by A W Hartoin
“She has scrapes and bruises. Wrists, elbows, and a large hematoma on her hip. We didn’t see it until we prepped her for surgery. Do you know anything about that?”
I shook my head. “No. Are they fresh?”
“Very fresh. Still developing.”
“Her wrists?”
Pete nodded and he yanked his cap off, revealing his tousled dark blond hair. He grabbed my wrists. “Like someone had her.”
“They were there when it happened,” I said.
“I think so.”
“Can you bring on a stroke?” I didn’t remember strokes working like that.
“Maybe if it was Afib.”
I bent over and put my hands on my knees. It had to be the stalker from Sturgis. He’d beat us back and had gone after Mom. Pete pulled me upright and folded me into his arms. I cried into his chest, breathing in the smell of antiseptic and sterile bandages that always clung to him.
“She’s going to be alright,” he said, bending over me and stroking my hair.
“You don’t know,” I whispered.
“I do know. I saw her brain come back to life.”
“But she won’t be the same.”
“No,” he said. “She won’t be the same, but she won’t be that different either.”
I appreciated the honesty and that he didn’t say she was lucky. Having a massive stroke didn’t seem that lucky to me. I hated when people said “They were so lucky.” As if what happened didn’t matter because the patient didn’t die.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Everything. You’ve always been great,” I said.
“Not that great,” he said softly.
I pulled back and looked up into his kind face. “You were perfect. It’s me that’s not.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said. “I’ve got to get back. She’ll go up to the ICU in ten to fifteen minutes. Cardiology and Internal medicine will be coming in to discuss our next steps.”
“So you’re thinking heart?”
“She’s young and healthy. If she was assaulted over a prolonged period, I think Afib makes sense.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know. Stress and exercise can trigger it.”
“She’d have to form the clot and then throw it.”
“Two clots, remember?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Right. Two.”
“You’ll be careful?” asked Pete with concern. “I heard about Sturgis. Your Grandad was the target?”
“Yes.” I didn’t expand on that. He didn’t need to know about the stalking. He’d just worry more. Pete had always been uncomfortable with the crime side of my life, just one of the reasons we didn’t work out. I’d have been happy to give up investigating, but crime came to me, not the other way around.
He hugged me again. “We’ll let you know when she’s going up.”
“Thanks.”
Pete took off down the hall. I watched him turn the corner, my mind spinning. An assault. A stroke. I couldn’t find Dad. And that guy was still out there. Waiting.
I turned around and standing by the elevator was Chuck. He had a look on his face that I couldn’t quite define. Rage. Sorrow. Nausea. Or some kind of wicked combo of the three. I, myself, felt instantly guilty, but I don’t know why. Pete was on Mom’s team. I had to talk to him, didn’t I? Did Chuck see the hugging? That wouldn’t be good what with the ex-boyfriend thing.
I took a breath and started for Chuck. He punched the elevator button and the doors opened.
Say the right thing. Say the right thing.
“My mom had a stroke.”
Chuck’s face instantly switched to concern and he came down the hall with his long strides and swept me up in his arms. “I know.”
“Thank God you’re here.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I couldn’t think. Mr. Knox called Aunt Miriam.” I started blubbering like a five-year-old. “She hit me with her cane.”
“Why does she have that cane? She walks okay.”
“To whack people,” I said.
He put me back on my feet and produced a packet of tissues. “Julia said you’d need these.”
I blew my nose. It was juicier than I expected and I regretted it. “Who’s Julia?”
“New to the squad,” he said, eyeing me. “So you remembered to call Pete?”
“No, I didn’t. He assisted on Mom’s neurosurgery. They had to pull the clot out.”
“Holy shit. Did it go okay?”
“He says she’s doing really well. We won’t know exactly how much damage until we get an MRI.”
His broad shoulders relaxed. “So that’s why you were hugging. Okay.”
“That’s not why.”
He stiffened and got all hawk-eyed. Jealous, I guess.
“I mean, that’s part of it. Mom was assaulted. Pete just told me,” I said quickly.
It took a second to sink in.
“Assaulted? What do you mean, assaulted? I thought she had a stroke.”
I explained the bruising and Pete’s preliminary theory. Chuck took me by the shoulders. “How thoroughly did they go over her?”
A zing of fear went through me. “He just saw the bruising when they prepped her. The stroke was the major concern.”
“Has anyone talked to her?”
“I did, but I didn’t see the bruising. She had a long-sleeve tissue tee on.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing about any attack,” I said. “She wanted to go to the bathroom.”
“What?”
I hugged him again, just to feel his heat and strength. “I don’t think she understood what was going on.”
Chuck kissed the top of my head and pushed me back before pulling out his phone. “Okay. Who are her doctors, besides Pete?”
“Dr. Siddiqui and Dr. Calloway in the ER. She might’ve said something to him or the nurses, but I doubt it. I’m telling you she was in a fog. Forty percent of her brain was shut off.”
Chuck stopped typing. “Forty percent?”
“It was a massive stroke.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Pete said it’s okay.”
He nodded and went back to his phone. “Give me everything you know.”
There wasn’t much to say and Chuck wasn’t happy.
“When will I be able to interview her?” he asked.
“Not today. She’s going up to the ICU.”
“But you can talk to her?”
I took his hand and tugged him toward the waiting room. “I can, but you shouldn’t expect much. This was a big trauma.”
Chuck pulled his hand out of mine. “I have to call this in and get to the house.”
“Uncle Morty, Grandad, and Aunt Miriam are in the waiting room. They might’ve talked to Mom today.”
“Right.” He took two strides toward the door before spinning around. “Where the hell is Tommy?”
“We can’t find him.”
“Still?”
I shrugged and he darted into the waiting room. I walked in more slowly, trying to think if I’d seen anything unusual at the house other than the insane Siamese. I hadn’t, but I wasn’t really looking for anything other than Mom.
When I went in, Uncle Morty was cursing like he’d stepped on a rusty nail, Aunt Miriam hadn’t moved, and Grandad was talking to Chuck, going over the Sturgis stuff. He got a week’s worth of evidence out in concise bullet points like the police detective he once was.
“There’s nothing you’re leaving out?” asked Chuck.
We all shook our heads.
Chuck looked hard at me.
“Well, there was Hunt,” I said.
“You went to see Blankenship? Why the hell—” He looked at Aunt Miriam and her cane, but she didn’t move.
I told him about Blankenship’s visitor, but it didn’t seem that important.
“Alright,” said Chuck. “Are you okay here? I have to go.”
“I’m fine.” I didn’t feel fine. I felt needy and overwhelmingly sad.
“Good.” He kissed me. “Do not leave the hospital.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Chuck left and I sat down for a whole thirty seconds, listening to Uncle Morty scream into his phone, trying without results to find my father.
Rita walked in and announced, “Your mom’s going to the ICU.”
Everyone stood up and she quickly said, “One visitor at a time, but there’s a very nice waiting room.” Her normally smooth forehead creased. “What is that smell?”
“Aaron,” I said.
“Huh?”
“My partner. He comes with food.”
“I thought you were with that gorgeous cop?” asked Rita.
“I am. Aaron’s not that kind of partner.”
Aaron, true to his nature, announced that Rita was hungry. He decided she needed a Monte Cristo sandwich. I know those sound gross, but when Aaron made them, they were amazing. Rita took a bite as ordered and exclaimed, “Oh, my God. It’s fluffy and salty and sweet. How did you make this?”
Aaron shrugged and made it seem like he didn’t know. He had to know. He’d made it, for heaven’s sake. Instead of revealing his secrets under Rita’s barrage of questions, he gave her fresh peach hand pies and some kind of smoothie with mango. It was green. I don’t know why.
Rita was so full she could barely talk, a common problem with Aaron around. She did manage to give us directions to the ICU before she headed off to tell the other nurses of her good fortune.
We went upstairs and I put Aaron, Aunt Miriam, and Uncle Morty in the waiting room against their objections.
Aunt Miriam, in particular, was incensed. “I need to go in there. I can give her spiritual counsel.”
“They only allow one visitor at a time in the ICU,” I said, gritting my teeth.
“Then it should be me,” she said, banging her cane on the floor with each word. “I am—”
“I know who you are!” I yelled. “And I don’t care. Sit down. I’m going in to see my mother.”
They sat down and Aunt Miriam’s lower lip poked out and trembled. I doubt anyone had spoken to her like that in fifty years, if ever.
“Aaron, do you have any non-alcoholic hot chocolate?” I asked.
He pulled a second thermos out of the basket. I handed over Wallace and took the thermos. “Thank you.” I think it came out as aggressive, not grateful, but I didn’t care. I stalked off to get buzzed into the ICU. An older nurse named Patsy gave me a badge and took me down to Mom’s room. A pretty young nurse with cornrows and luminous brown eyes looked up and recognized me. We’d never met, but my reputation preceded me. Usually, that was a bad thing.
“Mercy, I’m Takira. I’ll be your mother’s nurse today. We just transferred her to the bed without any problems and she’s asking for you.”
I glanced through the window above Takira’s desk, fearfully, if I’m being honest. Pete said it was good, but good to a doctor was sometimes very different to patients. Mom was lying flat on her back and surrounded by equipment, most of which wasn’t being used. She wasn’t on a vent or anything. Thank goodness.
Takira touched my arm and I jumped.
“Sorry,” she said. “I was just about to go in and talk to her about what to expect for the next few hours.”
“But…” There was definitely a but at the end of that sentence.
She took a breath and I could see her choosing her words. “But…your mother has suffered trauma other than the stroke.”
“I know,” I said. “Dr. Lindstrom told me.”
Takira blew out a breath. “I was dreading telling you that after what you’ve been through recently. What did Dr. Lindstrom tell you?”
“That she has bruising consistent with an attack.”
“Yes. There are also scrapes and what looks like a minor blow to the head. We didn’t notice it until we transferred her.”
“Where?”
“Below her right ear. Her hair was covering it.”
Takira watched me for something. I couldn’t tell what.
“I take it that’s not all.” My chest was so tight I thought I might have a coronary if she didn’t just come out with it.
“I think we need to do a rape kit.”
The room went swimmy. Patsy and Takira had me in her chair and breathing into a paper bag before I could put two thoughts together. I was such a wuss. Mom was lying in there and I was having a panic attack.
Patsy squatted in front of me with her hands on my knees. It was oddly soothing. “We don’t know that she’s been raped. She does have bruising that fits.”
I lowered the bag. “Underwear?”
“On but torn,” said Takira. “I have to say there was an attempt.”
“I should’ve stayed with her. My Aunt Miriam said that someone was trying to break into the house before I went to Sturgis. She wanted me to stay with her, but I didn’t. I went to Sturgis with Grandad.”
“There’s no use thinking of that now,” said Patsy. “Let’s order the kit and inform the police.”
I told her about Chuck, but they called anyway, saying it was procedure. There’d be a rape counselor called in. The works.
“Do you think you can go in?” asked Takira.
I gave her the bag and got to my feet, shaky as hell. “Yes.”
Takira took the lead. Like all ICU nurses, she was efficient, attentive, and kind. “Mrs. Watts, your daughter is here. Are you having any pain?” She checked Mom’s IV line and the incision in her groin. There was bruising from something other than the surgery and minor swelling on the hip.
“Mercy?” Mom said, her voice high and breathy.
I came to her side and felt a load fall off my back. Mom’s eyes weren’t locked anymore. They moved to me and she tried to sit up.
“I’m here. Don’t move,” I said.
“Mrs. Watts—”
“Carolina,” said Mom.
“Carolina, you have to stay flat on your back for three hours,” said Takira.
Mom frowned and even though her left side still sagged, it did move a bit. “Why?”
“You’ve been given a medication called tPA. It’s usually referred to as a clot-buster. We need to keep you still while it’s working.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“You can’t get up. I can give you a bedpan if you can’t wait.”
Mom made a face and said, “I heard someone say I was going to the ICU.”
“You are in the ICU, Mom,” I said.
“Why? I feel fine.”
Takira and I glanced at each other. Takira said, “This is not unusual.”
“What?” asked Mom.
I told her again what happened, at least the part I knew. She didn’t seem to get it.
“Why would I have a stroke?” she asked.
“We’re going to figure that out, Carolina,” said Takira. “Are you having any pain?”
Mom thought about it and said, “I’m all achy and my head hurts.”
“I’ll see what the doctor will give you for that.” She patted Mom’s leg and left to call Pete or whoever.
“I had a stroke,” said Mom with wonder in her voice. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” I said, picking up her hand and looking at the ring of bruising around her slender wrist. The other one matched. Pete was right. They looked like someone had grabbed her by the wrists and held on. I lifted the hair off her ear and saw the bruise that Takira described. Large enough to be a fist, but a glancing blow. Dad would know for sure if he ever bothered to call me back.
“What are you looking at?” asked Mom.
“Do you remember what happened?”
“You said I had a stroke.”
“You did. Do you remember it?”
Mom looked down at her bruised wrists and a line of drool slipped down her chin. I grabbed a tissue and dabbed it away. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “You just had something. It’s gone.”
She reached up to brush the hair out of her eyes and ended up jabbing herself in the eye. Mom began to cry and wiped away the tears. Takira watched me with a sorrowful expression. I had to start asking questions, but I didn’t know where to begin. Dad would say you begin at the beginning. But I didn’t know where this all began. Someone hated us and not just garden variety hate. Hard-core hate.
But that wasn’t Mom’s story. That was his.
“Do you remember this morning, Mom?”
She did remember. She got up. Aunt Tenne came over with Bruno and they packed the rest of his stuff for the show he was doing. Bruno was an exceptional painter and his work was in high demand, thanks to Aunt Tenne’s crafty publicity.
They left for the airport after the packing, but Mom didn’t remember exactly. Things were fuzzy. She remembered making tea and Wilson Cleves calling from Hunt. She definitely remembered calling me and being mad. She was still mad, but she wasn’t sure why. I was her daughter. That seemed to be enough for now.
“I couldn’t get up,” she said.
“Wait. The next thing you remember is being on the ground?” I asked.
“Yes. And you came. And a dog. There was a dog, wasn’t there?”
“Wallace. Pete’s mother’s dog.”
“Didn’t you break his heart?”
Let’s not go over that again.
“Was there anyone else there?”
“Where?”
I had to be patient, not my forte. “When you went outside? Was there someone there?”
Mom pursed her lips and I dabbed her cheek again. “I think so. Who was it?”
“I’m hoping you’ll tell me. Did someone hurt you?”
She looked at her wrists. “I think…I can’t quite. There was someone there.” She put her hand to her ear where the bruise was. “He hit me.”
My voice caught in my throat. “Who hit you, Mom? Who was it?”
“It all seems so strange, like a dream but not. Did it really happen?”
“I think so,” I said.
Mom turned her head. “Where is that nurse?”
“Why?”
“I have got to go to the bathroom.”
“Please, think. Do you remember a face?”
She shook her head. “No. Just pain. And…it was a man. I’m certain of that. He smelled like mothballs and cigarettes.”
