‘I’m Dr Samuels, Marsha’s physician. I thought I was your physician. When they brought her in, they identified her as you.’
Dr Samuels has a narrow, cat-like face, and she wears black-framed glasses with small, rectangular lenses, like the reading glasses you buy at the drugstore. A surgical mask hangs by a string around her neck. For all that it is three a.m. in the rest of the city, it might as well be high noon, here in ICU.
‘Yes, I heard. How’s Marsha doing?’
‘Well enough that she’s been asking for you since we got her stable,’ Dr Samuels says.
She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze. Her energy is reassuring. I feel like a zombie beside her.
‘As to how she is?’ Dr Samuels’ tone is low and she looks me straight in the eye. ‘We’re making her as comfortable as we can.’
I have seen this before, while counseling families in the small private niches a hospital offers when the people you love face death. Some patients survive against the tide, others go under the smallest wave, but there’s no doubt that Dr Samuels is hanging the crape.
‘Her burns are severe, third and fourth degree, which means careful management and a long recovery period on down the road. The immediate concern is lung trauma, inhalation injuries. It appears that only one lung sustained significant trauma—’
‘That’s good, anyway.’
‘Yes and no. Hyperemia is mediated by a neural inflammatory response. Which means that even though the other lung wasn’t initially affected, there’s a strong chance we’ll see edema and tissue damage there too. We’re treating the airways aggressively. If we’re lucky we can head off complications in the gas exchange.’
I am trying to follow all of this and look intelligent but all I understand is that Marsha is in trouble.
‘She has second degree burns to the chest wall, which is a problem with the inhalation injuries. We’re monitoring respiratory deterioration – her breathing is labored, you’ll see that when you go in. We may have to put her on a ventilator, but that can complicate things, so we’ll avoid it if we can. So far we don’t think we’ll have to get a surgeon in for an escharotomy, which is surgery to the chest to mitigate the tightness and pressure. At this point, she’s hit the peak of edema formation, and I’m optimistic we won’t have to go there. If we do, then we’ll definitely have to ventilate.’
She raises an eyebrow at me and I wonder if she knows how little I understand. ‘So. Go in. Be calm. Don’t stay more than five or six minutes. And you’re going to need to wear a mask and gown. Janet?’
A woman in blue scrubs stops in her tracks. ‘Yes, doctor?’
‘Help Mrs Miller get suited up. She’s here for the patient in three.’
Janet, clearly on her way to do something else, takes us all in and regroups. She is a large woman, big-boned and heavy, with dark roots and a blond ponytail. I follow Janet to an anteroom off a supply area, and she guides me into a mask, a gown and antiseptic booties that go right over my shoes. Janet is talkative and brisk, and I don’t register a word that she says.
Three is one of eight cubicles arranged like spokes on a wheel. I see machines, monitors, a complex bed and Special Agent Mavis Jones, masked and gowned, leaning over a horrifically bandaged patient who I can only assume is my cousin Marsha. The name over her bed says MILLER, JOY.
Janet looks at Mavis Jones in a way that is almost predatory. ‘You have been told to leave twice already. If you don’t go right now, I’m calling security.’
Jones gives Nurse Janet a long look, and I wonder if she is going to point out the irony of calling a security guard to deal with an agent of the FBI. Instead, she puts a hand up like she is stopping traffic, and slips a small tape recorder into the pocket of her trousers.
Janet seems to have a multitude of personalities and the tough woman disappears the minute Agent Jones leaves the room.
‘Hello, Miss Marsha. Just checking your morphine drip.’ Janet is upbeat and friendly. She bends over a beeping blue machine on a pole near the bed, and checks a tube in Marsha’s arm. ‘Are you in any pain?’
The bundle on the bed moves a fraction of an inch.
‘That’s good, sweetie. You don’t worry about a thing, OK, Miss Marsha? Janet’s going to keep you happy. Now, Marsha? Honey? I got that Joy you were talking about here to see you. She’s standing at the foot of the bed. No, no, you stay still. Come on over, Joy. Come say hi.’ Janet pulls a chair in close.
There is a sudden swoosh of sensation in my ears, as if the room is a vacuum – no noise, no air pressure, just a deep and abiding silence. One half of Marsha’s face is perfect, the other half a nightmare of flesh that looks like scorched, raw meat. She must have been on her side when they found her, the good half of her face resting on the floor. There is a wad of heavy bandaging over what used to be an ear. The hair that survived is still curly. The part of her neck that is exposed makes her look as if she has been flayed alive, and all else is a bundle of gauze, bandages, a mummy-wrap from hell.
My last conversation with Marsha rings in my ears, and a sob rises in my chest.
‘What took you so long?’ Her voice is raspy. ‘Shouldn’t keep hurt people waiting.’
She makes little gasping noises every few words, but what she says is pure Marsha, and my sob turns into a choked laugh.
‘The FBI had me pinned down in their interrogation room. I only just now got free.’ I pause for a moment, thinking how to word things. ‘You have nothing to be afraid of, you know that, don’t you?’
‘Joy, sweetie.’ A moment to breathe. ‘Don’t have to go through that evangelist thing.’
‘I saw your mom and dad, out in the waiting room.’
‘Yeah. They. Were just here.’ Marsha moves a bandaged hand in my direction. ‘I need to know. Forgive me, Joy?’ Her voice arcs higher, and I scoot my chair close. ‘Know you understand. I’m Carl victim too.’
‘An ass like Carl can’t come between the likes of you and me. We’re family, right? Like you told me.’
‘Family.’ She sighs and closes that one healthy eye, and a tear leaks under the lid.
‘Marsha, I’m so sorry about all this. It should have been me, not you. But what were you doing there? How did it even happen?’
The good eye opens, but she seems to be focused on something across the room.
‘Called board.’
‘The board?’
‘Ministries. Called Brice, other day. For your lawyer. Smitty thinks going to arrest.’
She fades. My stomach drops.
‘Board going pay legal fees.’ Marsha moves restlessly. ‘Brice says have meet to make official, but don’t worry, cause be OK.’ She breathes, a frantic sucking noise.
‘Listen,’ she says suddenly. ‘To me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Saw him. The one who did. Didn’t expect me. Hit me, tie me up.’
‘Marsha—’
‘Listen. Thought unconscious. Had eyes closed, playing possum. He talking cell phone. Somebody … what to do. With me. He said I see him, so I had to go.’
‘What did he look like, can you remember?’
‘Mean. Grease black hair. Tall.’ She pauses. ‘That woman, FBI woman.’
‘Special Agent Jones?’
‘Showed me his picture. FBI knows who he is.’
‘They know? Then—’
‘Listen. On phone. Him talking, say “take them food”. Them. Got to be Andee and Caroline. Drive from house, to there, is hour and half. Heard him say it. One hour and half. Told FBI woman. Thought she understand prove you innocent. Proves it.’ Marsha turns slightly on the bed. ‘But didn’t.’
‘Didn’t what, Marsha?’
‘She ask if he talking to man or woman. When on phone. She say voices change when you talk to opposite sex. Warn you. She thinks he talking … talking you.’
‘Ah, hell.’ I close my eyes for a moment. ‘Good work, Marsha. You may have saved my neck.’
She makes a grimace that I t
ake as a smile. ‘Not fired?’
‘I missed you the second you were out the door, just like you told me I would.’
There is a feeling in the room, very strong, something I have felt many times before – it is energy and a sort of glow and shift in air pressure.
Marsha, a woman distracted, still trains that good eye back on me. ‘Told you so.’
She drifts with the morphine. I wait until she seems peaceful, then ease quietly out the door.
TWENTY-FOUR
Hal walks the dogs in the hospital parking lot. I sit in a wood and vinyl chair that is an offensive shade of aqua, making arrangements for the ministry to cover Marsha’s medical bills. Hal is pacing the waiting room outside the ER when I’m done. He puts a hand on the small of my back to direct me to a dark blue Toyota 4Runner.
He opens the door for me and points a finger when Leo makes a move to bound up from the cargo area in the back section. Leo obeys immediately.
‘Someday I’m going to have to learn to do that.’
He smiles at me. ‘You will. He’s already better than when I left him with you. He’s making progress.’
I lean back into the seat and close my eyes.
‘Hungry?’ he asks.
‘I’m too tired to eat.’
‘You need food.’ Hal checks his watch. ‘Let’s try Ramsey’s. We should just make it.’
The restaurant is right around the corner at Tates Creek Center, and it is empty enough that we’re seated immediately. There are a few late diners finishing up and every other bar stool is filled. We take a seat in the back, at a wood table spattered with paint, surrounded by four mismatched chairs. Black and white photos of city scenes from the past are hung in random places on the wall. I order the meat and three – pot roast, creamed corn, fried green tomatoes and mashed potatoes. Hal has pork chops. I have a wheat beer and he has a Guinness, and Hal asks for an appetizer of fried banana peppers.
‘I love fried banana peppers.’ I am feeling starved.
The beers come fast and they come cold, and I take a long sip and melt into my chair.
Hal grins at me. ‘Better get some food into you, while you can still hold your head up.’
My cheeks are pink. ‘One sip of beer shouldn’t hit me that hard.’
‘It’s relief, Joy. Reaction. Don’t fight it, I’ll make sure you and the dogs get home safe.’
‘Yeah, but we still have to pick up my car—’
‘I took care of that already. Your best place to stay with Leo and Ruby is the Residence Inn. I hope you don’t mind, but I had a couple of the guys drop your Jeep off there. I’ve set up reservations for the next three nights with Red Cross vouchers. You need Leo with you right now. He’ll keep you safe.’
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘I don’t even know how to thank you, Hal.’
He grins at me. ‘You know what they say about you, the board and all?’
‘That I need a keeper?’
I take another long sip of beer. It is cold and sweet, and bites just a little. The waitress arrives with banana peppers draped in batter, and cocktail sauce on the side.
‘Dig in,’ Hal says.
I chew slowly. Close my eyes. It’s the little things that make you happy, I think.
‘Close calls and catastrophe,’ Hal says. He raises his glass.
‘To close calls and catastrophe,’ I echo.
When the food arrives, Hal orders two more beers.
‘I won’t be able to hold my head up,’ I warn him.
‘I’ll factor it in.’
Hal manages pie, but even though they have my favorite, which is butterscotch, I can’t do dessert. And once in the car I slide sideways. Hal has to wake me when we get to the hotel.
I know that I should straighten up and deal with things, but I am floating on beer and fatigue. Somehow I get checked in, and I’m aware that all the studio rooms are full and Hal and the desk clerk are arranging an upgrade. The hallways are a blur, though I am aware of Hal’s hand on my elbow, and the dogs milling excitedly in the hall.
I find myself sitting on a couch in a two bedroom suite, with the bags I packed for Arkansas lined neatly at the edge of the kitchen.
‘I hate to leave you,’ Hal says. ‘You going to be OK?’
He is standing over me and I reach up and touch his face.
‘Such a nice chin,’ I say.
‘One too many beers, I think.’ But he leans down and kisses me. A soft sweet pressure, over very quickly. ‘I’m going now. The room key is on the kitchen table.’
I smile at him. Hiccup once or twice. He shakes his head, laughs a little, and then he’s gone.
I am deeply asleep on the hotel-ugly couch several hours later when the call comes in. Marsha has succumbed to an infection that flared into virulent sepsis. Her kidneys tried and failed. The rest of her organs followed like a trail of dominos, shutting down one by one.
Marsha has given up the fight.
TWENTY-FIVE
The Residence Inn is dog friendly. I have a magnetic placard that says PETS INSIDE which goes outside my door. It is people friendly too. There is breakfast every morning, happy hour in the afternoon. Washers and dryers are available and, most amazing, there are staff members who will take the dogs for short walks on request. If I fill out the shopping list in the kitchen, groceries will be magically delivered. Maid service is a daily possibility.
I take a hot shower to wash the smell of smoke from my hair, and the dogs curl up in the bedroom where I have put my things. Neither of them shows any interest in staking out territory in the other bedroom across the living room. The three of us are now a pack, and they are happiest staying close. Ruby stretches out full length on the floor by the bed and Leo sleeps lightly, ever on guard, between me, Ruby and the door.
There are no relatives I need to call with the joyful news that I am still alive, and I don’t think my insurance agent was all that glad to hear from me. He is confident that my homeowner’s company will swiftly pay the claim, as soon as it is officially established that I had nothing to do with the act of arson that started the fire.
I make a quick foray down the road for dog food and a few treats and toys. Ruby and Leo are mulling their choices: a rope attached to a Frisbee, a stuffed quail, three brown tennis balls that smell like peanut butter and two squeaky toys – a stuffed hedgehog and a green plastic porcupine. Ruby settles with the quail, squeaking it gently and methodically in her jaws. Leo hides a rawhide bone behind the couch, and fits one tennis ball and the squeaky porcupine in his mouth. He deposits them hopefully in my lap.
The phone rings. Nobody knows I’m here but Aunt Cee. She will be calling to make plans about Marsha, funeral arrangements and such.
‘Joy? Brice Barksdale. I just got off the phone with Cee.’
Brice and Abby Barksdale are on the Joy Miller Ministries’ Board. Brice is seventy years old. He and Abby have retired from building their empire of automotive supply stores, and both have been with me from the beginning.
‘We saw the fire report on the news last night. Abby called Cee to find out if she knew where you were. They said on the morning show you weren’t dead after all.’
Leo starts squeaking his porcupine.
‘You got the news about Marsha, I guess?’
‘Cee let us know. Terrible thing,’ Brice says.
Abby chimes in from another extension. ‘But we’re holding up, hon. We’re holding up. And thinking about you.’
‘I can’t begin to understand this business with the FBI,’ Brice says. ‘Now the sooner they stop bothering you, the better off you’ll be. We’ve faxed an authorization to Mr Madison regarding any legal fees. I just want to know if he’s getting anywhere at all, or if you want me to make some calls. You’ve done a lot for this community, Joy. Time people showed you some appreciation.’
I don’t hesitate to take advantage. ‘I’m not happy with the way Agents Woods and Jones are running their investigation. They’re making a
mess and they’re spending too much time coming after me. If there’s anything you can do to help, please do it.’
‘I’m on it,’ Brice says.
‘Brice, honey, you need to call Kent,’ Abby says. I wonder who Kent is. ‘And Joy, Cee is worrying about Marsha’s funeral. She wants you to do it, of course. If you feel like you can.’
‘Of course I’ll do it.’
Brice clears his throat. ‘Now, look here, honey. We all know you’re strong, but that doesn’t stop us from being worried about you.’
No doubt they are remembering the aftermath of Caroline’s trial. The board had to cancel the television show and a year of speaking engagements. It took another year before they finally gave up and accepted that I was not going back. No cable show, no revivals, no counseling, preaching or newsletters. As expected, the donations dwindled and dipped, but a website and mailing updates from the Board of Directors encouraged the flow, and we’ve had a slow but steady stream ever since.
Brice clears his throat. ‘I’ve got a little problem come up, and I need you to tell me what you want me to do.’
I picture him in the office of their perfect monster house – the leather, the giant desk, the custom made valances and blinds.
Leo noses the hedgehog in my lap, hinting. It occurs to me it might have been a mistake to give the dogs all the toys at once.
Brice clears his throat yet again. ‘I got a call from those people doing the Sanctuary Event, where you were going to give a talk over at Spindletop?’
Marsha had reminded me just last week. I put a hand to my forehead and groan. ‘I’m sorry, Brice, I forgot all about it. When was it? Have I missed it already?’ I take the porcupine away from Leo.
‘It’s tomorrow evening at six o’clock. Now, I’ll cancel it, if you want. But the thing is, the Sanctuary people have been putting this event together for over a year, and it’s your name that’s been filling the seats. They sent us a pretty big check – more than triple the usual speaking fee.’
‘Brice, I think you’re going to have to cancel. I’ve got so much on me right now, I don’t think I can pull this off.’
‘If that’s what you want, Joy, it’s no problem. But it’s kind of complicated, because when they heard it on the radio news report that you had died in the fire, they decided to turn it into a tribute instead of getting a replacement guest speaker. But now, we can refund their money if you don’t want to do this. No one will blame you if you don’t go.’
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