by G. H. Ephron
One thing was absolutely clear to me: Sylvia Jackson believed what she was saying. And it sounded plausible. After all, as Stuart Jackson had pointed out, everyone knows husbands kill wives. That was what Ralston Bridges had counted on. Had Sylvia Jackson’s attacker done the same thing? Created a careful trail of evidence that pointed to a jealous, obsessive husband?
It would be so much better for Sylvia Jackson, so much easier all around, if a jury found Stuart Jackson guilty. There would be someone to blame, someone to lock up. Then, Syl’s world could once again become benign. If I got him off, who would pay for this nightmare? If only Stuart Jackson had dropped by that night for one of his frequent visits. If only he’d walked in and been in time, maybe he could have saved her. At least he could have saved himself. But then, of course, he’d have had to go on living just as before. Only, as I knew too well, it would never again be just as before.
Don’t go there, I told myself. I pulled over a large black binder from the materials I’d stacked on the table. I made myself focus on the question at hand: Could Sylvia Jackson remember what happened just before she was shot? Unlikely. But short of turning back the clock and becoming a fly on the wall, there was no way to tell for sure. The best I could do was to determine whether now, six months later, she could recall something that she’d just seen.
“I’m going to show you some pictures,” I told her. “I want you to look at each one carefully for about five seconds. These pictures are very similar, one to the other. If you see a change from the one you’ve just been looking at, say ‘stop’ and tell me what change you see. Let’s do a couple for practice.”
I got my stopwatch out of my pocket. Syl pulled her wheelchair closer to the table. She was tense.
I opened the binder to a coloring book-style picture of a Christmas tree and pushed the start button. The second hand jerked forward. After five seconds, I turned the page. The angel at the top of the tree was gone. Syl said nothing.
I waited five more seconds and turned the page again. Now there was no change. I reminded her. “Say ‘stop’ if you see a change.”
Five more seconds. Turn. The presents under the tree disappeared. I paused as the second hand continued to sweep the dial.
“You’re going too fast,” Syl complained.
“I know it may seem like I’m going too fast, but just try to keep focused on this and do the best you can.”
Turn. This time there was no change.
“Stop,” Syl murmured. I brought out a piece of white paper and covered the picture.
She looked at me, startled. “I need to—” she protested.
“Remember, we’re just practicing to give you an idea how the test works,” I explained. “You said ‘stop.’ Did you notice a change?”
She nodded slowly and in her breathy voice said, “There were gifts under the tree. Now they’re gone.”
“Very good. You see, that’s how it goes,” I said and put the practice cards aside.
Next, I showed her a series of line drawings of a house with a landscape around it. Over the course of fifty pictures, there are eighteen changes. The sun disappears. The front door. The chimney. The average person notices about fourteen changes. Syl caught three.
The second series of pictures was of a cowboy and an Indian fighting—not politically correct, but the test was developed back in the fifties. I repeated the directions and started my stopwatch. Syl glanced at me nervously and gripped the arms of her wheelchair with grim determination. Then she turned her attention to the first picture.
I turned the page. The cowboy’s scarf disappeared. Syl just stared at the page.
Next page. No change. Syl remained still. Her frown deepened when I turned to the next page where, again, there was no change. I waited. Syl shifted nervously in her seat.
I turned the page. The Indian’s headdress disappeared. Still she said nothing.
I turned the page again.
“Stop!” she cried out. I covered the picture. She squinted at the blank page and took a long breath before saying, “The Indian’s feathers are gone.” She looked at me anxiously and I nodded encouragement. She smiled brightly and ran her hand through her hair. Then she turned her attention back to the pictures on the table.
The next picture was identical to the previous one. Syl started to say something and ended up clearing her throat instead.
I turned the page. A knife on the ground disappeared. Syl stared at the picture.
I turned the page. No change. Pause.
I turned the page. No change. Pause.
I turned the page. The cowboy’s upraised fists disappeared.
I continued, uncovering and covering each picture in turn. Syl flinched with each new page. She swore softly under her breath. She seemed to know that she should be seeing the details as they dropped out, but they were gone from her memory before she could grab hold.
I turned the page. The spurs on the cowboy’s boots disappeared.
She whispered, “Stop!”
I waited as she sat there, her brow wrinkled, staring first at the white piece of paper I’d placed over the picture, then at my face as if looking for clues.
“The tree is gone,” she said finally, sighing and releasing the tendons in her neck.
I recorded her response. There had been a tree in the house series, but none in the cowboy series.
Trying to keep my face neutral, I said, “You’re doing just fine.”
I turned the page. No change. Syl said nothing. She shifted in her seat.
I turned the page. A rifle leaning against a tree disappeared. She was holding the seat of her wheelchair as if it might take off at top speed at any moment. She said nothing.
Three pages later, after the fence posts disappeared, she said, “The barn.”
“The barn,” I repeated, to be sure I’d heard correctly.
She gave a staccato nod. “It’s gone.”
I made a note of her answer and wondered where it had come from. There was no barn in any of the pictures she’d been shown.
As she stared at the final picture — the cowboy and the Indian, now bareheaded, without weapons or upraised fists — there was a soft tap at the door behind me. Syl looked up. Her eyes widened, and her whole body seemed to reel back with terror. I jumped up, knocking over my chair, and positioned myself between Syl and whatever danger she saw. Then, just as quickly, the fear vanished and pleasure transformed her.
I turned around in time to see the door draw open. The face that had terrified Syl through the vertical strip of glass in the doorway reappeared through the widening gap.
“Angel!” Syl said, delighted to see him.
Olive-skinned, his dark hair slicked back from his face, Angel looked like he belonged in an Armani ad. His eyes had a hooded, sleepy look. He was big, though not especially tall. Massive shoulder muscles rippled under a yellow polo shirt.
“You okay, babe? Anything wrong?”
Syl touched her palm to her breast. “I was just surprised to see a face in the glass. You startled me is all.” Syl stretched out a hand toward him. Angel came around behind and stood against her back, his big hands possessively on her shoulders, the fingers gently encircling her slim, pale neck.
She craned her head back to look up at him, pressing gently against the bulge in his pants. “Angel, this is Dr. Zip.”
I was in a cold sweat, the aftermath of the adrenaline rush that had sent massive amounts of epinephrine cruising through my bloodstream. Definitely an overreaction. But it was nothing new — trauma creates a groove. Similar feelings can send you hurtling there without a moment’s notice. Thinking consciously about it in the second person helped me hold it at arm’s length.
I wiped my palms on my pants. “Dr. Peter Zak,” I said.
He extended a beefy hand.
Syl gave me a coy smile. “Angelo is family.”
“You’re related to … ?” I asked
Angelo looked uncomfortable. Syl filled in the blank. “Tony
was his uncle.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I’m here to evaluate Ms. Jackson. I’m working for the public defender.”
“Can’t you people leave her alone?” He scowled. “First that cop, now you. What are you evaluating?”
“Ms. Jackson’s memory.”
He stared at me thoughtfully, his thumbs working at the back of Syl’s neck. “You a friend of her ex?” he asked.
“No. I have to be impartial. Any connection with the defendant, the victim, the family, other than this professional one with Ms. Jackson, suggests a conflict of interest.”
He looked intrigued and seemed to be about to ask another question when Syl stretched out her arms and yawned.
“Tired, babe?” Angelo asked.
She smiled weakly and shifted in her chair.
“I can come back tomorrow to finish up if you prefer,” I offered.
Angelo came around and knelt in front of Syl. He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the forehead. “You look beat.” She wearily lay her head against his palm and closed her eyes.
“No problem. Tomorrow, then.” I was glad to have an excuse for bagging it early. I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue, left in the wake of those fight-or-flight hormones.
I gathered up my test materials and walked back to the nurses’ station. A man in a baggy brown suit, his back to me, was leaning casually against the counter and chatting with Nurse Lovely. Lovely was perched on a stool, her chin resting flirtatiously on her palm, laughing at something he’d just said. When I got closer, I noticed his hand on the counter was covering hers. When she saw me, the pleasure melted from her face and she reddened. She yanked away her hand and drew herself up to a standing position. I pretended not to notice and reached past her to put away Sylvia Jackson’s chart.
“Hey, Doc,” Angelo called out as he came trotting down the hall. “Hang on a sec.”
I turned and waited.
“So, how’s she doing?”
“I really can’t tell you how she’s doing because I don’t know. That’s something you have to ask her doctor.”
“But come on, Doc, how’s her memory?”
I shrugged.
He continued, “Listen, she’s going home in a couple of weeks. It would sure help me to know, you know, if there’s anything I should set up to help her out.”
“Really, I’m not the right person to ask.”
“She remembers, Doc. She remembers everything that happened to her. You think so, too, don’t you?”
Exasperated, I repeated myself, “I really wouldn’t know. Head injury is very unpredictable. You never know what someone will remember.” My voice echoed off the hospital walls. I turned around and realized both nurses and the brown-suited man were staring at me.
“What do you mean, unpredictable?” Angelo persisted.
He reminded me of a bulldog we had when I was a kid. Thick as a brick, physically and mentally. Couldn’t let go once he’d latched onto something. I lowered my voice. “I once had a patient who ran his car into the back of a truck. He was ejected right through a closed sunroof. Didn’t remember that he was in a car accident. Hadn’t a clue where he was going. What does he remember? He remembers the license plate of the guy he hit. Head injury is a very unpredictable thing. I’m constantly surprised by it myself.”
I left Angelo with his mouth hanging open, waggled my fingers at Lovely, and walked over to wait for the elevator.
The man in the brown suit must have followed me because a moment later, he’d inserted himself in the small space between me and the closed elevator doors, his face two inches from mine. This definitely wasn’t my day. He hitched up his trousers, waved a gold badge at me, and boomed. “I understand you’ve been annoying Ms. Jackson.”
Now I recognized him — the hair matched the blazing red ears. I wondered if Sergeant MacRae recognized me. It had been dark in Johnny D’s and I’d kept my back to him.
“Annoying her? I could ask you the same thing. I’d have thought a legitimate police investigation would have been wrapped up by now.”
MacRae glared at me, his eyes simmering. He poked a finger into my chest. “Why are they letting someone like you in here to mess with her recovery?”
“I’m neither messing with her recovery nor am I annoying her,” I said, trying to resist the urge to poke back or pop him one. “And what the hell business is it of yours, anyway?”
“Just watch your step. She’s already been through enough without quacks giving her more grief.”
The elevator arrived. The doors slid open and the people waiting inside were baffled by the backside of a brown suit that filled the opening.
“Whatever you say, Mac.”
He drew himself up. “Excuse me?” I enjoyed watching his reaction.
“That’s what they call you, isn’t it, Detective Sergeant MacRae?”
He stared at me, his eyes cold. “And I know what they call you, too, Dr. Zak.”
Then slowly, deliberately, he started moving forward. I could stay where I was and get run over or shift aside. I shifted.
I got on the elevator and turned back. MacRae strode down the hall toward Sylvia Jackson’s room. Nurse Lovely watched him moving off. Then her eyes locked briefly with mine, but not before she’d shut down an expression of anguish.
9
THE NEXT day started off auspiciously. I got to the boathouse before the crowd and was alone on the river as the sun was rising through a haze of pink and gold beyond the aquamarine glass Hancock Tower. The sun lit fires in the windows of one floor, then the next of MIT’s Green Building, until all the windows were ablaze and I could imagine the weather dome on top taking off like a great flying saucer.
The water was flat as glass — the only sound the swooping of the oars, the only wake the ribbon of silver I was laying down behind me. Each dip of the oars left two indentations in the water, dots on either side of the silver line. I pulled harder until the stem cleared the puddles before the oars dipped again. Boat, body, mind became one as I pushed it, harder and harder, and the hull lifted, the water providing less and less resistance.
The Zen-like calmness, the exhilaration lingered long after I’d showered and dressed. I surfed my car through the morning traffic and there was no Lovely breathing fire at me from the nurses’ station.
I found Sylvia Jackson in her room. She was in her wheelchair, eating breakfast from a tray. She looked up at me without a flicker of recognition. She took a deep breath and pushed out the words. “You looking for someone?”
Detective MacRae was lounging in a plastic cushioned chair, his feet up on the bed. He’d traded the rumpled brown suit for a dark blue one. He took one look at me, scowled, picked up a newspaper from the bed, and put it in front of his face.
“Ms. Jackson? Dr. Zak. Back, as promised.”
The light dawned. “Oh, gosh!” she said, smoothing her hair. “Of course.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” I said, checking my watch.
Syl said, “I was just finishing,” as Mac growled something unintelligible.
She handed the tray to me and I set it down at the foot of the bed. “Can you just give me a minute?” she asked. “I need to use the little girls’ room.” She wheeled herself into the private bath and closed the door.
MacRae folded up the newspaper and slapped it down on the bed. He shook his head. “Next thing you know, they’ll be fingerprinting people who get mugged.”
“Listen, Sergeant. You have your job to do. I have mine. A man’s life is at stake.”
He stood up slowly, puffed out his chest so far his chin turned double. He hooked his thumbs over his belt. “Scumbag,” he spat the word out. “Deserves everything that’s coming to him. And more.” He stomped out of the room.
Was this just a guy who’d seen too many creeps get away with murder? My own anger at the team who defended my wife’s murderer came back to me. My fury at the supercilious psychologist whose evalu
ation traced Ralston Bridges’s problems back to abuse he’d suffered as a child. Then I remembered the cop who had arrived that night to investigate. Like MacRae, he made no secret of what had probably been drilled into his head at the police academy and reinforced by experience — nine times out of ten, the husband did it.
Syl reappeared with a little pleated paper cup in her lap. “Sorry. I need another minute. Forgot to take my pills.”
“Doesn’t the nurse usually watch you take those?”
“I guess so.” She looked momentarily perplexed, her eyebrows together. Then she brightened. “Oh, I know. I was on the phone so she left them for me. You know, Carolyn and I have a special relationship. I must have taken them into the bathroom and then forgotten all about them.”
One by one, Syl placed each pill on the back of her tongue, took a drink of water, and swallowed deliberately. A verse from a folk song went through my head, “There’s a green one, and a pink one, and a blue one, and a yellow one … .” Only instead of boxes made of ticky-tacky, these were a smorgasbord of the wonder drugs that have rendered straitjackets and talk therapy obsolete. There really did seem to be more of them today. I made a mental note to check Syl’s chart to see whether they had her on any new meds.
On her way out of the room, the wheelchair got stuck on a large green gym bag that was half under the bed. She struggled, back and forth, to free herself. “He’s always leaving his junk here.”
“Sergeant MacRae?” I asked.
“No — Angelo. Says it’s a Ruggiero family trait. Genetic. Tony’s the same way …” Her voice broke. Then she cleared her throat, inhaled, and spoke carefully. “Was the same, that is. Always used to leave his things …” She left the sentence dangling, as if unsure where to go next.
“It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” I said.
Syl nodded as if she didn’t trust herself to say the words. Then she stared at me. “You do understand, don’t you?”
