Who Are You? (9780307823533)

by Nixon, Joan Lowery

  “Ask the nurse a question,” I whisper to Lindy. “Block her view.”

  As Lindy leans across the desk, I join the woman, as though I’m her daughter, and pass through the electronic doors to the intensive care unit.

  Another nurse looks at us both. “Wash your hands before visiting the patient,” she says. “And when you leave, wash your hands again.”

  I wash and dry my hands at the sink she points to, then step out of her sight. There are beds in two rows along the outside walls. Around each of them is equipment, from IV holders to monitor screens. They look familiar since I sometimes watch the hospital shows on TV.

  Down the center is an array of cabinets, sinks, and everything else the nurses need to work with. I’m thankful for this barrier, which hides me from the nurse on duty.

  Quickly I eye the charts at the foot of the beds where there are no visitors. On my third try, down near the end of the room, I find the name Douglas Merson.

  It’s hard to breathe. I’m dizzy, and I hope I won’t pass out. I take small, shallow breaths as I scoot around the bed and stand at the side where I can look down on Merson’s face.

  As I grip the guardrail on the bed, I whimper. I don’t mean to react, but I can’t help it. I see only the small part of his face that isn’t swathed in bandages or hooked up to tubes. Merson’s eyes and forehead are exposed and there’s a slit where his mouth should be, but his eyes are closed. Has he heard me? Does he know I’m here?

  “Who are you?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t respond. Just like the other patients, he’s attached to electric monitors and IV drips. His monitor makes a steady green line of jumps and wiggles and it beeps in rhythm, which must mean that his heart is beating the way it’s supposed to.

  I take a long, deep breath and try to think of Plan B. Only there is no Plan B. I knew Merson was hurt. I should have realized that his face would be bandaged. I don’t think things through, as Mom sometimes reminds me.

  I take a closer look at Mr. Merson. His light blond hair is streaked with gray. It probably thinned as he grew older, but he hasn’t begun to go bald. His shoulders are definitely broad, he’s tall, and I guess—from the way the sheet mounds over his body—that he isn’t thin, but he isn’t fat, either. I imagine he takes pretty good care of himself.

  I remember reading once that sometimes people in a coma can hear when music is played or they’re spoken to. I don’t know if Mr. Merson is in a coma, or if he’s just out of it because he’s been given pain pills. But on the chance he can hear me I lean forward, resting my arms on the guardrail.

  “I’m Kristi Evans,” I say quietly. “I came to see you because the police told us that you kept a folder with information about me in it. They showed me some of the photographs.”

  I don’t know why, but, standing beside his bed, I’m not afraid of Douglas Merson any longer. My curiosity and fear have turned to pity. This man in the intensive care unit lies helpless. “I’m sorry you were shot,” I tell him. “But you survived, so when you get a little better you can tell the police who did it. And you can tell me—will you please, please tell me?—why you’ve saved things about me ever since I was a baby. I have to know.”

  Maybe, at the back of my mind, I’ve been hoping for a sign like a wiggle of his fingers or flutter of his eyelids, so I’ll know he heard me. But his eyes don’t open, and the beeping machine keeps up its steady rhythm.

  Suddenly a nurse appears beside me. “Are you a family member?” she asks.

  I sorrowfully look away from Mr. Merson and shake my head. “I’m a friend. I heard he was shot in the jaw, but his nose is bandaged too. What happened to his face?”

  “Broken nose, skin abrasions. He’ll be eating all his meals through a straw for a while.” She smiles at me. “Better leave now and let him sleep.”

  “I’ll come back, Mr. Merson,” I tell him. “When you can have visitors, I’ll come and see you.”

  He gently breathes in and out. He doesn’t show that he hears me.

  The nurse leads me out to the waiting room. I motion to Lindy, and we walk to the elevators. We soon find ourselves back in the parking garage, headed for Dad’s car.

  The moment we’re seated, Lindy asks, “Okay, tell me. What does he look like? Have you seen him before?”

  I sigh. “Most of his face was covered with bandages.” As I drive out of the parking garage I add, “He didn’t look like a monster, Lindy. He looked kind of sad, and pitiful, and old. He’s probably almost as old as Grandma.”

  As we cross Main and head for Kirby, I look at my watch. “We’re awfully close to the Museum of Fine Arts. Want to stop in for a little while?”

  Lindy laughs. “Your home away from home? Not today.”

  Even with everything that’s happened, visiting the museum seems sane to me.

  “They’re showing an exhibition of early sketches by Picasso. Ms. Montero said my style reminds her a little bit of his during his early period. I’ve been wanting my parents to go with me, but with everyone needing their income tax figured out, Mom and Dad have been too busy.”

  Lindy laughs. “Your parents think in terms of accounting stuff, and you’re so different. I’m just like my mom. Even in looks,” she says, pointing to her wild hair.

  “Maybe I’m a changeling,” I tell her. “I’m a true fairy child, given to hardworking accountants to raise. Someday I’ll break out of the mold and turn into a famous artist, and then everyone will know. And they’ll be sorry they told me I’d waste time and money getting a degree in art.”

  Lindy puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, don’t look so serious, Kristi,” she says. “You’ve told me that your grandmother says you take after her oldest brother, Elton. Maybe Elton drew like Picasso too.”

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Grandma said Elton was too busy running his farm up in Oklahoma to do much with his art. In our family I seem to be one of a kind.”

  Lindy suddenly says, “What are you looking for? You’re jumpy, and you keep staring into your rearview mirror. You think we’re being followed, don’t you?”

  “I know we’re not,” I tell her. “I’m just—oh, I don’t know. My mind is wandering and now what the detectives told us shook me up.”

  “Are you too nervous to drive home through River Oaks, instead of down Westpark?” Lindy asks. “Maybe we can see the house where Douglas Merson lives. Want to?”

  “Yes,” I answer quickly, surprised at my eagerness. I can feel the pressure of excitement in my chest. I wonder why I didn’t think of this myself.

  “Can you find the house?” Lindy asks. “Do you have Douglas Merson’s address?”

  “I know what it looks like, from the newspaper photo, and that it’s on a street called Buffalo Bayou Lane.” I pull up to a stoplight at Kirby and Alabama and tug the map book out from under the seat. As I hand it to Lindy I ask, “Look it up for me, will you? You can give me directions.”

  In just a few minutes Lindy says, “We’re on Kirby, so when we get to Inwood, turn left. Keep going a little way past River Oaks Boulevard. Buffalo Bayou Lane comes in on the right and winds to the north. Hey! It’s right next to the bayou itself.”

  “Which is why, boys and girls, the street’s named Buffalo Bayou Lane. Surprise!” I say.

  “Very funny,” Lindy answers. “I don’t think I’d want to live next to one of the bayous. All the bayous in Houston are muddy and yucky and full of snakes.” She scratches her chin. “My dad says property along the bayous is more valuable because the bayous offer more privacy. But I think there’s another reason—guard snakes, to keep burglars from sneaking up on back doors.”

  “Guard snakes?” I laugh. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “I’m serious,” Lindy says. “If you were a burglar, would you want to go squishing through a bayou with poisonous snakes in it?”

  “What about hanging boa constrictors in the trees?”

  “Sure. They could be imported.”

  Lindy keeps going on ab
out guard snakes, and soon we’re both laughing. I know that Lindy’s trying to keep me from worrying about what’s happened. Mom and Dad think of Lindy as an airhead because she had to be tutored through algebra II, but I know she’s sharp where it really counts.

  It doesn’t take long to get to Buffalo Bayou Lane. I turn right and follow the narrow road that winds among the trees. The homes are far apart and set back from the street. We pass a French chateau, a huge stone house that looks like an English castle, and a plantation home right out of a Gone With the Wind movie set. At the curve, where Buffalo Bayou makes a sharp bend, we suddenly come upon Douglas Merson’s house—very modern and stark white.

  Lindy sucks in her breath. “Wow!” she says. “That’s where he lives? Really?”

  “Really,” I answer. The yellow strips of crime tape have been taken away. Nothing should spoil the beauty of this setting.

  But something did spoil it. Attempted murder.

  Without planning to, I find myself steering the car up the long drive toward the house.

  “Hey!” Lindy whispers, and she stiffens. “What are you doing?”

  “Somebody must be inside,” I tell her. “It’s a big house. I’m sure Mr. Merson doesn’t live there alone.”

  “But if his wife comes to the door, what will you say?”

  “They said he isn’t married. Whoever answers the door will probably be someone who works for him.”

  “Wow!” Lindy says again. “A butler, maybe? Like in British films? I’ve never seen a real live butler.”

  I park next to the steps to the front door and slowly get out of the car. I’ve made a mistake. I should jump back in the car and quickly drive away. But Lindy is following my example. She’s out of the car, ready for what I’m going to do next.

  I can’t run. I have to finish what I started. I get the weird feeling that someone inside the house is watching me.

  Gulping down my fear, I take one step at a time, climb the brick steps, and ring the doorbell.

  I don’t have time to catch my breath before the door opens wide. I was right. Someone was there.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The man who stands in the doorway reminds me of the background figures in some of the Dutch masters’ paintings—solid, solemn, and totally interchangeable. Average face, average brown hair, average height—about five ten. He’s wearing a tan shirt and slacks that seem designed to make him look unimportant. “What can I do for you?” he asks, and even his voice is forgettable.

  I wish I’d planned something intelligent to say. “This is my friend Lindy Baker, and my name is Kristi Evans,” I announce. I wait for his reaction. If he lives here—or even just works here—he probably knows about Mr. Merson’s folder about me, doesn’t he?

  His eyes don’t flicker. His eyebrows don’t twitch. His expression doesn’t change. He looks as if he’s never heard of me.

  “Kristi Evans,” I repeat.

  “What can I do for you, Ms. Evans?” he asks.

  “You can tell me something about Mr. Douglas Merson,” I say.

  “About his medical condition?” I catch a note of surprise. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “There is nothing I can tell you.” The door begins to close.

  “Wait! Please wait!” I call. I have no idea what to say. I just blurt out, “The police have been to see me and my parents. Two detectives told us that Mr. Merson has kept a folder about me, but I’ve never even met Mr. Merson. I need to know who he is and why he has a folder about me!”

  “I know nothing about—” the man begins. But he breaks off, looking at a car that has shot into the driveway.

  With a screech of brakes a gold Infiniti comes to a stop just behind Dad’s car. The door flies open, and a woman slides out.

  I see her blue silk suit, which is really expensive, and her dark, sleek haircut, which makes her look as if she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Gold shines at her ears, throat, and wrist; rings on both hands flash in the sunlight.

  At first I think she’s in her late twenties or early thirties, but as she strides toward us I can see there’s a thick layer of makeup over a face that’s probably in Mom’s age group. She’s tall and slender and looks good, though.

  She throws Lindy and me a quick glance, then ignores us. Probably thinks we’re selling raffle tickets door-to-door for our school. “Frederick!” she calls. “I’m glad you’re here! I just heard about poor, dear Douglas, and I’m devastated.”

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Chase,” Frederick says. I notice he keeps a firm grip on the door.

  “Tell me what happened to Douglas,” Ms. Chase cries. Her voice stretches higher and tighter, and she speaks so fast that her words stumble into each other. “Of course, I know you weren’t here, since Saturdays are your days off, but you can tell me what the police told you. If only I’d been on hand. I was out of town—Austin, a new gallery opening. Ilsa’s gallery. She’s not exactly a friend, but I felt I had to be there. She used to work with me.”

  Ms. Chase gulps in a breath and rushes on. “You know how boring some of those openings can be, and this one was. I had a raging headache from the champagne—not the best quality, which I should have expected—and the Four Seasons is comfortable—the only place I ever stay in Austin—so I didn’t drive back to Houston until this afternoon. When I heard the news on my car radio, I simply came apart. Imagine Douglas being shot in the head. I can’t believe he’s still alive!” Her words run down long enough for her mind to take over. “He is going to survive, isn’t he?”

  “You’ll have to ask his doctors,” Frederick answers.

  Ms. Chase doesn’t give up easily. She runs up the steps, elbowing me aside, and leans one hand against the massive door. If Frederick decides to close it, I think he’s going to have a shoving match on his hands, and Ms. Chase looks strong enough to win. I bet she works out regularly. “The staff at the hospital won’t tell me anything,” she says. “I need to talk to Douglas’s personal physician. Who is he?”

  “I’m not at liberty to give out personal information about Mr. Merson,” Frederick answers.

  Ms. Chase reminds me of a rubber band tightly stretched. I expect her to let go and shoot off at any minute, but she surprises me. She gives herself a little shake, as though she’s putting all the pieces back together, and smiles at Frederick. “This is all terribly upsetting to you, isn’t it?” she asks him. “You’ve worked for Douglas ten … twelve … how many years? And I’m sure you count him as a good friend, as well as an employer.” She lets out a long, painful sigh. “All of us share the same grief, Frederick.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Chase,” Frederick says quietly.

  She waits, as though she’s expecting him to say something else, but he stands motionless. I’m beginning to think Frederick doesn’t give information—even an opinion—to anyone. But I don’t leave. Ms. Chase obviously talks as if we don’t count. I’m curious to hear if she can get anything out of him.

  She goes on, “Now, Frederick, I’m going to ask you to do something. It’s not for me. Oh no, it’s definitely not a favor for me. It’s for poor, dear Douglas.”

  She pauses and dramatically sighs again. I’m totally caught up in this conversation, hoping for some clue.

  “Douglas has two paintings for the gallery,” Ms. Chase tells Frederick. “I was supposed to pick them up when I returned from Austin, so I’m sure they’re wrapped and ready. May I have them, please?”

  I’m positive Frederick will say he doesn’t know anything about them, so I’m surprised when he holds the door open wide and steps aside so that Ms. Chase can enter. She trots across the hall and up the broad stairway.

  I suck in my breath as I’m treated to a view of an entry hall right out of the pages of a designer magazine. My eyes survey the place quickly. The room is round, with a staircase that curves down the right side, and it’s light and bright with sunlight streaming through the broad front windows. A table with a crystal vase of white gladioli stands at the center of the room, but w
hat catches my eye and holds it is on the wall facing the door. A canvas is covered with vertical splashes of reds, oranges, yellows, blues, and greens that shimmer like a stained-glass window. At the top of the painting a woman’s face peers down through the blinding strips of color.

  “I think of her as the heart and soul of the painting,” Ms. Montero told our art class as she showed us a slide of this painting. I’ve forgotten the name of the painting, but I can remember the name of the artist—Frank Kupka. I also remember that the painting is supposed to be hanging in New York’s Museum of Modern Art.

  Puzzled, I actually step forward to see better. It is not a print, and it’s not a lithograph. I can see the strong brush strokes in the oil paint.

  Suddenly Frederick steps in front of me, blocking my view. As Frederick moves forward, I stumble back, my face burning with embarrassment. I’ve entered this house without being invited, and now I’m being forced to leave. When I reach the front steps I stammer, “I—I’m sorry. The painting … it’s so beautiful … I had to get a closer look … I wasn’t thinking.”

  Frederick gives a stiff nod, then silently closes the big door.

  Lindy waits on the drive. She looks a little scared. “What were you doing?” she asks me as I join her.

  “There’s a painting in the entry hall. I mean a real painting. The real thing, Lindy. It’s gorgeous.”

  Lindy gives me an odd look. “What’s so exciting about somebody having a painting in his house? Lots of people do.”

  “Not this painting. This is a museum piece. I saw it on a slide in Ms. Montero’s class. But she said it was hanging in the Museum of Modern Art in New York.”

  Lindy climbs into the passenger seat of the car and fastens her seat belt. “Calm down,” she tells me. “Douglas Merson obviously has a lot of money. He probably got the artist to paint another, just like the one in the museum.”

  “No way,” I insist. “The artist who painted it died around the late fifties—1957, I think Ms. Montero said.”