooper,” he said. “He’s in good hands. The vet on duty at the emergency clinic is a specialist in treating snake bites. He had the antivenom ready to go when we got there. Your pup looks a little like he’s been in a prizefight, with his nose all swollen up, but he’s feeling no pain. The doc’s got him on some good drugs—painkillers, steroids, antihistamines, sedation, and a whole lot of fluids to help his body flush out the poison.”

  The news about Mozart gave us all a lift. Refueled and together, with our kids on the mend, our morale soared. The conversation overpowered the noises from the hallway that had earlier set my teeth on edge.

  But my growing sense that our lives were back on a more normal track was thrown off balance when the door creaked open again, with a lower-pitched and more menacing sound. I looked up as Martín poked his head through the doorway, clutching his coat and biting his lip as if he was unsure of his welcome.

  Stephen moved to greet Martín in Spanish that, to my ear, was spoken with a terrible American accent, much like that of a British actor pretending to be from Texas. Jason clapped a hand on Martín’s back and pulled up a chair, encouraging him to join us with a few more quick words in Spanish.

  Munchkin scrambled to accompany Stephen as he moved to the catering cart and began loading a plate with sandwiches and other snacks. Brian greeted Martín and thanked him, haltingly, in formal high school Spanish I found easy to follow. As the stranger asked after the boys’ health and Brian inquired politely about his, however, it was Brian and Teddy’s gestures and facial expressions that did most of the talking. They liked this man, trusted him, and were glad to know he’d survive his wounds.

  Teddy, whose Spanish far surpassed that of the rest of us, quickly translated. “He’s going to be fine. They didn’t want to stitch up his gunshot wound because of the infection, but they numbed it, cleaned it, and shot him up with antibiotics.”

  Martín must have understood some English, because he picked a vial of pills out of his coat pocket, held it up, and shook it with a grin. Teddy laughed and added, “And gave him some more to take home.”

  “Where is home?” I wondered what I was asking. Where did he go from here? How would he remain safe if the cartel was after him? Where had he come from in Nicaragua? How would he get back?

  Teddy translated my words for Martín, but Jason spoke up before the man could formulate a response. “We found a cop in San Jose who’s from the same village and speaks the same dialect as Martín, which is a combination of Spanish and an indigenous language. Martín speaks standard Spanish well, but Jason wants to be sure that we don’t miss anything when we interview him.”

  “What about Sergeant Nguyen?” I asked. “Won’t he want to hear what Martín has to say?”

  Stephen stroked his chin. “Absolutely, but when should we update Nguyen? That’s up to Jason. The feds may want to talk to Martín too, because of his involvement with the cartel. I’m not getting involved in a huge cross-jurisdictional turf battle unless I have to.”

  I looked at Martín, who seemed oblivious to the mess he’d landed in. Perhaps he was so relieved to be out of the hands of the cartel that he didn’t care about the logistical details that would ultimately decide his fate. I didn’t know. But he had more of my sympathy now than he had a few minutes earlier. I felt my prickly exterior relax a little. He noticed, and smiled, revealing a missing front tooth.

  I stood and walked to the other side of the room, then put down my coffee mug and stepped outside. I leaned against the cool tiles of the hallway wall, crossed my arms in front of me, and closed my eyes, fighting tears. About what, I wasn’t sure. All of a sudden, everything that had happened to my kids, Teddy, Tess, and Patrick caught up with me. My knees shook, my teeth chattered, and I searched in vain for a chair or a bench. Instead, I slid to the floor, cringing at my increased proximity to the pathogens found on hospital floors. It didn’t matter. I was unable to stand a second longer.

  Chapter 28

  Hiking safety in areas frequented by deer means protecting yourself and your pets from ticks, and checking carefully for the revolting arachnids when you return to an indoor environment.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Wednesday, August 9, Late evening

  Before I had a chance to pull myself together, Max slipped out of the waiting room and joined me on the floor, enveloping me in a hug.

  I heard him talking about me to Dr. Poppy as though I wasn’t in the room. “Overwhelmed, I think. The last few days have caught up with her.”

  The doctor crouched on the floor in front of me, putting her hands on my knees. That firm human touch, from both Max and the doctor, steadied me.

  “Maggie,” said Dr. Poppy. “What you’re feeling is normal. You’ve been running on fumes for days, and it’s caught up with you. You’ve been the duct tape that has kept your family and Tess’s together, so everyone else is holding in there, but to carry my metaphor to a ridiculous extreme, you need to regain your stickiness if you’re going to keep from falling apart yourself. Without you, where will everyone else be?”

  “But...”

  Dr. Poppy shook her head. “No buts. Maggie, I don’t want to scare you, but I’m deadly serious. You need to take a few minutes for yourself. If you don’t, you’ll find yourself in a hole so deep you won’t be able to dig yourself out. Now, what’ll it be? I can offer you a shower, clean scrubs, and a hairbrush. Or my on-call room for some quiet and rest. Or our chapel. Or a walk around the campus in your husband’s company. Your choice.”

  I hesitated, and my brain scurried to find a way to get past Dr. Poppy and back into the waiting area to look after my family. But the doctor was on to me. And so was Max.

  “Maggie, look at me,” said Dr. Poppy. “If you don’t do something for yourself, right now, I’ll talk to your family about putting you on a psychiatric hold for seventy-two hours. You’re not dangerous to yourself and others yet, but let’s not go there.”

  Dr. Poppy’s shocking words had the desired impact. I was terrified. I glanced at Max and saw worry and fatigue etched on his face too. “Don’t look at him, Maggie. Decide what you need to do for yourself. If you can’t decide, I’ll decide for you. Is that what you want?”

  Now I was angry. Dr. Poppy was speaking to me as if I were a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. I wasn’t. I was just tired. I needed a break. I stepped back a moment and listened to what I was telling myself. Apparently, I agreed with Dr. Poppy.

  “Code Blue in C 210. Code Blue in C 210,” squawked the PA, making me flinch.

  I stared down Dr. Poppy and said with a hint of toddler attitude, “If I wash my face, comb my hair, and get away from that loudspeaker for a wa
lk, would that make you happy?”

  Dr. Poppy’s face was kind but held an expression I couldn’t read. “You’re angry. Pushing back. That’s good. The question isn’t whether it makes me happy,” she said, standing and holding out her hand to help me up. “It’s whether it makes you feel stronger. You’re tough as nails, kiddo. You’ve raised great kids. You’ve got super friends. But you’re still running on empty.” She steadied me with one arm and peered up and down the hallway. “Let’s do this. Max, why don’t you tell the others that you and Maggie are taking a short walk? There’s an ice cream place ten minutes from here that would make a perfect destination. Maggie, I’ll show you where you can freshen up, and we’ll meet Max in the lobby. How’s that sound?”

  I could tell from her voice that the only answer that would keep me on good terms with Dr. Poppy would be to admit that her idea sounded great. So I did. But I still couldn’t get that hint of toddler attitude out of my voice. If I were a porcupine, she’d be pulling quills from her skin for the next month.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Dr. Poppy said, “I’m going to be reading the riot act to everyone else in there next. You’ve been carrying the ball, and you need to be able to rely on the rest of your team. You can only do that if they’re looking after themselves too.”

  It did make me feel better—like a toddler who was in trouble, but was happy that her siblings were also being scolded. I wasn’t proud of myself, but I was in tune with myself. It would have to do.

  By the time Max and I reached the ice cream shop, it was closed, but the neighborhood was quiet, and we sat on a bench outside for a few moments watching the stars that were bright enough to be seen through the still smoky sky. My skin felt caressed by the slightly misty air.

  Back at the hospital, we reentered the conference room to find that no one seemed to have missed us. Stephen had found some oil and was desqueaking the door’s annoying hinges. Brian handed me his discharge papers, which instructed us to make a follow-up appointment with his asthma specialist.