Rose smiled back. “That’s right. Now, let’s get your shoes on.” She walked over to the closet and selected Lily’s favorite pair – pink with a bow on the end, which matched her coat and beret perfectly – and returned to the kitchen.
“Did you pack my smelly markers?” Lily held out her feet without even being asked.
Rose slid the shoes down over her daughter’s toes and then pushed on the soles until the back of the shoes were up over her heels. She started to fasten the straps. “We’ll stop at the store and get you brand new ones, and a new coloring book, okay?”
Once Lily had her coat on Rose lifted her down, and then picked up the purse and backpack. 7:25 am. By the time she got Lily buckled in and drove to the city the roads would be busy with Monday morning rush hour traffic. Fortunately for Rose, more people left Orillia to work elsewhere than traveled to Orillia for work.
The Wal-Mart was inconveniently located off a heavily-trafficked area that would only get busier as the day wore on. Rose preferred shopping at the mall when she had to shop in Orillia, but the cheap Chinese imports Wal-Mart specialized in would have to do this morning.
Once she had a suitable number of toys and books Rose drove to the hospital. As she lifted Lily from the car seat she glanced at her watch. 8:17 am. Not too bad. The store had been busier than she’d expected for this time of day. It didn’t really matter, though. There wasn’t anything to do at the hospital except wait.
Purse over her shoulder, backpack in one hand and Lily holding the other, Rose led the way to the hospital entrance.
No reporters. Typical.
She wanted them to see her with her younger child, to see what a good parent she was. After all, it was the only real defense she had against what Evelyn had done to her this time.
***
Hunter sat up in bed for a few moments, head in her hands, as she fought the fatigue. She feared sleep. The dreams were so vivid, so real, and she felt as though she was reliving those moments through the eyes of others.
Rose Chadwick’s mind was one she never wanted to spend time inside.
Hunter fumbled for the remote on the bedside table, anxious for anything to distract her from her dream. She turned on the TV and soon wished she hadn’t.
“That’s right, Ginger. The defense attorney has been almost shockingly silent throughout these proceedings. This started out as almost a kangaroo court-”
“Excuse me, Meadow, but could you explain what you mean by that?”
Ginger had broken Meadow’s rhythm, but she quickly got back on track.
“The charges against Detective Sergeant Hunter McKenna were incredibly-”
Hunter shut the TV off. The antique vanity she’d had passed down to her from her grandmother boasted an oval mirror set in cherry wood that fit the old house she called home, and she kept it against the wall beside her the nightstand that was beside her bed. As she turned to put the remote down a flash of light shone into the window and Hunter caught a glimpse of her reflection, and wished she had the heart to part with the heirloom.
Dark lines circled her eyes. Her face was pale, and with the white nightgown she was wearing, she looked washed out.
Like a ghost.
She sank down onto the bed, and thought about court and the questions Grainger was asking. Thought about what her lawyer said. Tried to think about the normal things she should be doing and how to spend her weekend.
Anything other than her dreams, which soon had her at their mercy again. In the mist she thought for a second she could see Vinny and her father, Tom whispering words to his daughter as he glanced at Hunter out of the corner of his eye. Vinny nodded, and as Tom walked away Vinny did something Hunter couldn't understand or really explain. Somehow, something she did in her mind changed everything, and the mist faded, and as Vinny disappeared along with it Hunter found herself focusing through the eyes of Tom Shepherd.
***
Sitting in a waiting room was worse than riding a subway. On public transit the majority of people wanted to avoid eye contact. They had books, newspapers, magazines or hobbies like knitting to occupy them. Some had the perverse ability to sleep in public places. Perhaps it was the cop in Tom who thought that was risky, if not downright foolish, but public transit came with its own set of unspoken rules that most people understood: everyone was focused on traveling from point A to point B and most just wanted to be left alone.
In waiting rooms it was different. There weren’t regular stops where some left and others joined, which meant there was no predictable rhythm to the experience. People were waiting for different things. One woman held a child with a bandage wrapped around a gash in his head, the blood spotting through. It wasn’t possible to tell if the elderly couple was waiting to be seen, or waiting for someone who was in with a doctor already. The lines on their faces were exaggerated by what Tom interpreted as fatigue. He supposed it could have been worry but his initial impression was that they looked tired, as though they’d been there for a while, just putting in time. They sat side by side, demonstrating that they’d perfected the task of staring blankly at nothing, effectively avoiding eye contact with anyone around them.
He’d been there long enough to see a handful of hospital staff appear and call a name. Sometimes a patient limped off after them. Other times a few people exchanged a fearful glance before they stood up hesitantly. Each time, Tom could see they were unable to stop themselves from searching the doctor’s face for some indication of the news, trying to determine if they should brace themselves for a shock or if the worst of it was over.
The woman in the corner was cleaning her teeth. Or biting her nails. A subconscious reaction, something done instinctively. Some people wandered outside and chain-smoked, while others paced the floor and scratched spots that didn’t itch. The ones who tried to remain seated often wrung their hands, or flipped aimlessly through magazines. Anything to occupy them.
Anything to keep them from thinking.
He was no better. They were fidgeting, flipping, staring or squirming in their chairs while he sat scrutinizing them. His way of keeping his mind off the reason he was there.
It wasn’t even 6 am when the call woke him. His day off, and the sound of the phone had reached into the dark, dreamless state he was enjoying. He’d seen the number on the call display and cursed. Couldn’t they manage without him for a single day?
“Hello?”
“Ah, Detective Inspector Shepherd?”
The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. He ran his hand over his face. “Yes.”
“Officer Roberts, sir. Sorry to wake you.”
Roberts. Now he could place the voice. Young, and just a little eager too please. Annoyingly energetic, too.
Tom thought about the voice on the other end of the line. There was something just a bit off. Roberts sounded like he meant it when he said he was sorry for waking Tom.
“It’s my day off, Officer Roberts-”
“I know sir. I’m sorry sir, but this isn’t about work. We just had a call for you. It’s about your daughter…”
When he’d still been married to Vinny’s mother she’d wondered how he could be so detached about his job. How was it that it didn’t bother him when some man beat his wife until he broke more than her spirit, or some other woman finally had enough and put a bullet through her abuser’s head? Rape, sexual abuse, assault. How could he be so unemotional about it?
Tom had thought that was pretty rich, considering Rose habitually turned off the news and had no interest in social causes. As long as it was someone else being robbed or assaulted, she didn’t care. She’d been more upset by Vinny’s lack of interest in girlish things than any case Tom had ever worked.
For him, it was pure survival instinct. Some men drank, but most learned quickly that they couldn’t take every case personally or they wouldn’t last. Some calls were tougher than others, though, and every time he dealt with a child Vinny’s age he took it just a little harder than usual.<
br />
Child. Here he was, still thinking of her as a child, when she was fifteen years old. Almost sixteen. She’d be off to college or university soon.
If…
Tom caught himself. The 'if' was somewhere he didn’t want to go. The same skills that enabled him to stay detached when dealing with crises, to face trauma on the job without getting emotional, were working overtime while he sat there, scrutinizing the people in the waiting room, doing anything to keep his mind occupied so that he didn’t have to think about Vinny.
After all, he’d responded to a number of suicide attempts in his career. He knew what this looked like. They hadn’t been down to talk to him yet, which meant she wasn’t stabilized. If she’d aspirated on her own vomit from the overdose she may have already suffered brain damage. They’d need to do scans to assess the effects of the drugs, if…
The 'if' again. He couldn’t let himself think this way.
A glance at the clock on the wall, above the door, told him it was 8:17 am. Within minutes of the 6 am phone call he’d dressed and was on the road, leaving from his home in Barrie. Depending on traffic it was about a thirty-minute drive to Orillia, near where he’d lived when Vinny really was a child. Where she still lived with her mother and stepfather and half sister.
He hadn’t stopped for breakfast. He’d just driven straight through, arriving at the hospital a few minutes after 7 am.
Tom had been there for more than an hour and still no word.
He glanced around the waiting room again and this time, he saw it clearly. Every person in the room was fighting the battle. They wanted to believe things would be okay but they were afraid. Afraid that if they trusted in hope they’d be let down. Afraid they’d be disappointed.
And most of all, afraid they’d have to face a terrible shock in the presence of strangers. That was really what it was. He knew it from the job. Traffic accidents were particularly bad. Car after car slowed to a crawl to gawk at the wreckage, each one reminding the officers on scene of the average person’s morbid fascination with tragedy. As long as it wasn’t their tragedy. As long as it wasn’t a situation that would wreak havoc in their lives.
Everyone in this room was afraid that what they’d hear would be the worst possible news, and that not only would they have to face that reality, they’d have to bear the brunt of a terrible truth publicly. They’d become the victim in the car accident, the bragging rights of others who ended the day more fortunate than the new dead had been.
Most people didn’t like to have their hurt exposed. Nobody in this room wanted that moment, of fighting the pain while trying to compose themselves in front of strangers.
They feared the avoidance of eye contact, the lack of empathy on stony faces struggling to hold on to hope for themselves. As the days wore on they would have other things to fear. From all his years on the job one thing Tom knew was that some people fed off the grief of others.
Some would feel having their arm around the grieving made them the center of attention. Some would hold their hands and be there every moment, trying to touch their pain and share in it enough to glean sympathy from those unable to directly confront their own grief by addressing the bereaved. These surrogates of mourning became the ones who people talked to while the family fell apart.
Some people fed off any kind of attention.
Other people would take another person’s loss as a sign the odds were in their favor. Like the people who said it was safest to fly just after a plane crash, because security was usually tighter and the airlines were more careful with their maintenance checks. It was when nothing bad had happened for a while that people got complacent.
In waiting rooms these people were clinging to a twisted logic, some bizarre belief that there was a limit to how much pain and suffering could be meted out in a day. Clinging to faith in the idea that if others got bad news it meant they stood a better chance of having a happy ending.
As though one person’s car accident had anything to do with another person’s suicide attempt.
As though tragedy was rational. As though there was some quota on grief.
8:21 am. Tom needed to stretch his legs. It felt as though the air was growing stale, that the act of waiting had produced an ominous cloud that shadowed the room.
Which was ridiculous, but he still needed to move around a bit. Not far, in case the doctor came. That was the thing about being there alone. There was no one to tell him if there was word.
As he stood up he sensed the glances from the others waiting, but kept his gaze down so that he could avoid their questioning looks. It felt as though he was fighting to get the oxygen into his lungs and every step toward the door required an unusual amount of effort.
Once he was in the hallway Tom leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and rubbed his temples. In the corridor there was motion, even at this early hour. The sound of phones ringing, people talking, footsteps as staff and visitors moved along the hallway. Somehow, it was reassuring. Where there was motion there was life, and as long as Tom didn’t think about any of the reasons for being at a hospital, or what the staff were dealing with behind closed doors, the activity was comforting.
Clip-clip-clip. The sound of heels against hallway floor in the distance.
The thing that enabled crime scene investigators to handle the situation better than the onlookers was probably the same thing that enabled the hospital staff to keep going, even when they lost patients or had to deal with a particularly nasty trauma. There was a purpose, a duty, tasks to be completed. As a detective he’d been able to lose himself in the process of the job, instead of focusing on the victim and the horrors they’d endured, and that gave him the professional detachment he needed to get the job done.
That was another thing about waiting rooms that weighed on him. The sense of impotence. The awareness that you were powerless at a time when the outcome mattered more than anything else.
Your whole world was in someone else’s hands.
The clip-clip-clip was getting louder. Tom opened his eyes and instantly wished he hadn’t. He’d been trying to avoid playing the standard mind games, refusing to tell himself all the ways things could be worse than they currently were, which was the only reason he hadn’t been thinking about his ex-wife.
Their gaze met and she slowed down. He had to hand it to her. Their daughter could be dying and here she was, as polished as ever. Smart coat, matching gloves, immaculate shoes that looked as though they’d been shined that morning before she left her house.
He’d once thought her composure in the face of crisis was admirable, a sign of strength. Now he saw it for what it was, some twisted indifference, a refusal to let the problems of others personally affect her because she was incapable of feeling.
After all, in order to feel you needed to have a heart.
Her other daughter, the little princess, had a pink coat on, with a matching beret and shoes. Something about Lily’s attire, her practiced smile and perfect posture made him think of JonBenet Ramsay. His stomach twisted.
Rose was a few feet away from him when she stopped walking. “You’re… here,” she said.
“Where else would I be, Rose?”
His ex-wife tilted her head to the side. “Really, Tom. There’s no need for that tone.”
“Well, I’m sorry that you had to pry yourself away from the mirror to come to the hospital for my daughter. Hate to keep you from focusing on the most important person in your life.”
That sent her hand flying. It had been a while since Rose had smacked him, and although he tasted blood on his tongue from biting down on the side of his mouth the main thing he noticed was that she still had a good arm.
He wasn’t too slow to grab her wrist after she’d struck him, though. For a moment they stood still, staring at each other. There were so many things Tom wanted to say to her, but the same things that made sitting in a waiting room unpleasant made it hard for him to find the strength to voice those
words there, in public. He was aware of people walking by, of the looks, of the bias in society that accepted women hitting men but questioned a man defending himself. He let go of her arm.
“Tom, you’re setting a bad example for Lily.”
He rubbed his hand over his mouth to conceal the grin he lacked the willpower, and energy, to suppress. “You give me too much credit. No way I could top your performance.”
Her nostrils flared as a burst of color filled her cheeks. Anger didn’t blend well with Rose’s fragile China Doll look.
“What’s she doing here, anyway? This is no place for a little kid. She shouldn’t be-”
“Don’t presume to tell me how to raise my child.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Not even when the child was my own. Maybe that was the problem. We wouldn’t be here now if I’d taken Vinny to live with me.”
“You’re the one who walked out.”
“You and your ultimatums, and you were already screwing around on me. You gave me plenty of reasons to leave.”
“Don’t you speak to me that way in front of-”
“If you didn’t want Lily to hear this you should have left her at daycare or with her dad.” He straightened up and leaned toward her. “I’ve been here for over an hour, Rose.” He looked at his watch. “Ninety minutes. And I had to drive farther than you. But you were too busy dressing up your little doll to be here for Vinny.”
Rose’s mouth opened. She reached up with her free hand and tossed her hair over her shoulder before she spoke. “I am a good mother, Tom. I’m not going to neglect my daughter just because Evelyn has a little problem.”
Before she was finished speaking she’d started to move, walking past him, into the waiting room, Lily following compliantly.
Tom collapsed back against the wall, shaking his head from side to side and he covered his eyes with his hand, massaging his temples again.
Just because Evelyn has a little problem. God, that woman. What had he ever seen in her?
Harvest of Ruins Page 7
