I said, "Vanessa, I don't know. You'll have to work on it with Amelia—or let it fall through and get your deposit back. There is a glut of other houses on the market. Get another realtor. Start over."
"You don't understand." Tear rolled down Vanessa's face. "I gave notice on my apartment. I have to move out by the end of the month."
"Two weeks," I said.
"Yes, I know." Vanessa handed me back my cell phone and walked toward the water's edge. She seemed lost in thought.
For all her cool demeanor, Vanessa didn't handle stress well. Who could blame her? She'd had a tough life.
"Vanessa shouldn't help with Hutchinson's care." Connie glanced in my direction. "That kind of patient is depressing. Hopeless."
"I agree with you. Besides, she has some definite feelings about the man."
"I don't know why they’re keeping him alive. I mean, what kind of life will he have?"
"For one thing, he isn't dead. He has a lot of activity on his EEG, he has reflexes, and there's an outside chance he'll awaken."
"Sure." Connie squinted into the sun, pausing. "I can't remember the last coma patient who woke up."
"Remember the guy who was in the room at the end of the hall last summer. He came to."
"That's one. He wasn't as bad off as Hutchinson. His brains weren't scattered across a picture window either."
"But he did have a lot of damage, and he left the hospital." I raised a finger, punctuating my words.
"He'll never work again. His poor wife didn't know what she was going to do with him. He was childlike."
"I remember." I took a sip of Coke. It was warm and flat. I drank it anyway. Like my coffee, I'll drink Coke in whatever condition. I'm caffeine addicted.
"Most of the ones who are discharged go to a nursing home or vent care facility and die a slow, miserable death."
"Connie, we can't do anything about that. It's not our decision."
She pointed at herself and snapped, "I didn't say we could."
"Sorry."
"That doesn't make it right. I feel so bad for them and for their families. They’re helpless and out of control. Look at Amelia Hutchinson, would you? She sits there all day, every day. Her life is ticking away. She leaves and runs around to show houses. She hurries to a closing, then she's back. I talked to Janie from the ICU. She said that's what has been going on since the first day. And, there are people like Vanessa who don't care. She's worried about her own thing. I know she could extend her lease. There was a big vacancy sign in front of her complex this morning," she said, her hands shaping a huge square to illustrate the size of the billboard.
"I'm going to ask her when she gets out of the water," I said.
"I wouldn't if I were you."
"Why?"
"She and I had the same conversation this morning. I pointed out the vacancy sign, and she exploded. She's not dealing with having her expectations blocked. She's been like that since the last time Craig beat her."
"Poor girl. Guess all we can do is support her." I saw Vanessa bobbing in the waves. She hadn't gone out far. I couldn't see her face, but her body posture seemed relaxed. The oceanic hydrotherapy was good for her. Maybe we could bottle it and make a fortune.
Connie and I sat in silence. When Vanessa returned, I went for a swim. We planned to stay for a couple of hours, and I wanted to get in my swim and have time to dry off before driving home.
The surf was bathwater warm. I swam out until I couldn't touch the bottom then swam parallel to the beach for fifty yards. The waves pushed my salt-water buoyant body into shore. It took a few minutes to find the girls in the crowd. The strong current had taken me an additional fifty yards south.
I approached our patch of sand and saw Vanessa and Connie engrossed in conversation. They were both talking at once, and neither smiled. While hurrying through the clutter of beach paraphernalia and sun worshipers, one child stopped me in my tracks and pointed at the castle she was building. It was round with a center turret, a deep moat, and a road to the eye-goggle drawbridge. Good for a preschooler.
"What's the trouble?" I asked when I was within hearing range.
Connie looked at me but spoke to Vanessa. "Van, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I don't think you should take care of Hutchinson. What if something happens to him on your shift? It'd be bad for you. We can't be the only ones who know you hate him."
"Connie, what do you think I do, go around pissing and moaning to everyone? I don't talk about my financial problems at the hospital. It's private business. Besides, how can I not take care of him? I work on the unit."
Uninvited, I stuck in my opinion. "Ask to be reassigned. You can say you need a break from the heavy-duty vent cases. People do it all the time. Can you relieve on another unit for vacation or something?" I agreed with Connie's point. If people knew she had a problem with Hutchinson, they might consider her a suspect if the would-be killer struck again. I thought she'd be better off avoiding the whole thing.
Vanessa glowered at Connie and me then at her watch, smiled, and said, "I'd love to continue this conversation. Really, I would, but I have to be at work by three."
"I didn't know you were working today," I said.
"The supervisor called this morning. I can use the overtime, and I need to take it when it's available. It's only until eleven. It's an easy eight." Sand blew in my direction as she shook each fold of her blanket into place.
I packed my things, standing to avoid getting a face full of grit. Connie followed suit, and soon we were walking toward the low curvy wall. We stopped at the shower, rinsed off our feet and sandals, and parted company.
They went north. I walked south, thinking the morning's conversations raised more questions than they answered. I planned to investigate.
6
The traffic heading west was more reasonable, and I was home in less than forty-five minutes, leaving plenty of time before evening to check out the neighborhood where Hutchinson's shooting occurred. I showered and pulled on a dressy pair of black shorts, pale peach tank top, and black sandals, then spent a few minutes in the yard inspecting the tiny fruit on my orange tree while Sunshine took care of business. The dog jumped into his crate on command and accepted his reward.
In a few minutes, I was back on the Sawgrass Expressway, and even though my shoulder-length black hair is thick, the wind dried it by the time I exited the highway. I drove through the SunPass lane, then closed the sunroof and rolled up my windows while driving. At the first red light, I brushed out my hair and applied lipstick.
Hutchinson Realty occupied the last storefront on the north end of the strip mall, adjacent to a dress shop, and Michael Wiley Realty occupied the last storefront on the south. His neighbor was an auto insurance company. Cozy, I thought. To better observe both agencies, I backed into a space halfway between them—in front of the 7-Eleven and the bar Ray had mentioned. I sat there for the better part of an hour, counting nine people entering Wiley's and two going into Hutchinson's, one of whom was Amelia. Several of Wiley's nine looked into the Hutchinson windows first before moving on. Amelia was right about the walk-in traffic.
After Amelia left in her Seville with an elderly couple, locking the door behind her, I walked over and stood in front of the agency. The walk-in clients bypassed Hutchinson Realty for a reason. Even to the casual observer, it was obvious something had happened. The broken windowpane was gone, but half the lettering was missing, too. The remaining original pane read inson on top and alty below. Through the new window, I saw the bullet hole in the wall. Someone had scrubbed the sidewalk in front of the store, leaving a faint stain where Hutchinson's blood had penetrated the porous concrete. It would take a load of bleach to get it out.
The lights were on, and a computer screen glowed on a desk in the back. A small handwritten note taped to the inside of the glass read, "I'll be back by three. Please wait. Amelia." You had to give the woman credit. She was trying.
The furniture inside the office appeared new. Sev
eral plants—it was hard to tell from outside if they were real or not—provided privacy in an otherwise open environment. The prerequisite Best Salesman in the World plaque hung on a side wall with a couple of individual ones. I couldn't remember any real estate office that didn't have the top salesman in the world.
I glanced at my watch. If Amelia was good to her word, she'd be back in a few minutes. I noted a couple of properties for sale from a poster in the window and headed to the competition for a look around.
The scene at Wiley's was different. When I stepped into the chilly interior, a prim receptionist with a welcoming smile greeted me. She asked a couple of quick questions, checked potential client on a registration form, and handed it to me. I filled it out, being honest about everything except for the fact I wasn't in the market for a house.
She reviewed the form when I handed it to her and offered me the option of waiting for one of the salespeople. One would be free in a few minutes.
The placard on the high reception counter announced her name in bold print.
"Yes, Sharon, I can wait." From the spacious reception area, I couldn't see individual desks. Workstations with modular furniture, deco art freestanding dividers, and live palms and hanging plants with lights glowing over them subdivided the space.
The effect was a maze, but it was welcoming. I'm claustrophobic by nature, but it didn't create discomfort. I found the Flamingo pink and teal accents worked better than usual, though I'd have carpeted the floor instead of using the rough-hewn tiles. I stood with my back to the receptionist reading the super-salesman plaque. "How many agents work in this office, Sharon?"
"Mr. Wiley employs twenty full and part-time people, but not all of them work out of this site. We have eight here today and another eight at the Westin office."
"Big operation?"
"We're competitive with the bigger agencies." She delivered the prepared answer with practiced familiarity.
"That's nice to know. I was hoping to have a lot of individual attention though." I lowered my voice. "Do you happen to know anything about the agency down there?" I pointed to the north.
"Hutchinson Realty?"
"I went there first, but the door was locked."
She dropped her voice to a whisper, "I think you're better off dealing with us." She repeated the newspaper version of the drive-by shooting while I nodded in feigned amazement.
I leaned closer to her. "Terrible. Did anyone here see it happen?"
"No, it was late in the day, and I'd gone home. There were a couple of agents in the back. They said they didn't know it happened until they heard the sirens."
"It's scary. Right in the middle of town." I found it interesting she hadn't mentioned Hutchinson was a nice man, or it was a terrible shame.
"Nobody thinks Mr. Hutchinson will come back to work, and his wife asked Mike, Mr. Wiley, for help. She's not a broker, and that's going to be a problem if the mister can't work anymore."
"I'll deal here then." I sat on an upholstered side chair and slid it around to continue my conversation with Sharon. The telephone kept ringing, however, and there was no further opportunity to question her.
The real estate agent who was next in line for new clients greeted me, and I spent the next forty-five minutes talking about property.
Claiming interest in moving in the near future and implying I needed to settle on area and price, I accepted an appointment to see a variety of properties on Thursday. I'd be off from work, and Art Meyer didn't mind taking me on a fishing expedition during the week when business was slow.
Art Meyer was an older man with experience in the South Florida market. And, best of all, our initial conversation suggested he loved to talk.
7
On Monday morning, I volunteered to take Barry Hutchinson as part of my patient caseload. I was involved in his problems, and I hoped to get more information. The original nurse designated to provide his care said she appreciated being relieved of the responsibility of caring for another heavy-duty patient.
The shuffling of assignments, which occurred because of my unexplained generosity, took a few extra minutes. Jamel stood at his father's bedside, but Amelia hadn't arrived. In my crepe-soled shoes, I pushed my computer cart into the doorway without making any noise and observed him. I pretended to review the chart on screen so Jamel wouldn't think I was spying.
He stared at his father. I had the sense he had just arrived and was getting acclimated to the scene—gruesome for the uninitiated.
A dressing still covered most of Hutchinson's head, exposing one eye, one cheek, and his mouth. From where Jamel stood, the stench was intense. Cultures confirmed a severe infection—a number of virulent organisms thrived in the wounds.
A translucent plastic tube connected the ventilator to an opening, called a tracheostomy, in his throat. Every time the ventilator cycled like a huge bellows, Hutchinson's chest moved. Tall poles supporting pumps delivering the intravenous solutions stood to one side, and long, thin plastic tubes led to the side of his neck. Another pole held a pump controlling the delivery of a nutritional supplement into his stomach.
A tangle of wires sticking out of the neck of his gown connected to a telemetry transmitter sending information about his heart to a monitor screen in the nurses' station where a technician watched his status. Tubing containing cloudy, dark amber urine emerged from under the sheets and connected to the bag hanging on the frame of the bed. There were more dressings under the sheets.
Jamel touched the IV lines, first one, then each in turn. He fingered the breathing tube. He disconnected it from the opening on his father's throat, reconnected it, and stepped back. My urge was to intervene, but since I was close and knew Hutchinson was in no real danger, I continued watching.
Jamel uncovered one of his father's hands and held it between his own. He talked softly, and I knew from the tone he was crying, but I couldn't make out the words. I felt like I was invading his privacy, so I made a noise and entered the room.
"Good morning, Jamel," I said when he looked at me. "It's nice to see you here."
"Ma sent me. She said the old man won't make it out alive." He pulled up the tail of his big, sloppy shirt and dried his eyes. He continued to clutch his father's fingers with the other hand. "I called the doc, but she didn't call back."
I inched closer to Jamel and put a hand on his arm. "There is a good possibility your mother is right. However, people can and do recover some function and leave the hospital. Don't give up on him until it's over." When he didn't say anything, I continued. "Why did you disconnect his breathing tube?"
"A tall lady did it the other day. She said she wanted to see him breathe. I wanted to give him a chance." His voice sounded sincere. He stared at his father as he talked, so I couldn't see his eyes.
Jamel moved a step away from me, removing my hand from his arm. "You said he hears me?"
"He might, yes."
"Good. I told him some stuff."
"That's good to do. You can tell him about everyday things too. Talk to him about the usual things."
"We don't talk. Haven't for a long time. He don't approve of me." Jamel seemed to pull back into his shell, but still he held onto his father's fingers.
I moved to the other side of the bed and began the treatments that couldn't wait. After watching Jamel with the tubing, I was uncomfortable leaving him alone in the room, so I took my time. "Jamel, I'm going to clean him. Would you like to help me?" I filled a basin with water.
"No. I have to go to work."
"Where do you work?"
"Car wash on Sample Road. I'm a student." He fidgeted with his baggy shirt and seemed to look past me.
I didn't hear Ray come into the room. When I heard Ray's voice, I happened to be looking at Jamel. He grimaced and released his father's hand. His expression became insolent, like a teenager with attitude.
"Listen, Jamel, I've been trying to get a hold of you. You haven't returned my calls. Don't you get your messages?" Ray said.
<
br /> "I've been busy," Jamel responded, his voice flat.
"Sophi, is there someplace I can talk to him?"
"The room next door is empty." I pointed left.
Jamel didn't move. He glared at Ray and said, "I was leaving to go to work."
"You're going to be late. Either you'll be a little late because we're having a conversation here, or you'll be a lot late because I'm interviewing you at the station. You pick." Ray scowled at Jamel, and his cheeks seemed to tug at the edges of his chin whiskers.
Jamel shuffled past Ray. I saw him turn left and disappear into the adjacent room. Ray followed him and closed the door without looking back. I'd have to find out later what went on. Meanwhile, I attended to Hutchinson's needs before seeing my other patients. I left the room knowing I needn't worry about the safety of my patient.
8
A couple of hours later Ray appeared. I was catching up on my charting and watching the phones for the charge nurse.
"Hi, Sophi."
"Hello." The phone rang. "Five Northeast, Sophia Burgess." I took my time handling the call, finding the right nurse to speak with the doctor who'd called, and checking lab work on the computer.
Ray waited. There were no little twitches at the edges of his beard, so I assumed he was no longer angry. Wrong.
"You got a minute for me now?" His voice had an edge.
"What can I do for you, sir?" I used my best sitting-at-the-charge-nurse's-place voice. He made me mad, coming into my patient's room, not warning me, not saying hello, and taking two hours to come back.
"We need to talk. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?"
I looked at my watch. "Maybe." I relented. "Sure. The charge nurse will be back in about five minutes. You can wait for me in the cafeteria if you want."
Imperfect Contract Page 4
