Back to Lazarus (Sydney Brennan)

by Judy K. Walker

  Once again, I tried to call out, but my voice failed me. My eyes started to tear at the thought of him leaving. I could almost touch the tractor. The tires were close, but probably too large to grab. Before I could decide whether to try, the man climbed back down, this time with a tall metal travel mug in his hands.

  “My wife fixed this for me this morning, but it looks like you need it a damn sight worse than I do,” he said, handing me the mug. His voice shook slightly when he spoke.

  I held the mug in my left hand and balanced it with my swollen useless right. After a couple of sips of strong coffee, I thanked him, but that was the extent of my verbal talents. The man took the cup from me and placed it in an improvised cupholder while he helped me up. The seat was slightly bucket-shaped, but wide enough for two. He told me his name was Joe Fisher, that his little farm was less than a mile back down the road. His wife Maggie would know what to do with me.

  I had taken up the coffee again and managed a few more sips before we started our rumbling, popping progress.

  “I know Maggie,” I said.

  My voice sounded far away to my own ears, and a very small voice inside my head (good old Mrs. Bibbystock) reminded me it was very unlikely Mr. Fisher was married to my cousin from Birmingham. We didn’t speak often, but I suspected my cousin Maggie would mention it if she had moved to the Panhandle and married a farmer 30 years her senior.

  Mr. Fisher looked at me askance. I could tell he didn’t want to touch me, probably out of concern for me more than his own fastidiousness, but he had doubts about my ability to keep my seat. Either my comment or its delivery decided him. As soon as he had gotten the tractor turned around, he placed one arm firmly around my waist as if I were an unruly sack of potatoes.

  The pressure of his arm against sore ribs that gave me a moment of intellectual clarity, or perhaps it was the diesel burbling I could feel in my bones. I poked Mr. Fisher’s arm and asked him to stop. When he had I pointed to the red bandanna hanging from his front shirt pocket. He looked at me dubiously but pulled it from his pocket. Just then a wave of nausea hit me, and I realized that even if I got down from the tractor without inflicting more damage on myself, I wouldn’t make it back up under my own power. I breathed deeply, eyes closed, until I knew I could speak.

  “We need to mark it.”

  It only took him a moment to comprehend. He climbed down, walked to edge of the road and picked a tree. I nodded painfully and he tied his handkerchief to a sapling very near where I had emerged onto the road. I managed to stay upright until he got back in the seat and resumed his firm grip. Then I slumped against him and allowed myself to check out for the rest of the ride.

  I hate hospitals. I hadn’t set foot in a hospital for 18 years, so it’s not all that surprising that I had to lose consciousness to find myself in one again. Lying on an examination table staring up at icy fluorescent lights, I realized where I was and tried to explain that I didn’t belong there, that I was actually just fine and would be on my way now. Big surprise that didn’t fly. I have a vague recollection of making a nuisance of myself, flailing and shouting, and yet they still wouldn’t let me leave. Another big surprise.

  The subsequent hours are a collage of metallic smells, the strobe effect of passing overhead lights as I was wheeled around for tests, and interminable questions about what had happened. I was exhausted. I wasn’t aware of specific pain, just an overall feeling of rawness and pressure in my skull that blacked out everything else. I just wanted to be left alone to sleep. While tending to my feet, they asked where my shoes were. I didn’t know. Then they asked what kind of shoes I’d been wearing. I didn’t know. In fact, I couldn’t think of a single pair of shoes I owned, now or ever. Apparently that’s when I began sobbing uncontrollably.

  Eventually I was taken to a room of my own, and the pestering decreased from non-stop harassment to periodic pokes and prods. These pokes and prods were scheduled to occur any time I fell asleep. After several of these intervals, I began to come out of my haze. My thoughts were less jumbled, and I recognized the purpose and logic of actions around me. The world had edges again, and so did my body. The pain helped clear my mind.

  The head of my bed was slightly raised, and I fumbled for a button to raise it further. I grunted when my right hand bumped against the bedrail, which only made my head hurt worse. When my vision cleared, I lifted my hand slowly to look at it. There was a bandage covering the fleshy portion all around, leaving only my thumb and fingers protruding. My fingers were thick and discolored, like sausage gone bad, and I had to suppress an involuntary gag. It was enough to make you a vegetarian. My thumbnail was intact, but most of my other nails had been torn or broken and showed evidence of bleeding.

  A nurse came in before I could catalogue the rest of my injuries, or inflict any more attempting to get comfortable. I tried to speak, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate. She anticipated me, offering a sippy cup of water and the admonishment to “sip slowly.” The suction made my head hurt more, and I felt a twinge at my cheek, but no champagne could have tasted sweeter than that tap water. She held the cup for me, and after a few sips she set it on a stand beside my bed.

  “Thanks,” I managed. It felt like I hadn’t spoken in years.

  She smiled. “I’m Marie. I know you’re probably used to this by now, but I’m going to check you out real quick.”

  She demonstrated by checking my eyes and my pulse, and doing several other things that might not have made sense to me even if I hadn’t been knocked on the head.

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Some,” I answered. She waited for elaboration, but I gave none.

  “Describe your pain for me.”

  I closed my eyes and started at the top, picking my words carefully. My goal was to demonstrate with my articulateness that I really was hunky dory and they could let me out right now.

  “I know you’ve heard this before, but I’m afraid I can’t manage any fresh metaphors right now. My head feels like it’s in a vise, and if I do anything out of the ordinary, like breathing or blinking, things tend to cloud over at the edges. My hand is throbbing—“ It was then that I opened my eyes to look at my left hand. There was an IV line taped to the top. Marie followed my gaze.

  “You were a little dehydrated. There are some antibiotics in there as well.”

  “Ah, I guess that brings me to my feet. They feel like they’re on fire, or they’ve been beaten by a two-by-four. Make that both.”

  “Were they?”

  I paused to consider, but I didn’t want to force it. “No, I don’t think so. The rest of my body just feels like a big bruise.”

  “That’s a pretty accurate assessment.”

  “When can I get out of here?”

  Marie grinned. She looked to be in her early 40s, with short brown hair done daily with curlers or an iron, but her grin was much younger than her hair style. Almost mischievous.

  “I’ll see if I can get Dr. McCauley to stop in.”

  Dr. McCauley was attractive in a generic doctor right out of central casting kind of way. Close-cut respectable hair, long angular face, white coat and stethoscope. Without the white coat or in a non-hospital context outside, I probably wouldn’t recognize him again. The Hollywood actor association led me to expect someone a bit more… malleable? Someone with a soft touch in his bedside manner. Within moments he shattered that illusion, and I began to suspect that Marie’s grin had been at the prospect of the good doctor putting another challenging patient in her place.

  He stood over me and repeated many of the tests Marie had performed. The metal legs of an institutional chair screeched on the floor as he pulled it toward my head and settled in. He sighed, leaned back and rubbed his eyes, then crossed his legs widely, ankle to knee.

  “You have a closed head injury, a concussion. Basically you, or someone on your behalf, slammed your brain against the inside of your skull. If he’d done it again with that kind of force you’d most likely be dead or a vegetable.
Either way we wouldn’t we having this conversation. There doesn’t appear to be any major bleeding, but rather than have you drop dead in the parking lot, we’re going to monitor you for a while. At least for tonight, probably longer. You may experience post concussion syndrome—we can talk about that later—but I don’t think you’re going to have any permanent brain damage. Not that I can make any guarantees.”

  “You have a stress fracture in your left ulna. Your right hand is such a gnarly mess that we won’t be able to tell the extent of the damage until the swelling goes down. Lacerations and contusions, a sprain or possibly more serious ligament damage. You have lacerations and contusions all over your body, but your feet are the worst. Not quite shredded, but pretty close. The cuts are superficial, but it took us a while to get all the foreign matter out of your feet, and we have to watch for infection.”

  He leaned over and carefully removed a large bandage from my forehead. The tape didn’t pull, but it still hurt. Then he produced a round mirror from one of his voluminous pockets and placed it in my left hand. I gripped it gingerly, afraid of disturbing the IV on the other side. I’m not crazy about needles. I didn’t want to look in the mirror, but part of me couldn’t resist, and the doctor was watching.

  When I was a sophomore in high school, I caught an elbow playing pick-up basketball after school and ended up with a hell of a shiner. It was centered on my cheekbone, but the swelling and discoloration extended to my eyesocket. It was beyond make-up, even if had owned any and known how to use it. Instead I wore a brand-new skirt to school, a cute black and white checked thing with a wide black waistband that really popped. I never wore skirts or dresses in high school, and I don’t know what had possessed me to buy that one, but I was glad I had. The next day I kept hearing compliments from behind me or from my “good side,” and when I’d turn to thank my unsuspecting classmate she (or he) would gasp. I was uncomfortable at first, but somehow the two things that drew attention to me seemed to cancel each other out.

  An Oscar gown would not mitigate the damage to my face this time.

  My forehead was split and swollen, all the better to show off a color wheel of red and blue make purple. It had a nasty wet look. One cheek (right or left? I couldn’t make sense of the mirror image) was similarly accented. My nose was pink and had a slightly crusty look around the nostrils, as if some of the fluids dried there had been stubborn to remove. My lips were dry and cracked, bits of skin sticking off at right angles. Topping it off was a tapestry of angry red scratches scattered all over my face.

  The face in the mirror that could not be my own was mesmerizing. I knew I’d stared too long when I saw tears leaking from the inside corner of one eye, the eye above the most bruised cheek. I could feel the moist drops creeping, itching my face, but I still couldn’t figure out which cheek it was. I set the mirror face-down on my sheet-covered lap.

  “Could I get some lip balm?” I was proud and amazed that my voice only cracked a little bit, no more than could be explained by my parched throat. I shouldn’t have spoken.

  “I don’t know if you remember this, but after you were brought in you had… an episode. Despite your head injury, I took the risk of giving you something because I was afraid you would do yourself more damage. That’s something not uncommon with head injuries, and some people experience it for weeks or even months afterward. Unprovoked irritability or anger, mood swings and loss of emotional control.”

  He scrutinized my face, and I broke eye contact first. I remembered, and I also remembered what he didn’t say, that among other things I begged him not to tell anyone I cried.

  “You are incapable of taking care of yourself right now.”

  I felt like I was about to lose that precious control again. I don’t cry, and crying twice in one day was unacceptable, even for a shitty day like this. But I couldn’t help it. Emotion and the smell of strong cleaning agents made my chest constrict; after 18 years it smelled the same. This time when I spoke I couldn’t look at him, and my voice was barely above a whisper.

  “I hate hospitals.”

  “I know.” Something in his voice made me look up. I wondered what else I’d said. His eyes were almost sympathetic. He started to say something, then abruptly changed his mind, sliding his implacable manner back into place.

  “Just do what I tell you and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  He scooted the chair noisily to its original position and turned to leave. In the open doorway he fired a final shot.

  “And don’t do anything stupid to get yourself in here again. I might not be so nice the next time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Don’t do anything stupid, huh? But what had I done, stupid or otherwise, to land myself in the hospital? I had to have done something. This hadn’t just been random violence. Despite what Yankee fans of “Deliverance” might think, the South is not patrolled by roaming hordes of rednecks looking to enjoy some good ole boy fun. This was a planned, coordinated attack. Two vehicles with several men in protective clothing followed me to an isolated area they knew well to execute their plan. Why? What was the motive?

  I had nothing of value, and as far as I knew they hadn’t taken anything except me, and maybe one of my shoes. They hadn’t said much, hadn’t asked me any questions, so they couldn’t be after information. Not that I’m exactly James Bond anyway. The biggest secret they could get out of me is my Aunt Faye’s recipe for potato candy, and even that only if I could find the little index card. But they didn’t ask me anything, and they didn’t really tell me anything. They just scared the shit of me. That’s what we professionals call the motive of intimidation. A not very professional motive, I might add, indicating I was probably dealing with someone either stupid or psychotic. Which brought me full circle back to why.

  By this point I’d blown my remaining brain fuses and was just about at intellectual blackout. The pressure in my skull was getting pretty intense, but at least it was making my throbbing hand and burning feet less noticeable. When Nurse Marie came in, I intended to ask her for some assistance in the distraction department (if I couldn’t think straight I might as well be pharmaceutically happy) but changed my mind when I saw she was wearing her serious face.

  “The police are here to speak with you, if you’re up to it.”

  My pulse abruptly picked up its pace and my blood pressure rose. My vision started going fuzzy again. I felt like I’d done something wrong. It was an involuntary reaction, like taking your foot off the gas at the sight of a state trooper when you’re already driving the speed limit. I’ve always had an unreasoning distrust of law enforcement, and I’m sure working at the PD’s office and hanging out with defense attorneys hasn’t helped. It’s a good way to hear about the worst law enforcement has to offer. Rationally, I know that the evils most people wouldn’t believe if you told them are perpetrated by 1%—okay, maybe 5% on a bad day—of law enforcement, but the bad guys aren’t considerate enough to wear big C’s for “crook” on their chests. And, like the proverbial bad apple, if unchecked the rot spreads pretty easily in the dark.

  “Yeah. Sure. Okay.” As she left to let the cops in I remembered my need for assistance.

  “Marie!” Bad move calling loudly. (I couldn’t have managed a yell.) My vision went dark and I waited for it to clear.

  “Could I get something else to drink, maybe a Coke to settle my stomach? Thanks.” Not exactly a happy narcotic, but it was something.

  As she left, two men in button-down shirts and khakis entered. They were both in their early 40s, clean-shaven with dark hair and enough physical resemblance to be brothers. One made the introductions while the other screeched chairs over to my bed. I found their synchronicity slightly disturbing, as a suspect might.

  “Sydney Brennan? I’m Detective Drake and this is Detective Sutton. We’re with the Stetler County Sheriff’s Department. How are you feeling?”

  “Well, I’m just thrilled to be here.”

  I wasn’t sure
if I was being sincere or sarcastic, and by their expressions I could tell the detectives weren’t either. It seemed to throw off Drake a bit. One point for me.

  “We’d like to speak with you about what happened last night.”

  I was glad to see Marie return with a styrofoam cup of soda over crushed ice. I felt so worn out. I thanked Marie and took a sip. She smiled at me, then turned to the detectives with the stern look she’d used on me earlier.

  “Don’t be too long,” she told them.

  “Yes, ma’am,” responded Drake, ever accommodating. Sutton hadn’t spoken at all yet. When Marie had gone, I nodded my head and Drake continued.

  “We found your rental car, Ms. Brennan. It doesn’t appear that anything was taken—your bag and other personal effects are there—but we’ll need you to confirm that nothing is missing. Can you tell us why you were out there?”

  “I was visiting someone in Lazarus.” He waited, but I didn’t volunteer anything else.

  “Ms. Brennan, you are a private investigator. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you working on a case?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, he waited, but as mule-headed as it might sound I wasn’t about to do his job for him. This time Sutton spoke.

  “Ms. Brennan, could you tell us what happened?”

  I took another sip of soda to give myself strength.

  “I’ll try. Things are still a little fuzzy. I was meeting with someone in Lazarus at her home. When I left there, I stopped at a convenience store—“

  “The Shop-n-Save on 98?” Sutton interrupted.