by Nesly Clerge
The I.V. was in good condition so she moved to check his catheter. When she touched the skin around the tube to check for irritation, his left leg moved slightly. At first she thought she may have imagined it. She touched the area around the tube again. Two fingers on his right hand twitched.
“Looks like you may be trying to wake up, Mr. Starks. Let’s see what the doctor says. Lucky for you, he’s making rounds now.”
She pressed the call button.
“Yes, Ana?”
“Please tell Dr. Baker that Mr. Starks just moved his leg and a few fingers. They weren’t large movements, but it’s something.”
“He’s just walking up. I’ll tell him.”
Less than a minute later, Baker joined her.
“Was anything specific happening when he moved?”
“I was checking his catheter.”
Baker’s eyebrows raised then he smiled. “Maybe you have the magic touch.”
He laughed when Ana blushed, and pulled a penlight from his pocket. Gently, he lifted each of Starks’s eyelids and flashed the light back and forth. “No change.”
He used a sharp-tipped probe, sticking each leg, arm, and foot with it. “Must have been a reflex. But it’s the first movement since he’s been here.”
“That we know of.”
“I want him checked every half hour. If there’s any more movement, we’ll try a few other tests to see if it’s just reflexes or if he’s trying to wake up.”
“I’ll see to it.”
“Any new movement, whether I’m on duty or not, I want to be notified.”
CHAPTER 64
ANA RAMIREZ WAS on the trauma unit’s work roster for the next three days. The first two of those days, Starks had a few more reflex movements, but no response to the pen light or probe. Every day, orderlies bathed and shaved him, and changed his diapers, as well as did what was needed to keep his muscles and skin healthy.
The third day was her last before she had two days off. She assisted the orderly during the bath and saw no extraordinary response from her patient. As she walked away, the monitor began its loud beeps for attention. She pressed the reset button, checked the readings, and turned to leave. The monitor went off again. Thinking that maybe the monitor was going bad, she unplugged it at the wall then plugged it back in, resetting the monitor.
“Sorry about the racket, Mr. Starks. These things beep when they need to be replaced or when a patient moves the arm with the I.V.”
She realized that his left arm, which she’d placed several inches from his thigh, was now next to it and that his fingers lightly scrabbled at the sheet. Ana rushed to the nurse’s station, looked up Baker’s number, and sent him a text message.
He called her back in less than thirty seconds. “I just walked in. Getting on the elevator now. Grab a Glascow chart and wait for me.”
Doctor and nurse hurried to Starks’s bedside. Starks eyes were open but not for long.
“Were you doing anything special this time that caused him to move?”
“No. The monitor kept beeping. I was checking it when I realized he’d moved his arm several inches. I’d positioned it after his bath. And he was moving his fingers.
“Good thing you were paying attention. Let’s see how our patient scores on responses.”
Baker pressed hard on the base of one of Starks’s fingernails. “His eyes opened but he didn’t jerk his hand away. He didn’t look at me, either. Give him a score of three for now.
Baker leaned in closer, speaking loudly. “Mr. Starks, can you look at me? Can you speak?”
Stark’s mouth barely opened. He moaned, but none of his sounds formed words.
“Score a two for verbal response.
“One more test, Mr. Starks. Sorry if it doesn’t feel good, but it has to be done.”
Baker poked the probe at specific body points. There was some pulling away and extension of each limb, but it was slight. “That’s another two. I want these tests done four times a day. Track his scores.”
The nurse’s excitement flagged.
“What’s the matter?” Baker asked.
“I was just thinking about when he wakes up. What he’ll wake up to. He looks like he’s a nice man.”
“Just remember he’s at Sands because he did something that put him there.” Baker patted her on the arm. “I want his scores texted to me.”
Ana placed her hand on the arm her patient had moved. “I feel for you, Mr. Starks. You’re in a tricky place: damned when you wake, damned if you don’t.”
***
Sixteen out of every twenty-four hours were spent in a medicated fog from painkillers, but each day, Starks responded a little better, became a little more alert. By the seventh day, he was doing better at moving his limbs on his own, and was beginning to speak, though mostly with single-syllable words or he broke syllables up as though they were words. When it became clear that he understood most of what was said to him, Baker ordered all conversations with the patient to be kept light.
On the eighth day, Starks smiled and winked at the young female orderly giving him a bath.
And then he remembered his reality.
CHAPTER 65
“GOOD MORNING, MR. Starks.”
He studied the nurse’s staff ID clipped to her uniform.
“Ana. You’re one of the nurses who’ve been looking after me.” He extended his right hand. “Thank you.”
Her cheeks colored as she shook his hand. “You’re welcome. And that was a complete sentence. Very good!”
She held up a folded gown.
“I know your bath was ten minutes ago. Sorry you had to wait for a fresh change. Let’s do that now.”
As she was tying the strings at the back, she said, “You need to get ready to work hard.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Physical therapy. Time to get your muscles stronger and your coordination back.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“It’ll hurt but it’s what’s needed. You start tomorrow. And I’ll be here to assist for the first round. Dr. Baker wants me to monitor and report on how it goes. When you’re strong enough, someone will take you to the P.T. room.”
“You’re very pretty, Ana. Are you married? Any kids?”
“Are you flirting with me?” She smiled.
“No. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you.”
Ana turned to the monitor, pretending to check readings she’d already checked.
Starks raised the head of the bed a few inches. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I don’t mean anything by it. I’m not the typical inmate. Not a violent criminal. I mean, according to the system, I’m a criminal, though I still can’t see myself that way. But I’m not violent. What I mean is… Forget it.”
Her expression softened. “I know who you are. Anyone who watches the news or reads the papers knows.”
She could see he was distressed. Compassion won. “I’m divorced, and I have four children.”
“Are you and your ex still friends? Do you get child support? I’m making you uncomfortable again. I don’t mean to. I have a reason for asking.”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Sorry.”
“There are more important things to focus on. Like getting you well.”
Starks faced away. “Well enough to return to hell.”
CHAPTER 66
DEMORY CARRIED A tray with scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice to the bedroom his son used when he stayed with his father.
“Eat every bite and you can have your choice of ice cream as a snack this afternoon. I’m going to get a quick shower.”
“Can’t I have cereal, instead?”
“You need to build your strength. And,” he ruffled his son’s hair, “we don’t need to have this conversation every morning.”
In his own bedroom, Demory grabbed a pair of underwear from the chest of drawers and went into the adjoining bathroom. He placed his cell phone on the coun
tertop and reached to turn the water on. The standard ringtone sounded. Someone not close to him was calling. He started to ignore it, but reminded himself that things ignored have a way of kicking a person in the ass. Lately, his ass. He recognized the number.
“Wilson?”
“Thought you’d like an update on Starks.”
When the brief conversation ended, Demory grinned at himself in the mirror, punching the air with his fist. He got into the shower. His son would be improved enough in a few days for it to be safe to get a sitter for an hour or so. He wanted to visit Starks at Grace, certain the inmate would need his kind of support now more than ever. His exuberance flagged when he imagined how that conversation might go.
The following week Demory was free to visit Starks, who’d been moved to a room in the locked-down mental ward, which was standard practice for hospitalized maximum-security prisoners, he’d been informed. It had been fairly easy to arrange the visit since Starks was his patient, a fact the hospital had taken twenty-four hours to verify before telling him he was approved.
He stepped out of the elevator on the top floor at Grace and headed directly to the nurses’ station.
“Mathew Demory. I’m here to see my patient, Frederick Starks.”
After checking a list, she said, “ID, please.”
Satisfied he was who he said he was, the nurse escorted him to a set of wide double doors, punched in a code then took him the rest of the way to the room Starks was in. She needn’t have bothered to go the small distance beyond the doors, he thought; only one room had a guard posted outside of it.
“The guard will unlock the door for you,” she said before she left.
The guard turned the key in the lock. “Knock when you’re ready to leave, or if you have a problem.”
Demory hesitated. Even though the report was that Starks looked good, all things considered, he steeled himself for what he might see: People’s opinions about how someone looked were often relative. He wasn’t disappointed; Starks’s looked almost like himself again.
He had several seconds to study his patient before Starks realized he was there. As soon as he was spotted, Starks quickly shifted his dark expression to one that revealed nothing about whatever thoughts had been shelved.
Starks propped himself up on one elbow. “Doc! I can’t tell you how good it is to see a familiar face.”
“I can imagine. I’ve been really worried about you. How are you?”
“Watch this.”
Starks sat up. He tried to hide the grimace on his face but couldn’t as he slid from the bed.
“You’re in pain?”
“They said it would hurt for a while. Scar tissue, you know.”
“Are you taking anything for pain?”
“They want me to take meds on a regular schedule but I told them no. I’m not getting trapped into that loop. If I really need it, I take one. The last thing I intend to do, as appealing as being in la-la land can be, is to be out of it at Sands. I learned my lesson. I need to be able to see and hear what’s going on at all times.”
Starks walked back and forth. “It took a lot of hard work and some agony to get to this point, but I did it.”
“That’s excellent progress. Looks like they’re treating you all right here.”
“It’s as much a prison as the other one, but slightly more pleasant. For obvious reasons. I’ve even learned to appreciate hospital food.” His grin widened. “And, there are women here. A nice change, I can tell you.”
Starks’s brow wrinkled. “Sorry to say it, Doc, but you look like hell.”
“Got some personal issues I’m dealing with. And my son had an emergency the same day you were… attacked. He was hospitalized for awhile then had some recovery time at home. That’s the main reason I haven’t been to see you before now.”
Starks returned to his bed. “I’m sorry to hear it. Is he okay?” He gestured toward the single chair in the room.
Demory lowered himself into the armless chair. “There were complications right after the surgery, but he’s nearly a hundred percent now.”
“As a parent, I know what a relief that is to you.”
Starks’s gaze locked with Demory’s. “Doc, have you heard from my family or Jeffrey?”
Demory shook his head and said, “You don’t know the half of it. They were disappointed to learn about the stringent visitation policy here. I was able to get in because of who I am.”
Silence filled the space for a few moments. “How do you really feel, Starks?”
“I told you.”
“I mean about what happened.”
Starks avoided Demory’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Understandable. But at some point we’ll need to.”
Starks flexed the fingers of both hands. His face and voice showed no expression when he replied, “Believe me, Doc, I’ve given the matter a lot of thought.”
Demory studied his patient, who kept his face averted. The skin on the back of his neck tightened.
Starks gave one firm nod of his head then looked at Demory. “Thanks for your concern, though.”
“I care.”
“I know.”
“You’ve improved so much I don’t think they’ll be able to keep you here much longer. How do you feel about going back?”
Starks’s lips twitched. “It is what it is.”
Demory didn’t miss the odd smile, and knew if he asked about it, he wouldn’t get a straight answer. “As soon as you’re back, we’ll continue our sessions.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Whatever your opinion is about the sessions, you need that time more now than ever.” Eyes fixed on Starks, he leaned forward, as though that simple action would add import to his words.
Starks faced Demory. “Believe me, I know what’s needed.”
Demory stood and walked to the bed, extended his hand. “I’m sorry this is all the time I have. Don’t want to leave the boy too long just yet, more for my sake than his.”
Starks’s hand clasped Demory’s. “Thanks for coming to check on me.”
“Take it easy.”
“That’s the only way in here, Doc.”
Demory knocked on the door. He nodded at the guard as he pulled the door shut behind him and waited for the click. All the way to the double doors, where he buzzed to have the locked doors opened for him, all the way down the elevator, and all the way to his car, he wondered how worried should he be about Starks’s enigmatic expression and comment: I know what’s needed. As a counselor he knew how he preferred to take it.
There was also the way he preferred not to take it—the way he didn’t want to think about.
CHAPTER 67
STARKS LAY BACK in bed, shifting his position several times, unable to get comfortable. He raised the head of the bed until he was almost sitting up, keenly aware of the closed wounds that pulled and jabbed whenever he moved. He would have preferred no pain but had decided to let the sensations act as motivation.
To get stronger mentally and physically.
To get even.
From this position, his reflection was captured in the small rectangular mirror secured in a recessed part of the white wall. He saw more than his unkempt image; he saw a night when he was pushed nearly to his limit.
That night, when more than a mirror was broken, uneasiness had settled in his bones as his fingernails bit into his palms.
“Where the hell are you going?” he’d said.
Unfazed, Kayla had smoothed the crimson silk of the dress that enhanced her curves. She watched his reflection in the mirror, watched as his eyes followed the slow trail of her hands.
“I’ve never seen that dress before,” he told her.
Kayla turned slowly, taking in her appearance in the full-length mirror. “It’s new.”
“It’s indecent. If it were any shorter, it’d be a shirt. And since when do you show that much cleavage?”
Her cell phone rang; she answered an
d said, “I’m on my way,” then disconnected the call.
“Who was that? You tell me where you’re going dressed like that.”
“It’s just Jenny.”
“The two of you are going out way too much lately; I don’t like it.”
“You go out. No reason I shouldn’t.”
“You leave this house now, especially dressed like that, and I swear to God I’ll change the locks.”
With a hint of a shrug, she said, “Do what you want. That’s all you ever do, anyway.” She patted her short, dark hair. “Don’t you have a woman panting to see you tonight?”
She picked up the small beaded handbag she’d tossed onto her side of their king-size bed then left the room and a furious Starks.
He listened to the fast-paced snaps of her stiletto heels move along the hall floor then down the stairs. Heard the expertly carved front door of their small mansion shut behind her. Starks rushed to the window facing the front of the house and watched the taillights of her car disappear into the night.
Body rigid, he stomped down the stairs then went to the built-in bar in the family room. He took a bottle of Scotch and a glass with him to the room he used as his office. He typed in information onto his computer, read, drank, swore, drank more. The printer hummed as whiskey burned his throat and added to the fire in his gut.
Although this latest round of winner-loser had started when he found her in their bedroom, dressed and perfumed as she was, he kept the results of his latest checking up on her to himself. Especially that he’d yet again figured out her e-mail and Twitter passwords. She’d changed the ones he’d been allowed to have before. Over the last week, he’d checked her messages daily on each.
There was more than one man she was in contact with. Some had responded recently and some hadn’t. And the messages were ridiculous, in his opinion—I had an x-rated dream about you last night. I need to smell your special scent again. And on and on such messages went, some of them as inane as these were; some of them lewd. None of these men were the co-worker she’d previously pulled her shenanigans with.
