Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  Nims’s face tightens into what is going to become a “no,” but Balker steps between us. “We’ll ask the docs,” he says. “Merson is in intensive care right now, so I doubt if they’d let you in. But when they give the word, I’ll be in touch.”

  He smiles. After a moment I reluctantly smile back. It’s easy to see from the crinkle lines around his eyes and the corners of his mouth that Balker smiles a lot. He has a nice face. I like him. I decide I’m going to believe him.

  Mom has one more question. “Is any information about our family going to be in the newspaper or on television? Are we going to have to hide Kristi from reporters and photographers?”

  “The information about the folder hasn’t been released to the media,” Nims assures Mom with a hard look.

  But Mom isn’t satisfied. The look she gives Nims is every bit as steely. “And it won’t be?”

  “I can’t promise anything,” Nims says.

  Balker steps on Nims’s words. “Sooner or later the story is bound to come out. A folder kept on a girl who doesn’t even know the man—it’s unusual, which means it’s what they call newsworthy. But by the time the media hears the story, we hope to find out what the folder is all about so we can wrap up that part of the case. Okay?”

  Mom reluctantly nods agreement, but after the detectives leave she gives me a worried look. “Don’t be frightened by all this, honey,” she says. “You’re going to be all right. You’ll be safe. The police—”

  She breaks off and stares at Dad. “We should have asked about police protection. We can’t leave Kristi alone. Somebody should always be with her, even at school. I know this is our busiest season of the year, but we can hire some part-time help for the clerical work—maybe a university student from Rice or the University of Houston—”

  Mom is like a wind-up toy with new batteries, ready to go on for hours without stopping, so I grab her shoulders to interrupt her. “Mom, nobody’s after me. No stalker. No threats. Some guy has just kept pictures. No one’s going to hurt me.”

  “We don’t know that,” she says quickly.

  “Yes, we do. Douglas Merson is the one who was shot, not me. That shooting has nothing to do with us.”

  “In a way it does,” Dad tells me. “We wouldn’t have been aware of that folder if the police hadn’t discovered it.”

  Mom’s question comes out like a wail. “Oh, Drew, what does all this mean?”

  Dad’s answer is little more than a whisper. “I don’t know, Callie. Apparently, no one knows.”

  “Douglas Merson does,” I say. “And I’m going to ask him.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Kristi, be reasonable,” Mom says. “You heard the police tell us that he’s in intensive care and can’t have visitors.” She turns toward the kitchen. “I know. I’ll call one of my clients, Edna Grayburn. With her public relations job, she knows something about nearly everyone in Houston. Maybe she can tell us about—”

  “But we didn’t finish,” I complain.

  “Finish what?”

  “What we were talking about when the detectives came. About my application to that summer art program. It will help if I’m going to major in art in college, and—”

  Mom claps her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. “Oh, please, honey! Not one more word! We’ve said enough about it already! Pick a career that will support you. Can’t you see that those little cartoons you like to draw will never pay the bills?”

  “Drawing cartoons is just part of what I do. You know I’ve even won awards for my watercolors. Ms. Montero is a terrific art teacher. I trust her. And she tells me over and over that I have real artistic talent. She wants me to develop it when I go to college. She says the world would be a happier place if everyone loved their job.”

  I can hear the hurt in Mom’s voice, and I wince, as she says, “Do you care more about what Ms. Montero says than what we tell you? Think about it, Kristi. Ms. Montero isn’t going to pay for your college education. Your father and I are going to put out a fortune to get you through college. Shouldn’t we have some say in the major you chooser?”

  Dad steps between Mom and me. “This is no time to talk about college plans. Kristi has almost two years to think about college,” he says. “Callie, go ahead and call your client Edna. She may know something about Douglas Merson that will help us figure out what the folder on Kristi is all about.”

  Mom gives me an agonized look, then leaves for the bedroom phone.

  I ask Dad, “When someone’s in intensive care, how do you get in to see him?”

  “You usually don’t, unless you’re family,” Dad says, and shakes his head.

  “I’m just trying to help,” I tell him. “And besides, it’s like the bear. You know?”

  For a moment he looks puzzled. Then his eyes spark, and I can see that he has remembered. He smiles at me. “You mean the nightmare bear,” he says.

  “That’s right. The one that I’d dream about and then wake up crying when I was a little kid. You taught me to face the bear and say, ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ so he’d go away. And finally he did.”

  “Mr. Merson’s real. He’s not a nightmare bear,” Dad says.

  “But I have to face him, Dad—just like I did with the bear. I have to know what he looks like. And I have to know why he kept a folder of pictures and stuff about me. You understand, don’t you?”

  Dad nods. “I understand, Kristi. I’m your father. I want to know too. You’ll have to be patient. So will I. Ben Taub Hospital has one of the best emergency rooms in Houston, and most gunshot victims are taken there. But Mr. Merson’s a wealthy man. When he’s able to leave intensive care, he’ll probably transfer to a smaller, private hospital. Then Detective Balker can arrange a visit.”

  “But—”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Dad says firmly.

  Oh, yes, I do, I tell myself. This intrusion is something that makes me totally uncomfortable. It’s terribly important to me to see Douglas Merson. I am not a baby. Hospital rules or no rules—I must see him as soon as I can, no matter what anyone says.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Our Sunday-morning newspaper is still on the kitchen table. The story about the shooting is on the front page of the Chronicle, and there’s a picture of Merson’s house, with crime tape stretched around the trees on the broad front yard. No address. Just the description “posh River Oaks home.” But down in the story is the name of the street: Buffalo Bayou Lane. I stare at the photograph until I memorize the look of the house.

  It’s a large, modernistic, two-story, white brick building with a tile roof, and three rounded steps up to a gigantic front door with a center panel of leaded glass. The house stretches wide wings out among the trees, some of the oaks dripping with strands of gray moss, and there are huge windows everywhere. The house is a light, bright spot in spite of the heavy shade, and the front yard is so beautiful it could only have been planted by a landscape designer.

  There are no photographs of Merson with the story, as I thought there surely must be.

  Who are you? I silently ask. Why did you suddenly shove your way into my life? I didn’t ask you to.

  I’m scared at what I’m about to do. Maybe Mom’s right. Maybe someone besides Merson has been stalking me to take those photos, so I should keep someone by my side and not go out alone. But it can’t be Mom. And not Dad. Not with what I plan to do. With them everything is rules, regulations, and order, in tidy, even columns. Sometimes those things come in handy, sometimes I even appreciate them, but right now rules are the last things I need.

  I snatch up my purse and car keys. As though it’s a good-luck charm, I tuck Detective Balker’s card into my bag.

  Dad’s in the same spot where I left him, sitting motionless, frowning at something invisible. “Could I take your car or Mom’s?” I ask him. “Mom’s going to be on the phone for hours and hours—maybe days. Edna talks forever, and Mom will want to call Grandma and Aunt Darlene. I want to tell Lindy what ha
ppened. I’d rather see her than wait for the phone.”

  Dad’s frown deepens. “We aren’t sure who took the photos of you. And your mother suggested asking for police protection. I think maybe you should stay home, or one of us should be with you, Kristi.”

  “Surely, if I were in danger, the detectives would have said so.”

  “Maybe you should check your plans with your mother.”

  “Mom’s upset right now. She won’t want to be interrupted—especially if Edna is giving her some important information.”

  I want to win this argument, so I try hard to stay calm and rational and not get all excited and lose my temper. When Mom blows up, she claims it’s because teenagers are so exasperating. When I do, she says it’s because I’m immature. Sometimes it’s a no-win with Mom. Dad’s easier to deal with. “I’ll be with Lindy,” I reassure him. “Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  Dad thinks about what I’ve said for a long, miserable moment. Then he nods. “Well, in the days ahead you’ll have to go to school, Kristi, and your mother and I will have to go to work. I guess we can’t be with you every minute. I think you’re correct in saying that the police would have warned us if they felt protection was necessary.”

  “Are you telling me I can go to Lindy’s?” I ask.

  Dad flicks one quick, anxious glance in the direction of my mother’s voice. Then he says, “Go ahead, honey. Just be watchful. Be extra careful.”

  “I will, Dad,” I tell him. I kiss him on his forehead and leave as quickly and quietly as I can. I’m shaky. My stomach hurts. I’m scared. My fingers tremble as I shove the key into the ignition of Dad’s car.

  The street is empty. Except for two cars parked down the street, no one’s in sight. As I leave the driveway I carefully watch the parked cars in my rearview mirror. Neither of them starts up. In fact, they’re both empty. Don’t think about being followed, I tell myself. No one’s going to come after you.

  Dad’s little four-door, four-cylinder dark blue sedan is quiet and respectable and dull. To get my mind off what I’m doing, I pretend—as I often do—that his car is a low-slung red Lamborghini. In no time I drive the dozen blocks to Lindy’s house. I wonder if I ever will be lucky enough to drive an expensive sports car. I like bright splashes of color. It’s hard to figure out why both my parents are content to wrap themselves in dark shades of brown, gray, or navy blue.

  As I pull into Lindy’s driveway, she’s out on the lawn in grass-stained shorts, her red hair like fireworks in the strong sunlight. I can see that she’s been trying to teach Snickers, her cat, to catch a Frisbee. Snickers, of course, couldn’t be more bored and uncooperative. That doesn’t seem to bother Lindy, who picks up Snickers, nuzzles the top of her head, and grins into the open driver’s window. “What’s up, Kristi?” she asks.

  “Ask your mom if you can come with me,” I tell her.

  Lindy pushes her hair from her eyes and takes a step toward her front door. “Where are we going? The mall?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. “I’ve got something to—um—show you.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “I will, once we’re on our way,” I answer.

  Lindy shrugs. “Okay. I’ll just tell my mom you’ve got a surprise for me.”

  I hope the excuse will be enough. There’s no way her mom can know we’re going to Ben Taub Hospital. She’d call my mom, and my mom would … Forget it. I’m not exactly lying. I’m just not telling everything I know. There’s a difference.

  While I’m waiting for Lindy, I pull out a map book from under the driver’s seat and look up the directions to Ben Taub. I’ve been in the area fairly often. Rice University. Hermann Park. The Museum of Fine Arts. The zoo. And blocks and blocks and blocks of hospitals in a gigantic medical center. I find the Ben Taub area and plan my route. I’m too shaky to drive the freeways, so I’ll zigzag from Briar Forest to Westpark, cut over to Kirby and down to Sunset, and take Fannin to MacGregor and the Ben Taub Loop. The map shows a parking garage next to the hospital.

  Hurry up, Lindy. Hurry up, hurry up. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. It’s going to take at least forty-five minutes to get there.

  The passenger door flies open and Lindy—cleaned up and tidy—shoots in. “What?” she cries as she bangs the door shut. “Tell me. What, what, what?”

  I carefully back out of the driveway and head down the street, just in case her mother runs outside to find out more. Again I’m wary about being followed, but there’s no sign that anyone’s after me.

  “I’ll tell you,” I promise Lindy. “Pay attention, and don’t interrupt, no matter what I say. We have to stay cool, because we’re going to do something that might be against the rules, and we can’t get caught.”

  “Caught doing what?” Lindy squeaks. Her eyes are huge as she stares at me.

  “I’ll get to that,” I tell her. “Just listen. I’m going to start at the very beginning. Someone’s been spying on me, and Lindy … I’m scared!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I finish my story, Lindy just stares ahead for a few minutes without speaking. Then she says, “We aren’t his relatives. We aren’t even his friends. They’ll never let us in to see him.”

  “Not us. Me. I’ll go in. You’ll stand guard.”

  I can hear Lindy gulp. “Guard? I won’t be any good as a guard. Nurses intimidate me. Did I tell you about when I had my tonsils out and I—”

  “Yes. A couple of times,” I interrupt. “But no one’s going to do anything more than tell you that you don’t belong there and you have to leave.”

  “And you, too.”

  “I know. But all I need is one minute with Mr. Merson. I just need to see his face. You understand how I feel, don’t you?”

  Lindy nods. “Sure. I’m curious, too. While you were telling me about him, I was trying to picture what he looked like. How old is he?”

  “They didn’t say. But he’s old enough to have a grown-up son.”

  “Right. You said his son’s name was Roger, and he was twenty-one when he died. How long ago was that?”

  “I didn’t ask the police.”

  “I would have,” Lindy says. “I should have been there with you.” She looks pleased with herself.

  “I wish you had been,” I tell her. “But at least you’re with me now.”

  “And I’ll be at your side right up to the very moment they throw us out of the hospital.”

  “They won’t throw us out.”

  “Want to bet? People take one look at a couple of teenagers and immediately suspect they’re up to no good.”

  “Not when they’re with adults. Then they don’t pay any attention to them.”

  Lindy sighs. “But we won’t be with any adults.”

  “Yes, we will,” I tell her. “I’ve been thinking about it. Ben Taub is a huge, busy community hospital with people going in and out. We’ll just watch for someone old enough to be our mother and walk in when she does, trying to look like we’re with her.”

  Traffic grows heavier as people come out of late church services and head for favorite restaurants or home. When we reach the Ben Taub parking garage we have to get into a slow-moving line.

  “It must be visiting hours,” Lindy says.

  “Good. It will make our visit even easier.”

  Luckily, on the third floor a driver pulls out of a visitor’s space, and I drive in. Lindy and I travel down the elevator and across an open walkway to the hospital entrance.

  “Visiting a patient?” a guard at the lobby door asks me.

  I answer, “Yes,” and he points to a glassed-in walkway with a metal detector, like those in an airport.

  “You gotta go through there,” he says.

  Lindy and I put our bags on the belt to be run through the X rays, and we walk through the metal detector without setting anything off. The woman behind me places on the belt a large, wrapped gift box. It disappears into the X-ray machine.

  “Why do they d
o this?” Lindy whispers to me.

  I look at her without answering. Some of the people brought here for care are on the wrong side of the law. Some people are crazy. Lindy knows that. It’s just not something I want to think about.

  Ben Taub is a bright, clean hospital with plenty of directional signs. We spot the ICU info, make a turn past the gift shop to the nearest elevators, and go to the fourth floor, to the intensive care unit.

  A sign over a door says WAITING ROOM, so Lindy and I slip inside. A few of the people seated on the molded plastic chairs look up at us, but their eyes are dulled with worry, so their curiosity doesn’t last long. There are two empty chairs next to an untidy woman who slumps in her seat. Lindy and I quietly sit down while I try to decide what to do next.

  Visiting hours for intensive care patients are posted. Three times a day. One of the times is one to one-thirty. I look at my watch. I feel lucky. It’s five after one. I don’t have much time.

  A man lumbers through the door and drops into a chair next to the woman seated beside me. “She’s doing okay,” he says in an exhausted voice. “She wants to see you.”

  The woman stiffens. “Do I have to?”

  The man lowers his voice. “She’s always been good to you,” he says. “Go see her. Let her talk. It’s the least you can do.”

  The woman turns her head away from him and gives a grunt of disapproval, but she hoists herself out of her chair and waddles toward the door.

  “Come on,” I whisper to Lindy.

  We follow the woman around the corner to a station where a nurse is seated at a desk. A stocky woman in a security uniform stands next to her. They take a good look at the woman, and the nurse at the desk asks, “Name of patient?”

  “Fritz. Imogene Fritz,” the woman mumbles.

  The nurse nods. “You’ll go through two automatic doors. Press the square buttons on the wall at the right of the doors. They’ll open the doors for you.”