Life Support

by Robert Whitlow

  “If you ask the right questions, and I know the answers.”

  “Will you appear without being subpoenaed?” Alexia asked.

  “Yes, but please give me as much advance notice as possible.”

  “Of course,” Alexia said efficiently as she put her legal pad in her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Thanks for talking to me. I’ll be in touch.”

  Ted watched the lawyer leave, not knowing how radically he had departed from the stereotypical mold for ministers. To her credit, Alexia didn’t bristle or bluster when he disagreed with her that the Kensingtons’ marriage could be saved with the right combination of willingness to change by both parties and input from a skilled counselor, but he suspected she wouldn’t contact him about the court date. He was a loose cannon she wouldn’t want rolling around on the deck of her case.

  Ted’s perspective about divorce was not solely the product of his theological training. Carved on his heart were wounds from the disintegration of his own marriage many years before. His wife had hired a female lawyer who attacked Ted with zest and made his life miserable for several months. The sharp pain of those days was gone, but he still felt an occasional deep ache, and nights were still often lonely no matter how many had passed by in solitude. Intellectually, he believed the love of God filled all voids. In practice, his beliefs and feelings didn’t always agree.

  The afternoon sun had dipped below the trees, and the sanctuary filled with silence for the evening. Ted heard the church secretary’s car drive across the parking lot. The prospective bride who was going to talk to him about her wedding hadn’t shown up. He could have been mistaken about the day of her appointment and would have to check the church calendar in the morning. Keeping a detailed schedule was not his strong suit.

  Ted sat quietly on the piano bench for several minutes, letting his thoughts meet the spiritual mood of the moment. It wasn’t a game of hide-and-seek with God, but there was truth in the admonition to wait patiently for the Lord. The object of Ted’s spontaneous playing was not merely to create a pleasant sound within the parameters of music theory. He wanted to play with purpose. Sometimes the notes reflected the desire of his own heart; at others they glorified him to whom all praise is due. But always, Ted played for an audience of One.

  The seed of a sound began to vibrate in Ted’s spirit. He smiled. A seed was enough. From it could grow the planting of the Lord. His hands touched the keys, and his spirit rode the notes as they soared from a small spot on earth into the limitless expanse of the heavens.

  14

  Full well the busy whisper, circling round, conveyed the dismal tidings.

  OLIVER GOLDSMITH

  Alexia turned on the stereo in her bedroom and put in a compact disk. Listening to Ted Morgan play the piano had put her in the mood for a musical evening. She had an extensive collection of performances by Russian pianists Sergei Rachmaninoff and Ignacy Paderewski. Their early recordings had been digitized and improved through modern technology so that she could listen with greater clarity than a 1960s music lover who owned a stereo system costing thousands of dollars.

  Looking through her collection, Alexia found the composition by Bach that Ted had played at the church and loaded it into her machine. The pianist on the recording played it slower than Ted, but she liked the minister’s interpretation better. Bach was a religious man, and it made sense that someone who worked in a church would have a superior understanding of the composer’s true intent.

  As she listened, Alexia thought about the music minister. Without question, Ted Morgan was a paradox—a man whose remarkable talent lay hidden in Santee like a pearl oyster in tidal mud. Alexia was intrigued by him, not in a romantic way, but by the presence of sensitive genius wrapped in a package with callused hands.

  She would not ask Ted to come to court. His testimony might prove to be a hindrance to her agenda for Barbara Kensington, and Alexia didn’t win by taking risks. She strictly adhered to the legal maxim “never do anything that might hurt your case more than it helps it.”

  Misha pattered up the stairs, jumped onto Alexia’s bed, and curled up in a furry ball. Boris didn’t budge from his cedar bed in a corner of the living room downstairs. The dog’s sensitive hearing didn’t translate into an appreciation for fine music. His ear was more attuned to the sounds of wild creatures creeping along the ground outside the house or Alexia’s voice announcing that it was time for a swim.

  Alexia replaced Bach with Rachmaninoff and closed her eyes while the performer serenaded her with Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini, Op. 43. It was an amazing composition. The complete work contained thirty-four variations, but Alexia’s favorite was number eighteen, a short but incredibly beautiful melody that took the listener from quiet intimacy to rapturous heights of grandeur. When it was over, she turned off the music and turned on her computer. It was time to do the final research for her upcoming trip to France.

  Alexia loved to travel; however, her decision several months before to visit the Provence area of southern France had a secondary purpose. She wanted to prove to herself that Jason’s ability to hurt her had ended. She wasn’t sure how she would feel when she arrived in Marseille, but she was determined that when she left, she would be free from the last emotional links to her former fiancé.

  She had located several villages with charming places to stay off the beaten path and narrowed her top choices to four spots where she made reservations. She would be traveling in rural, non-English-speaking areas but knew enough French to avoid starvation and ask for directions.

  Time slipped by as she looked at computer-generated pictures of vineyards, horse-drawn carts, and quaint inns. Misha was fast asleep at the foot of the bed. Alexia yawned and went downstairs to let Boris go outside for a few minutes. She stood on the deck in the dark and listened to the dog crashing through the underbrush behind the house as he followed an interesting scent. It was comfortable outside. The temperature didn’t drop rapidly at night along the coast because of the stabilizing influence of the water. She let Boris romp a few extra minutes before calling him. He came running up the steps.

  “What did you find?” she asked.

  Panting an unintelligible answer, Boris followed her back into the house. The dog’s world of invisible smells offered unique challenges as he thrashed through the marsh. For Alexia, the unexplored realm of her emotions awaited her in the picturesque villages of Provence.

  Needing a break from the tension of the ICU waiting room, Rena spent most of the morning at an expensive spa and salon near her hotel. During a vigorous workout on a treadmill, she ran as fast as she could to escape the mental tormentors that trailed her like hungry wolves. Afterward, she received a massage. As she lay on the table, some of the tension bound in her muscles flowed out of her body for the first time since she and Baxter had hiked to the waterfall. She then sat in a sauna in an effort to let more of the stress caused by her current dilemma seep from her pores. The exercise and massage helped her relax, but the multiple problems she faced from Baxter, Detective Giles Porter, and Ezra were too great for a sauna to solve.

  Rena feared Baxter. He was a living corpse whose resurrection could cause her death. Thoughts about Giles Porter made her stomach queasy. The detective might be bluffing about criminal charges, but she’d seen too many crime shows on TV in which evidence from an improbable source cracked an impossible case. Ezra was a shrewd businessman who had the money and connections to harm her.

  When she arrived at the hospital, Ezra wasn’t there. Instead, she saw Dr. Kolb. The older neurosurgeon, a tall, distinguished-looking man with white hair and kind brown eyes, greeted her as he walked through the ICU waiting area. He was dressed in light green operating room garb.

  “How is Baxter?” she asked.

  “Come with me into ICU,” the doctor replied. “I’ll get his chart, so we can talk for a few minutes.”

  She followed the physician through the door to the ICU nurse’s station. Rena could see Baxter’s motionless legs
through the open door of his room. Dr. Kolb picked up a chart that had already grown to two inches thick and began flipping through it.

  “There hasn’t been any improvement in his Glasgow Coma Scale rating, which is still at eight. That disappoints me.”

  Rena quickly quoted language she’d memorized when reading copies of the documents Alexia had provided to her before leaving Greenville.

  “Does that mean he’s in a persistent vegetative state from which he might not recover?” she asked.

  The doctor turned toward her with a puzzled look on his face. “No. It’s simply too soon to make a judgment about his long-term status, but there is good news. His acute injuries didn’t kill him, he has lived through the first twenty-four hours, and we have established a stable environment that will allow the body to regroup. Of course, bad things could still happen.”

  “What kind of bad things?” Rena asked, trying not to sound hopeful.

  “We’re guarding against several possibilities. He could have a seizure due to swelling of the brain, and he is at risk of infection that could cause pneumonia.”

  Rena thought for a moment. “And there’s no way to know if he’ll ever wake up.”

  “That’s right, and from what we’ve seen so far, I would be surprised if it happened soon. He would have to fight through the trauma of the injury and the effects of the medication he is receiving. Once we taper off the drug that keeps him sedated, we’ll be looking for signs of returning consciousness.”

  “Can he hear us now?”

  “That’s debatable. Most people in comas remember nothing, but you should still be careful what you say. Recently, I had a comatose patient who suffered a severe head injury in an automobile accident. Her chances of survival were slim, and while she was unconscious, her family discussed the funeral arrangements in her hospital room. The patient surprised all of us when she woke up a week later and told them she didn’t approve of the type of flowers they planned to drape over the casket. Today, she’s in a rehabilitation facility. So I recommend that you avoid any negative comments when you’re with your husband.”

  Rena bit her lip in frustration. All the doctors talked in circles and told her things she didn’t want to know. She’d hoped Dr. Kolb would be different. The doctor closed the chart and continued.

  “He may exhibit activity that looks inconsistent with unconsciousness: sounds, agitation, and slight movements. If he moves his arms or legs, notify someone at the nursing station immediately. Because of the severity of his spinal cord injury, any voluntary or involuntary movement of his upper or lower extremities would be very significant. In the next days and weeks our goal will be to assess more accurately the damage done and whether it’s permanent. Then I can answer your questions about the future.”

  Rena sighed. It was hard to face the possibility that Baxter might have a future.

  Dr. Kolb handed the records back to a nurse. “Let the staff know if you need to talk to me or Dr. Berman.”

  Dr. Kolb turned away, and Rena walked slowly into Baxter’s room. She didn’t know what to do. Waiting was not an option. The benefits of her self-indulgence at the spa hadn’t lasted past her conversation with Dr. Kolb. She could feel the muscles in the back of her neck begin to constrict.

  Baxter’s appearance revealed no visible change from the previous evening. He was lying on his back with his chest rising and falling in clockwork rhythm. The same tubes circulated fluids in and out of his body. His hair was still parted on the wrong side. Anger against him rose up in her. While she was suffering waves of anxiety and fear, Baxter was oblivious to all the problems he was causing and sleeping peacefully in what Dr. Kolb called a stable environment.

  Then Rena had an idea.

  She pulled a chair close to her husband’s head. There was risk involved, but it provided a bookend to the story she’d planted in Alexia Lindale’s mind about Baxter’s attack at the waterfall.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she began. “It’s me.”

  Baxter showed no sign of hearing. His eyelids didn’t flutter. His head remained motionless. Rena reached out and touched her husband’s hand. It felt cool and unnatural. She drew her hand back but leaned close to his ear.

  “You’ve had a bad accident. You slipped near the edge of the rocks where we had our picnic. I held the walking stick out to you, but you couldn’t hold on and fell over the edge. You had too much to drink, dear. I should have said something but didn’t want to ruin our day together. You had an accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

  Rena paused.

  “It was an accident. It was an accident,” she repeated the words several more times.

  She watched closely for any sign of response. Nothing.

  “You’re in the intensive care unit of a hospital in Greenville. We’re doing all we can for you. You have good doctors. Your father is here. Your brother, Jeffrey, should be coming soon.”

  Baxter’s chest rose and fell in obedience to the commands of the ventilator.

  “You may have some bad dreams but don’t think about them. You’ve had an accident. That’s all.”

  Rena leaned closer until her lips almost touched Baxter’s ear.

  “Remember one thing, darling. I love you very, very much. All that matters is our love for each other.”

  Baxter’s head moved slightly. Startled, Rena sat up straight. Maybe Dr. Kolb was right.

  Leaning forward, she continued with greater confidence, “Yes. All that matters is our love for each other. It was an accident. It was an accident.”

  15

  But now commandeth all men every where to repent.

  ACTS 17:30 (KJV)

  Alexia arrived early at her office so she could spend extra time organizing her schedule. She’d written “France!” in large letters across her calendar for the days she’d be gone. Leaving for vacation wasn’t as easy as walking out the door with her passport and airplane ticket in her hand. It involved predicting what might go wrong in her cases and trying to postpone any fires until she returned. Judge Garland had granted her a blanket excuse from court in her pending cases as protection against other lawyers filing a sneaky motion while she was out of town.

  After lunch, Ralph Leggitt’s secretary buzzed her office. “He’d like to see you in his office in fifteen minutes.”

  Alexia glanced at her appointment schedule. It was an hour until her initial appointment with Eleanor Vox.

  “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  She finished dictating a memo and then walked down the hallway. She suspected the only topic on the older lawyer’s mind would be the Richardson situation. Alexia had survived the trip to Greenville unscathed, but she still believed the situation was a time bomb. There would be an explosion, and she didn’t want to be standing within range of the legal shrapnel when it happened.

  Leggitt’s secretary was on the phone but motioned for her to go inside. The senior partner was sitting behind his desk, signing a stack of checks. He looked up when she entered and skipped any preliminary banter.

  “Did Ezra seem satisfied with your help?” he asked.

  Alexia sat down. “I think so. He may have wanted me to be more partisan on his behalf, but I think in the long run it helped the situation that I didn’t come across as his lawyer. Rena trusted me, and that helped avoid a blowup.”

  “Give me a more detailed summary of everything that happened.”

  When Alexia finished, Leggitt asked, “Did you see Baxter?”

  “No, it’s family members only, but it’s as bad as reported. He is in a coma and probably quadriplegic. The neurosurgeon described the situation as ‘wait and see.’”

  Leggitt tapped the edge of the desk with his fingers. “Did Rena talk to you about the accident?”

  Alexia hesitated. She’d not anticipated any questions except about the doctors and Rena’s response to the various documents that affected Baxter. She would have to tread carefully.

  “She mentioned it briefly.”

 
“Was Ezra there when you talked to her?”

  “No. They probably discussed it before I arrived. What did Mr. Richardson tell you?”

  “No details, just something about Baxter slipping and falling down a cliff onto some rocks.”

  “That’s what Rena told me.”

  Leggitt shook his head. “It’s a shame.”

  Alexia changed the subject to avoid further probes about Rena. “Don’t forget, I’m leaving for France on Sunday and will be gone five days.”

  “Yes, I saw the e-mail a few weeks ago.”

  “Since I won’t be available, someone else should take over communication with the Richardson family, especially Rena.”

  Leggitt looked over his glasses at her. “Trying to get out of the case?”

  Alexia was blunt. “Yes. It still makes me nervous. Rena believes she has an attorney-client relationship with me, yet you made it clear that Mr. Richardson is the client. They were getting along when I left Greenville, but there’s no guarantee for the future.”

  Leggitt put his hands together underneath his chin.

  “Rena has to be handled carefully,” he said. “Even under current circumstances, if something happens to Baxter, she could end up owning a sizable piece of Ezra’s empire.”

  Alexia leaned forward in her chair. “Unless Mr. Richardson uses the durable power of attorney to wipe out Baxter’s assets, leaving Rena nothing except insurance proceeds.”

  “Does she suspect that might happen?” Mr. Leggitt asked sharply.

  Alexia shook her head. “Not yet. I didn’t mention it to her. It would have been contrary to promoting cooperation.”

  “Good. We don’t want her hiring separate legal counsel, and unless an open dispute flares up, we’ll maintain the status quo with Rena until you get back.”

  “Does Ezra accept the fact that Rena has an attorney-client relationship with me?”

  “He’s satisfied, and so am I.”

  Alexia could tell Leggitt was not going to change his mind about her involvement with Rena.