"Bean, Bean, good for the heart, the more you see him the more you fart."
"Spare me, please, the taunts of our youth."
Bean junior smiled and put out his hand and Thorn took it in his own. He'd learned long ago not to put too much stock in the revelations of character transmitted by handshakes. So he tried to discount Bean's cool, dry skin, the quick squeeze and release, the limp withdrawal.
"Great to see you. But you didn't need to come all this way."
"Oh, yes, I did." Bean glanced at his father, gave him a curt nod. "I had to rescue you from this old fool before he left you permanently disabled." Bean junior let it float there for a second, then tried to smile it away.
"My son is convinced that modern science has passed me by."
"Like a bullet train, Dad. Like the Concorde with a tailwind."
Thorn raised his hand, motioned for Monica. He could see she'd formed a quick harsh opinion of the young doctor. She looked like she couldn't decide whether to flee the room or throw herself at Bean junior's throat.
Bean followed Thorn's look, turned to Monica, read her expression.
"Oh, please. We're just joking around. Doctor talk. Good-natured sparring. Right, Dad?"
"Been perfecting it for forty-odd years."
"Forty very odd years," Bean said.
"Bean, I'd like you to meet Monica Sampson."
He pivoted awkwardly and smiled at Monica. With businesslike cool she extended her hand and he took hold of it in both of his as if he intended to smother it in kisses.
"Ah, yes, the new lady in Thorn's life."
"I'm not his new lady," Monica announced. "I'm his fiancée."
Thorn smoothed the sheets that lay across his numb legs. A twist in his gut tightened. She took her hand away from Bean, stepped over to the foot of the bed, and gripped the foot rail as if Thorn might sail off somewhere without her. She stared at him, her back straight, mouth defiant.
Doc Wilson was consulting the back of his right hand.
"Well, well. Thorn, I didn't know. Congratulations."
"Oh, it's all a little sudden," said Thorn. "We haven't even had our announcements printed yet."
He smiled back at Monica, took a swallow of air, and another.
CHAPTER 12
"You going to tell him, Dad, or should I?"
Bean junior turned and circled behind Monica. Thorn caught his quick appraising glance of her backside. Bean eased around the bed to stand next to his father. For a second or two the old man studied the far wall, then he brought his eyes to Thorn's.
"They're dismissing you tomorrow."
Monica stared at him.
"I've done what I could to get them to prolong your stay until we have a better understanding of what's going on, a more definitive diagnosis, but the administration is firm. After reviewing all the pictures and tests, it's been determined that your injury isn't serious enough to warrant further use of hospital resources. They were going to send a social worker up, have her sketch out your options, but I said no, I'd do it."
"They're kicking him out?" Monica took a step his way. "For godsakes, he's paralyzed."
"I don't get it," Thorn said. "If it's not serious, why can't I move? What's going on?"
"I wish I knew," Doc Wilson said. "We're all bewildered. I've gone over and over this with specialists here at Baptist. I went over to Jackson, talked to the top spinal-injury people in Miami, some of the highest and mightiest in the whole country, and no one can account for this, Thorn.
"We know there's no tear in the cord itself, no separation. We're certain there's no rupturing in the disk, no breakage or crushing. The spinal cord is bruised, and there's some minimal swelling, but there's absolutely nothing to account for the paralysis. I've talked to a dozen people and no one's suggested anything other than the same regimen of steroids you're already on, the prednisolone."
"That's been standard practice for years," Bean junior said. "There are some new nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories that cut down on the side effects, but if the pred's not working, the nonsteroids wouldn't either."
"You're losing me," Thorn said.
"We're baffled," said the old doctor. "You don't seem to be seriously injured. Nothing shows up. We've followed standard procedures, but you're simply not responding."
Thorn gazed across at the painting, those women in the vibrant field, green, red, blue flowers spread around them. They were making no progress. Walking and walking, discussing some weighty matter, but getting nowhere. Exactly where they'd always been, exactly where they'd always be.
Thorn looked at Monica just as she closed her eyes and bowed her head. The gesture lasted for only half a second, then she took an exhausted breath and looked back up, but in that snap of time Thorn caught a glimpse of the toll this was taking on her. Days without sleep; his injury putting a heavy slump in her shoulders, as if this young, bright, artistic woman had just realized with dreadful certainty that she would have to bear Thorn's deadweight on her back for the rest of her days.
"May I, Dad?" Bean junior moved away from the bed, glancing at the dark window as if checking his reflection. Then he positioned himself in the room's one chair. Squaring his legs up in front of him, with both hands cupped together on his lap like some kind of Buddhist pose. When he was certain they were all watching, he formed a careful smile and let a second or two more pass before he spoke.
"Your MRI and scans show your spinal canal to be a fraction more narrow than it should be. That would mean there is less range of motion possible without some impinging on the cord. It's a condition known as spinal stenosis, narrowing of the subarachnoid space. Fairly common. In addition, you've got some bony growth along the vertebrae, something we see in a good percentage of athletic men. All those years of high school football and wrestling catching up to you. The bony protuberances complicate the stenosis, which makes you an excellent candidate for back problems."
Thorn looked up at old Doc Wilson. The man was standing very erect, gazing across at his son with a peculiar wincing smile that seemed to be a blend of affection and something else that looked a lot like grief.
"It's true we don't know exactly what's causing your current paralysis," Bean junior said. "But these things happen sometimes, an injury that defies all our high-tech imaging systems. What we do know with some certainty is that the longer your legs stay paralyzed, the more atrophy, the more peripheral damage, to the rest of your central nervous system. Don't you agree, Dad?"
"I agree, yes."
"And now, since you have to leave the hospital, and since adequate home care would be extremely expensive if not totally impossible to find in Key Largo, I propose you come down to my clinic in Key West."
"Key West?" Monica said.
"That's right."
"What the hell is he going to do down there, sit around and smoke dope, watch the sun set?"
Bean cut his eyes to her, smiled blankly, and looked back at Thorn.
"My clinic has a very complete, very sophisticated rehab center. The latest equipment, a highly trained staff. I think the sooner we get you working your legs in a controlled situation with professional guidance, the sooner your recovery can begin."
"If there is a recovery," Thorn said.
Bean nodded. It was understood.
Monica had balled her hands. Something new was in her face. A strain beyond what she'd been showing. A sour smile twisting her lips. Thorn thought he could see desperate words building in her throat. Things spinning ahead too quickly for her, decisions being made without her involvement.
"Dr. Wilson?" Thorn looked up at the man. "Is this what you think? Key West?"
Wilson touched a hand to the side of his mane of white hair, patted down an errant strand. He looked pale and old. A deep sadness in his eyes, as if he had just discovered that his lifetime of accumulated wisdom was of little use.
"Bean's an excellent doctor," he said. "And I've seen the clinic. Their equipment is superb, their staff is very strong. Of cours
e, we can always discuss other possibilities if you like, but I can't think of anywhere you would be more likely to get that kind of hands-on care."
"I don't know," Thorn said. "I guess I need to think about it."
"You can check my board certification, if you like. All my papers are in pretty good order, I believe." Bean junior smiled at each one of them in turn.
"Bean's an excellent doctor," Doc Wilson repeated.
Monica looked down at the floor.
After a moment, Doc Wilson stepped over to her side, put his arm around her shoulder, and hugged her with fatherly affection, but Monica didn't seem to notice.
Thorn glanced at the painting again. He saw it now. In his weakened condition he'd been making too much of the damn thing. The painting was nothing more than a cheap rip-off of something real. Probably mass-produced in some warehouse in Tijuana for hospitals and hotels and rental condos. Muzak in a frame. All the stories he'd been reading into the thing had been springing from his needy, overactive mind.
"So from what you've seen of my X rays and MRIs," Thorn said, "you think there's hope my legs will come back?"
"Will I put a number on it, you mean?" Bean junior glanced at the window, then back at Thorn.
"Hey," Thorn said. "I'd settle for one in a million at this point."
"There aren't any guarantees, Thorn. But if you decided to come down to Key West, I think it'll be as good a chance as you'll get."
"When can I go?"
"If you feel up to it," Bean junior said, "we can drive down tomorrow morning."
Monica was looking grimly at Thorn.
"I'll do whatever it takes to get my legs back," Thorn said, trying for a smile. "Even if it means going to Key West."
***
"Just like that, no discussion with me. Just, yeah, sure, okay, I'll go down there, switch doctors."
Thorn said nothing, staring over at the empty chair.
Dr. Wilson and Bean junior had gone. Monica was boiling. As mad as she ever remembered being. Mad and hurt and terrified. There was a constriction in her throat, the air passages tightening down.
An hour earlier she'd as much as promised to marry this man, made a public statement. A couple of days earlier she'd packed her bags and was ready to run from this difficult, monkish guy who she loved and cared for but couldn't imagine living with. His silences, his lifelong habits; a man so self-sufficient he could probably live on a naked mountaintop, snag gnats for food, not feel deprived. But she'd spoken the words. Saying it in front of those men, "I'm his fiancée." And yes, she said it partly out of embarrassment and anger.
But after they finally left, she and Thorn didn't discuss marriage or engagements or any of that. Just Thorn saying he was tired, his eyes sliding off hers, embarrassed, guilty. Could she go back down to Key Largo, please, pick up a few things for him? A little packing. Of course, she said quietly, whatever you want. She would need to go to the laundry, do a few loads. Did he want to take some of his fly-tying stuff? Yeah, that might be good.
She fetched for something more to say, but all the words deserted her. This guy she barely knew. A few months together. Great fun. Monica feeling secure with him, feeling challenged by his calmness, his orderly world, a long list of things he loved to do.
Then just this week getting very edgy that she was feeling too much for Thorn, too quick. Old love injuries coming back to her, the men who'd fooled her in the past. Not trusting her own reactions. Which was why she'd packed, loaded her car. Going to kidnap the foolish young woman who was in love but didn't want to be. Cart her off somewhere where she could chill down, come to her senses.
Another moment of silence, then Thorn reached out a hand for her and Monica stepped forward and took it. Strong and warm, familiar.
"I meant what I said. About being your fiancée."
Thorn looked at her, then stared across at the empty chair.
"Not like this."
"What?"
"The way I am. Paralyzed. It changes things."
"You're going to get better. You're going down there, work your butt off, and you'll be walking again in no time."
"What if I don't?"
"You're going to get better, goddamn it."
"I wouldn't have asked you to marry me if this had happened first."
"What's that mean? You're taking it back?"
"Yes," he said. "I'm taking it back. You're off the hook."
You think I said what I did just now because I feel sorry for you? Is that it?"
"It wouldn't be fair. I'm not the same person I was last week."
"Sure you are."
"Monica, believe me, I'm not. I may not be that person again, even if I do get better."
"Oh, so you get a bump on your spine and that makes you a new person. And this new person doesn't love me anymore. Is that what you're saying?"
"I don't love anything at the moment."
"Thorn, goddamn it, you're going to get better."
He swallowed, found a breath. His eyes weren't his. They were on loan from some grieving, brokenhearted fool.
"Maybe I'll get better, maybe I won't. Either way, I won't let you throw away your life because you feel bad about what's happened to me. If we went ahead with it, neither of us would know for sure why you said yes. And that doubt would always be there, poisoning things."
"I'm not some schoolkid. I know what I'm doing."
"Look, Monica, I don't have any energy right now for candlelight and champagne. I'd just kill it, whatever we have."
"Christ, you don't have to woo me, Thorn. I love you. I'm going to stand by you no matter what. Sickness or health."
"No," he said. "It won't work."
"You mean you won't let it work."
"Go on home, Monica. Leave me alone."
She closed her eyes for a moment, watched the white bursts of exploding cells. When she opened them again, he was still there, eyes hard on hers.
"Just like that. Push me away. Slam the door in my face."
"Just like that," he said.
"Well, fuck you, Thorn. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."
He nodded, agreeing. And without another word, Monica turned and stalked from the room, found her way out of the hospital, tracked down her car in the huge lot. In a gray daze she drove back to Key Largo, collected his clothes, drove down US 1 to the Laundromat, separated the whites and colors, did his wash, took it out, dropped the quarters into the dryer, sat and watched his clothes tumble and tumble.
She folded everything neatly. Got the creases straighter than she ever had. All of it very important, that his underwear be just right. She kept her mind focused on the precision of underwear, the geometry of creasing, folding his shirts, each of them exactly the same, shaking them out, starting over for the smallest flaw. Driving back to the house, she shifted gears meticulously.
She went inside, located a gym bag, packed the clothes, selected a few feathers, some bits of fur, Mylar threads, his favorite set of pliers. She got his bathroom things, two pairs of shoes.
By midnight she was finished, the bag packed, sitting by the door. A perfect folding job, perfect packing. Monica poured herself a jelly glass of red wine, went out on the porch, looked up at the heavens, dense with stars. A clear night, the last coolness before summer closed in.
She drank the wine, poured another. She fed the dog, talked to him for a while. He listened to her woes and somehow knew better than to wag his tail. When she'd finished telling Rover everything that had happened, everything that was on her mind, she stood up, stepped out to the edge of the porch, gripped the railing, leaned out toward the black shimmer of the bay, and she sobbed.
CHAPTER 13
"You sure do like your sleep," Pepper said.
She stood in the narrow doorway of Greta's stateroom chewing on a sleek green chili pepper that resembled the toe of a giant frog. Tonight Pepper wore a sequined T-shirt and electric-blue shorts, black high heels—fitted out like the main event at a two-dollar strip club.
> Greta closed her eyes and settled her head against the pillow. She'd been drifting all day inside the morphine fog. Maybe two days. She wasn't sure anymore. The drug had slowed her respiration and pulse to almost a flatline, and behind her closed lids she watched the bright pings of what surely were dying brain cells. All day she'd been slipping deeper inside her body, down through the hazy shadows of lassitude, It was as if she were fading back into her very cells and molecules, second by second, dwindling to some baseline biological unit, prehuman. Mind still tracking sensations, but barely.
"Doc's got your pump set a little high," Pepper said. "Couple hundred milligrams in your bolus, then a maintenance dose after that. He didn't want you to be screaming and carrying on, making a disturbance. Not that anybody would hear, anchored as far out as we are. But he had to play it safe, considering you're a federal agent and all."
In the dim light of the cabin, Greta stared across at the thin girl. Her shoulder-length hair was auburn and so fine that the tips of both ears peeked through. Framing her face were two strands of bleached hair, the color of rancid margarine. Once, a couple of weeks earlier, Pepper had shown Greta her high school homecoming portrait. In a tight yellow chiffon gown, Pepper Tremaine, princess in waiting, stood stiff and uncertain on an outdoor stage. Either the poor girl's father had bribed the judges or it had been a very small, very unfortunate class at Key West High.
Tonight Pepper had tried to redraw the map of her face with raspberry lipstick and eyebrow pencil and heavy smudges of blush. Maybe across the room in some hazy midnight Duval Street bar her heavy jaw and muscular face might be mistaken for attractive, but out in the daylight her smile was mulish and vacant. A grin that recalled another Greta had seen years before during her brief stint as a schoolteacher. One morning at recess she'd approached a group of her third graders who'd gathered around an older girl on the far edge of the playground. The girl was huddled over a scrawny stray dog that had haunted the schoolyard for weeks. As Greta stepped close she saw the girl had her knee pressed hard to the dog's throat and was training a laser of sunlight through her magnifying glass, sizzling the mutt's right eye, a thin ribbon of smoke rising. When the girl swung around and faced Greta, she wore the same sickly grin that was on Pepper's face.
Red Sky At Night (Thorn Series Book 6) Page 11
