by Herta Feely
“So you’re saying if she doesn’t come out of the coma and we don’t insert a feeding tube, she’ll starve to death?” Isabel blurted out.
“Yes, but if she has no brain function, then—” Dr. Bailey stopped. Isabel could tell the doctor believed there was no point in being overly graphic; people could fill in the blanks. They weren’t stupid. But Isabel pushed her, “Then what, doctor?”
“Then there’s no sensation,” she said, speaking softly, “hence, no awareness of the pain.”
Ron wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea to meet Sandy at the Georgetown Mall, but after the session with Dr. Bailey he needed a drink. And besides, he felt it was safer to see her in a public place than a remote one, where he could get into trouble again. But now, here at the base of the mall’s vast three-story atrium, he knew he’d have to come up with a plausible alibi if he encountered someone familiar. The thought of wearing his sunglasses passed through his mind, but that was ridiculous. The Georgetown Mall wasn’t that well lit to begin with.
While waiting, he sat at the bar of the Japanese restaurant on the lower level and ordered a pot of sake, nice and hot. He’d almost asked for two at once. The first shot went down easy, and he decided that if anyone saw him here with Sandy, he’d just say he’d come from the hospital to pick up some carry-out and by coincidence ran into her. It was pretty lame, but no one could prove it wasn’t true. Especially since he was sitting here alone now.
He ordered a second sake, appreciating the way it slid down his throat and warmed him, the way it was beginning to anesthetize him to the news from today’s meeting. As usual, the doctor had been maddeningly non-committal about Phoebe’s prognosis. He could read between the lines though. It wasn’t just when she might emerge from the coma, but if.
He poured himself another tumbler and stared at the clear liquid inside the miniature porcelain cup. He couldn’t help returning to the scene that had indelibly etched itself into his mind, the one he most wanted to erase: the dreadful moment he’d found Phoebe.
If only he’d arrived a few minutes earlier, or if he’d raced upstairs the moment he came home. But no, he’d shouted up to her, assuming Isabel’s frantic call had been an over-reaction. When there’d been no answer, he’d slowly climbed the stairs to her attic suite, thinking he’d find her on her computer, probably on Facebook. He checked her room and saw her stuff lying about. Only then had he knocked on the partially open bathroom door. “Phoebe?” he’d called, sensitive to her need for privacy.
He could tell someone was taking a bath from the mist curling inside the room, but it was dark, and that seemed strange. He waited another couple of seconds, seconds he now knew held an urgency he’d failed to recognize, then called Phoebe’s name again. No answer.
He’d pushed the door open and stepped inside. On seeing her body floating in the tub, he’d cried out, “Oh, my God, baby!” He switched on the light and almost fainted at the sight of the redtinged water.
“Oh, my God, Phoebe! What—why?” Frantic, he’d grabbed a towel and lifted her out of the tub. She felt so light, a girl who’d worried about being overweight, and here she was a young woman, beautiful and blossoming, her blood everywhere. He gently laid her lifeless body on the bathroom rug and stabbed the numbers 9-1-1 into his cell phone. He was half-crazed by the time he got someone to understand what was happening, and they claimed an ambulance was on its way.
They kept him on the line, telling him to wrap bandages or towels around her wrist, anything to stop the bleeding. “Check her pulse,” they said, but he was afraid to, and when he did he couldn’t feel anything. They told him to give her breaths, and this he did by pinching her nose and breathing into her mouth. Then he placed his hands on her chest and pushed as he’d seen doctors, nurses, and emergency rescue crews do on television.
If only he could forget that image. Forget that he’d wasted precious minutes on the side of the road, talking on the phone. Had he done that? He’d almost forgotten. He took the tiny cup of hot sake, threw it into the back of his mouth and felt the soothing alcohol glide down his throat and into his gullet. Now he truly understood the meaning of drowning your sorrows in drink. Nevertheless, the image clung to him and refused to let go. Mingling with it was a vision of Phoebe in the hospital, plastic tubes stretching around and away from her body, her sallow skin, her hair lying in greasy strands, her spirit all but stripped from her physical being. How much longer before they’d have to make a decision about what to do next?
The bartender, a Japanese man in his mid-thirties, looked at him with concern. “More?”
Ron nodded. Might as well, he thought. Then he remembered why he was there and checked his watch. Sandy was late. He should just leave, he thought. He didn’t want to see her. For heaven’s sake what was he thinking when he’d agreed to meet her again? Then he clearly remembered that it had been Sandy flirting with him on the phone that day! That day when Isabel had urged him to hurry home. Oh, God. Motioning to the bartender, he told him to cancel the drink and bring the check.
“Hi, Ron,” Sandy said softly.
He felt as if she’d caught him in mid-flight. Blushing, he turned to face her. She took a seat on the barstool beside him, and shaking her head said, “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.” She looked genuinely apologetic. He watched her place a bloated plastic bag at her feet. Carry-out food. Now there was nothing to do but stay a minute. He was strangely at a loss for words.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Sure, what are you having?” She sounded young and uncertain, which surprised him.
“Sake. You want some?”
“I’ve never tried it, but why not? It’s a mess out there. Heard there’s some bad weather coming in.”
He cancelled his check and placed two more orders of sake. They both sat quietly.
After taking several swallows, she said, “How’s it going? Anything new with Phoebe, I mean.”
Somehow those few words caused him to well up and his throat to constrict so that he couldn’t speak. He shook his head. “Not good,” he finally managed.
She again placed her hand on his arm. Her mouth close to his ear, she whispered, “Let it out, Ron. Don’t hold it in. What’s the point in that?” Her voice sounded full of tenderness and concern, though if he’d listened more carefully, he might have heard that it was also laced with something else. Fear. The fear that Phoebe would die and she’d be found out.
Sandy rubbed his back with one hand and with the other lifted the tiny cup and drained its contents. “Tell me what’s going on. What are the docs saying? How’s Isabel? Jackson? Tell me everything. I’m here to listen. Or we can just sit here and drink. Whatever you want, Ron. You can count on me. Nothing tougher than what you’re going through.”
Downing his fourth tiny cup of sake, Ron told her everything the doctor had said. He didn’t even care if anyone saw them. Let them. What the hell! She was kind enough to listen to him blab.
And then he told her how he’d found Phoebe, how the EMTs had come and thought it was too late until one of them found a weak pulse, how they’d managed to get her down three flights of stairs on the gurney, how she looked so vulnerable and helpless, how he prayed every hour of the day even though he wasn’t religious, how stressed out and impossible Isabel was, how this was the worst event of his life, and how no parent should have to suffer such a thing. He described everything but the fact that he’d wasted precious minutes on the side of the road talking to her and setting up a lunch date.
Several times he considered mentioning Jessie, that maybe she knew the culprit, but he felt awkward and refrained. After finishing his story he cried and felt a little better. He was so grateful that she’d listened without interruption, only brief murmurings that soothed him.
Sandy took over without him noticing and paid the bill, then began steering him toward the elevators to the underground garage, and finally to his black SUV. He used the remote to open the car and slid in behind the wheel as she sco
oted into the passenger seat.
“I put the heating directions on top,” she said, pointing at the large shopping bag at her feet. “So all you have to do is follow instructions. You can do that, can’t you, Ron Murray?” She laughed a little at her joke and so did he.
She reached for his hands. “Now don’t hesitate to call me, okay? I’m here for ya. And don’t worry about yesterday. Our secret,” she said coyly and winked. She grasped his chin firmly, tugging it toward her so his mouth could meet hers. Then she gave him another nice, long, hard kiss, and allowed him to suck her tongue into his mouth like a greedy teenage boy. Like all those boys who’d wanted her. Like Les and Shane and all the rest.
Once again, she caressed his crotch, now bulging with a hardened cock, unzipped his khakis and stroked and fondled him, then unzipped her own pants and placed his fingers inside her wetness to let him feel how turned on she was.
“Easy does it,” she said, lowering her head and putting his fat cock into her mouth. She heard a satisfied grunt. Then, as her tongue titillated and teased him, she thought she heard him say, “Damn it, Sandy, no,” then “Oh, God, Sandy, fuck me,” and then, “You fucking beautiful bitch, you fucking bitch.” In less than two minutes she’d finished sucking him off.
He let out a strangled cry that sounded throughout the cavernous garage. The scattered few who heard him weren’t sure if it was a cry of alarm, joy, or relief. Maybe all three.
Twenty minutes later, Ron pulled into the circular driveway. He’d half-expected – no, he’d hoped – Isabel would still be at the hospital. But her BMW sat there, like some shady character lurking in front of the house. He’d hoped to take a shower, but now realized that might seem peculiar. It wasn’t as if he’d gone to the gym and worked out or played squash.
He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, making sure there wasn’t any stray lipstick on his face, and with both hands raked his fingers through his thick wavy hair, hair that for an instant conjured Phoebe and shamed him. Next, he examined his features – what did a guilty expression look like anyway? – then he took a deep breath and exhaled. For some reason he was feeling a lot less steady today than yesterday. Maybe because yesterday more time had elapsed between seeing Sandy, no, between fucking her and seeing Isabel.
He switched off the radio, though he hadn’t heard a word of NPR’s evening news. From the time he left the garage until a moment ago, all his thoughts had revolved around Sandy. He’d had no intention of fucking around again. How was it that she’d gotten him into his car, taken his dick into her mouth and made him come? It was all the anxiety, stress, and pressure, he told himself. For a moment, though, he couldn’t help recalling how great his orgasm had felt.
He rubbed his hand across his lips with the memory, then noticed Sandy’s tangy odor. Shit! His heart started hammering. He stuck his fingers in his mouth and licked them vigorously, then wiped them on the floor mat. He had to get himself together and walk into the house as though nothing had happened. He took several more breaths to calm himself.
Finally, he turned the engine off. At the front door he adjusted his expression once more, serious but not too serious, sniffed his fingers again – he’d wash them immediately – and inhaled yet one more deep breath, then released it. Thus fortified, he inserted the key into the lock, and, shopping bag in hand, stepped inside.
He listened for sounds coming from the kitchen, hoping there wouldn’t be any, but of course there were. The banging of a cupboard, the refrigerator opening and closing, water splashing in the sink. He wanted to go hole up with Jackson, but on days that Isabel was home he always went in to see her first. Today of all days, he couldn’t change his entry routine, and so he dropped his briefcase on the hallway bench and made his way into the kitchen with the sack of food Sandy had given him.
Isabel’s eyes locked onto his the moment he entered. “What’s wrong?” she said, as if sensing something amiss.
Heading for the sink, he answered, “Nothing, I’m, you know, as okay as somebody can be,” he looked at her helplessly and added, “under the circumstances.” Then he said, “I should have called. Got some carry-out.” From Sandy, he thought. He was careful not to lie. Of course he was splitting hairs, withholding information was as good as lying, wasn’t it? He thought of Phoebe and how upset Isabel had been all those weeks ago.
“Oh, good,” she said. “I was just trying to pull something together, but my heart’s not in it. What’d you get?”
Then he remembered that Sandy hadn’t told him, only that she’d left heating instructions inside. Oh, Christ. He stared at her blankly as he dried his hands. “Hey, I have an idea,” he said. “You probably need a drink as much as I do. Why don’t you go make us two gin and tonics and I’ll heat the stuff up, get dinner on the table? I’ll surprise you. How’s that?”
She came over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Full on the lips. At first rigid, he finally managed to give in to the kiss, but all the while he couldn’t help worrying about any lingering scent of Sandy. When Isabel pulled away and looked at him, his heart thumped a little harder.
“Oh, Ron, our baby,” she said, her lip quivering.
Relieved, he embraced her again and pulled her tightly to his chest. “She’ll be okay. We have to believe that, honey baby.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her that. Holding her at arms’ length and fixing her with a commiserating grin, he said, “Okay, get me that drink, and I’ll whip up dinner.” He felt himself acting far too happy. Dial it down, he told himself.
But Izzy didn’t seem to notice. She gave him a wan smile. “Okay.”
The minute she left, he pulled the containers out of the Dean & DeLuca bag and searched for the instructions. There they were. He perused them quickly, noting the childish loopiness of Sandy’s script, then wadded up the sheet of paper and threw it in the trash. Heating dinner wasn’t exactly rocket science. In any case, the note was mostly about how much she hoped they’d enjoy the food and how sorry she was about Phoebe.
He was glad he hadn’t mentioned anything about Jessie. Surely, if Jessie knew something, Sandy would have told him.
He was busily microwaving each dish and setting the table, when Isabel returned with two drinks. She looked at all the food. “Looks like you got enough for the whole neighborhood.” He realized that Sandy had bought far more than they’d eat in three, or even four, days’ time. He reached for his drink. “Oh well, we can always eat leftovers, or we can freeze some of this stuff.”
Silently, Ron patted himself on the back with the way he was handling each little twist and turn in their conversation. It didn’t hurt that Isabel seemed in much better spirits, but still things were working without a hitch. He promised himself that although no one was hurt by his fooling around, tonight really had been the last time. For the first time in a week, he actually felt like he still loved Isabel. It hadn’t been all her fault. No, he bore part of the blame. He almost felt like clinking glasses, but the image of his baby girl in the hospital stopped him.
To his surprise though, Isabel raised her glass, eyes glistening. “Do you know what day it is?” she asked.
Before he could respond, the phone rang and Isabel walked over to answer it. Ron put down his drink, took one of the dishes out of the microwave and added another, wondering what Isabel had been referring to.
“Oh, hello. Thank you,” he heard her say. “She’s, uh, still the same.” Pause. “Of course I know Jessie.”
Jessie? Ron wondered, then saw Isabel’s body stiffen.
“What’s that?” she asked.
Slightly alarmed he moved to her side to listen in, but she moved away from him. He watched her face grow ashen and several lines crease her forehead. “What else did Jessie say?”
On hearing those words, Ron was sure his cover had just been blown. But how could Jessie know? And who the hell was on the phone? Rifling through his brain for an out, he heard Isabel say, “Yes, of course. But he’s sure that
’s what she said?” Then, “Well, thank you. Goodbye.” She ended the call, staring vacantly into space.
“What was all that about?” Ron asked, stricken with fear to hear the answer.
Isabel listed slightly, her shoulder touching the wall. “That was Noah’s mother,” she said, her tone devoid of emotion. “Yesterday at school Jessie told Noah that Sandy…that Sandy was Shane, and she wanted us to know. Noah did some additional checking and found that Shane’s Facebook page had been linked to an IP address of Sandy’s, or something like that.” Isabel looked bewildered, staring off at a point just beyond Ron.
The effects of all that sake combined with the gin was clouding Ron’s ability to think. “You’re not making sense. What do you mean Sandy was Shane?” What the hell was she saying?
“Sandy was behind creating him. He wasn’t a real person, and he wasn’t even some teenage boy. He was Sandy.” The color had further drained from her face. “It was Sandy. Sandy led our daughter on; she was the one who taunted and bullied her. She—” her voice trailed off.
The room tilted around Ron.
“I’m going to kill her,” Isabel said.
Chapter Six
Ron needed time to think. Had he really screwed around with a woman who’d done this to his daughter? His daughter who might be permanently brain damaged – who might die. Oh, God.
Minutes earlier, despite Isabel’s repeated urging, Ron had refused to accompany her, saying they couldn’t just leave Jackson. “Look we need to get actual proof that Sandy was involved. You can’t just go over there half-cocked,” he said.
Isabel had grown violent then. “What’s wrong with you?” she’d shouted. “How much more confirmation do you need?”
