I’d say. So what kind of boyfriend did that leave me? A mad scientist? A criminal? A romantic who is too trusting and easily manipulated?
“I know this must be awful for you, losing your uncle. I don’t want to rush you. When you are ready, let’s talk. We can try dinner again.”
“Maybe. I need time.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”
I agreed and Mack let himself out the door—taking his lasagna lunch with him.
Chapter 19
As the afternoon wore on, I put Mack out of my mind and vegged in front of the tube. I still felt queasy, but at least I didn’t ralph any more. TV was the perfect way to keep my mind from dealing with reality. I watched half an episode of a Star Trek rerun, then switched over to see my Wheel of Fortune friends, Whadya Say-Jac? and his beautiful assistant Letter-Turner Barbie. (Ollie and I like to rename all of our TV-land buddies. He’s a fun fellow to room with.) After $12,420 was given away to the jumping happy person, we swelled our minds with Jeopardy. (Of course, we didn’t mess with this show. I mean, we’re talking Alex Trebek.) When our brains were about to burst with new knowledge, I turned it off and read Ask Amy, followed by the comics. My neighbor always left his newspapers overflowing his box at the entryway, so I sometimes helped myself for reading edification.
In the Metro section of the paper, I stumbled on a small blurb about Howard’s assault and murder. That made my stomach roil again. I had to get my mind on something else. It was too painful to process.
So I turned to the next page, looking for something to distract me. First, I found a story about an unidentified body found in the lake, then I jumped to another about the arrest and atrocities of a pedophile, and in a last panicked effort I turned the page to a story about an infant kidnapping from the family home during the early hours of the morning. The authorities figured the parents had something to do with it. They always seemed to—according to Dateline, anyway.
With a deep moan, fueled by a mixture of repulsion and upset stomach, I threw the paper behind the couch in disgust and flipped the television back on for the rest of the evening.
The phone rescued me from my failed attempt to keep my mind off awful things. I was a little afraid it was Mack, not sure yet what we’d say. But it was Uncle Howard’s step son again. He’d called three times and was making arrangements for the memorial service. I’d told him before to do whatever he wanted. There wasn’t anything I could think of that could make the event lovely. It was going to be horrific any way we did it. This time he was wondering if I’d like to say a few words. I said I’d think about it to get him not to pressure me.
I had no intention of putting me or anyone else through that. I was going to be bawling the whole service. I couldn’t imagine it would help anyone with their grieving process to watch me go up front, cry, and blow my nose for about three minutes and then sit down—because that’s all I’d be good for.
After I hung up, I checked for missed calls and Mack had left a message. He said he hoped I was doing okay and he’d try back later. I waited, not sure if I wanted to talk to him just then, but he must have gotten distracted or something. He didn’t call again so I didn’t have to decide.
The day finally finished and the next one came before I was ready. It went by pretty much the same. Lots of time spent staring at walls. Ollie and I went through the Reader’s Digest together. I’d borrowed it from a waiting room at the hospital. I read him all the jokes and we tested each other on our vocabulary with Word Power. He got a lot more correct than I did. I told him he was very trenchant. That was one of the vocabulary words I learned. He answered he thought I was benign. One of his.
Plus we did some inane TV watching, a little napping, and I experienced plenty of upset stomach. I was beginning to think I had caught a flu bug or something, the way this thing was so persistent. Then again, I had been through a lot—which I was trying not to think about—and chances were it was eating away at my psyche, manifesting itself in physical symptoms such as GI distress and hallucinations, like my Himalayan was actually speaking to me.
I called in to work again to make sure they weren’t expecting me. They weren’t. Sarge knew Uncle Howard’s service was tomorrow and I needed the time off. I reassured her I’d be there tomorrow night after the funeral. I didn’t want her to think I was malingering. That was another of our Word Power words. She said I didn’t need to push it. I thought it’d be good to keep my mind occupied.
While waiting for the late movie to come on the tube, I checked in with my local news anchors, where I could depend on them to always have the news, “Your news: when it happened, where it happened, and even before it happened,” or something like that. The male half of the team—William Golembesky III, the sixty-year-old who always over-emphasized his the third and should’ve lost the toupee—laughed at some dumb joke his painted blond sidekick had just flubbed. He dropped his voice to a Tom Brokaw baritone and presented a follow-up to the kidnapping story—which they were proud to announce was their exclusive scoop. These anchors were a trip. A few months back, Ollie had renamed Willie Golembesky III to Will He Go-away-sky, the Nerd. (See what I mean? He’s a riot to room with.)
The stolen baby had turned up at a local hospital—my hospital as it happened—abandoned and okay except for dehydration. She’d been discovered by a maintenance man in the hospital stairwell, sleeping in a felt-lined copy paper box. Willie the Nerd went on to explain that the parents, who had been under police surveillance, were vindicated by the events following the initial kidnapping and no charges would be pressed. The couple, who’d had custody of the baby for only two months, were waiting for the hearing which would proclaim the baby—which they were adopting—legally their own child. They were asked a few questions by the station’s very own Investigative Reporter Neil Parker—Live on the Scene. He stuck the foam bubble mike in front of their petrified faces and asked how it felt to have their baby kidnapped.
“It felt bad, you moron,” I yelled. “How do you think it felt?”
Ollie agreed with me and miaowed at the TV, deriding the creep for his lack of sensitivity.
Once the anchors wrapped up the news and wished us a pleasant good night, an old black and white movie called The Brain from Planet Arous came on. A giant brain from outer space takes over a guy’s body to try to conquer the world, then another brain—the first brain’s nemesis—takes over the guy’s dog’s body, hoping to thwart the takeover. The paper’s description of it made me want to change the channel, but Ollie insisted we watch it.
Somewhere around the time the dog brain turned on his master brain, I must have fallen asleep so I missed the ending. I awoke in time to see the credits scrolling up the screen. Ollie sat regally by the TV set watching me, thinking he wasn’t about to tell me how it ended and spoil it for me in case the station reran it.
I went to the bathroom, Ollie went to his box. We both did our business and met back at the bed. I was dizzy when I walked and I realized I hadn’t eaten for two days. I hoped the funeral tomorrow would help calm things down inside and do something to give me some closure. Everyone was always talking about needing closure these days. If I didn’t get some closure soon, I might have to get me some kind of transfusion.
When I awoke the next morning, I got up and made some toast. Whether it was influenza or lack of closure, I figured I needed to start easy. I had some peppermint tea along with it, and was relieved to announce to Ollie that I thought I was on my way to returned equilibrium. Ollie was pleased to hear it. He was missing his precious consistency.
The memorial service took place at Uncle Howard’s church. The place was nearly full when I got there thirty minutes early. Even the balcony. Five minutes before it was to start, an usher took me up to the front row to sit in the family pew. At least at that point I hadn’t started blubbering yet. I’d brought a washcloth in my purse. I didn’t have a handkerchief and I didn’t think a paper tissue could even begin to absorb
the liquid that was going to seep out of me.
It was me and the step son in the pew, a guy about twenty years older than me who I’d met exactly twice before in my life. They should have let others sit there with us. By then, there was standing room only. Anna and Joe were squeezed into the row behind me. That helped me to feel a little less alone.
A pastor in a suit and a whole choir in golden robes came out onto the podium. The pastor asked us to pray with him. When we bowed our heads, I realized how long it had actually been since I’d been in a church. At least Uncle Howard would have been glad to know he’d gotten me back there.
The pastor told several stories about the good deeds Uncle Howard was famous for. And his graciousness. And patience. And character. And integrity. Then an old widow got up and told about Howard fixing her broken fence one night when he thought she was in bed asleep. She watched through the window but never told him. She didn’t want to ruin the fun for him. Another person got up and told about a time Howard had been to their house for dinner and how he’d taken their shy son on his knee the whole evening and treated him like he was his own grandson. A buddy of Uncle Howard’s told about a fishing trip they’d gone on together. Uncle Howard loved to fish, almost as much as fixing old lady’s fences. The buddy told how Howard just happened to forget to put bait on his own hook after he’d caught three Walleyes and his friend still hadn’t had a nibble. They each told about how unselfish and loving Howard had always been toward everyone he met.
Wow. I had a pretty special uncle.
After the choir sang “I Am a Pilgrim” and “I’ll Fly Away” and one other song about how great it will be in heaven, the pastor gave a sermonette. He talked about how much Uncle Howard looked forward to going to heaven and that Howard talked a lot about what he thought it would be like. I remembered our own conversations about heaven. I’d forgotten how much he looked forward to it.
Listening to the preacher started me thinking. I had worked so hard to block out the whole experience of my uncle’s death, I’d not even thought about his last moments. As the pastor talked about life after death, I finally let my mind go back to that night.
The expression on Uncle Howard’s face. He was smiling. He’d just been thumped on the head by a murderer and he was smiling. He wasn’t scared. Wasn’t angry. He looked peaceful. And what did he say? Look. Then So bright. I couldn’t believe I’d blocked that out. Howard had seen something. The Light. He said Oh, my God too, something I’d never heard him say before. And then he reached out. I thought he’d wanted to turn off the gooseneck lamp shining in his eyes. But could it be that he was actually putting his hands into the hands of an angel? Of God?
Now I was crying. But not the tears of gloom and loss I’d anticipated. I was picturing my uncle in heaven, hanging with cool people, like Moses and Mother Teresa. He could go fishing with Moses and fix Teresa’s fence in the middle of the night if he still wanted to. No more tears for him. No more murderers, no more thumps on the head. No more bad stuff, period. He’d lived a good life. Now he got what he wanted more than anything.
After the service, millions of people came up and hugged me and told me how much they loved Howard. A few of the people I remembered meeting so long ago when Uncle Howard took me places with him and his friends. It was like their eyes, the selves that I had known, were still there but in the wrinkled, faded masks of old people. Once they told me their names, I could recognize their eyes. They asked if they could do anything, if they could bring me anything. I’d forgotten how caring many of them were. It was good to get a million hugs. I didn’t realize how much I needed them.
In the crowd, I spotted Charge Sarge. It looked like she knew a couple of the singers. When she came by me in line, she didn’t say anything at first. She had a tear in her eye and just gave me a huge bear hug. Who’d have thought?
“He was a fine man, Kate,” she said. She wiped her tear and joined her friends in the cookie line.
As I hugged the next woman in line—the widow with the broken fence—I spotted Mack on the other side of the room. He smiled and motioned to me that he’d call me. I swiped the hair behind my ear and nodded, recognizing it would be too much to ask that he spend the next forty-five minutes in line to get up to me.
I didn’t get home until almost seven. My phone rang as I came in the door. It was Mack. He told me it was a very nice memorial. I thanked him for going and told him the service was so helpful and comforting for me. He said he was glad and then asked if he could do anything and if I wanted company. He suggested I let him take me to get some food. My answer was yes. It would be nice not to be alone.
Of course, I had to apologize to Ollie when I got off the phone. He’d overheard me say the part about being alone and gave a look that said, “What am I, chopped liver?” I assured him he wasn’t, but coincidentally, that’s what he was having for dinner. Happy Cat comes in a variety of flavors for your cat’s culinary delight.
Mack took me to a Greek restaurant in Greektown on the Near West Side. Mack said it was his favorite place. He asked the maître d’ to seat us at a secluded table. The host was more than pleased to give Mack whatever he wanted. He’d obviously been there more than once.
After we ordered, we sat without speaking for a while. I either watched the glimmering diners around the place doing their refined banter or I stared out the window at the shimmering lights of the city against the darkening backdrop of the sunset. I was comfortable in the silence, enjoying my newfound serenity, but I guess Mack wanted to fill the empty space.
“I still haven’t found out the meds Nichole Trent was on. The chart seems to be missing. But I think you were onto something there. The combination of certain types of drugs might have had something to do with maintaining the pregnancy, to protecting the cell division. I really need to find out what the exact drugs were.”
His words pulled me out of my peaceful solitude.
“I thought Carl set you straight on that, that you realized it was a misunderstanding.”
“He thought he set me straight. I just stopped arguing.”
“So you still believe Nikki’s baby is a clone?”
“I know that she is.”
“How can you know?”
“I did some checking. I know Carl’s office nurse. Nichole Trent was in Carl’s office before she was pregnant. If she were already pregnant, like he claims, she would have had at least a ten-month pregnancy. Do you remember the baby’s gestational age?”
“She was a couple weeks off.”
“Late?”
“No…early.”
“So not anywhere near forty-four weeks gestation. Not that anyone would let her go that long.”
“She definitely wasn’t overdue.” I sat dumbstruck. “So Carl is a schmuck. He lies, he manipulates, he uses people.”
“You’re making harsh judgments here. I’ll admit he’s a bit arrogant, and has a temper. But he’s an amazing scientist. He just can’t seem to face his mistakes. I don’t know why he is so bent on denying anything happened.”
“Maybe he’s afraid of a lawsuit,” I said. Or he’s a jerk. I didn’t say that out loud. Mack seemed to have trouble calling a spade a spade. Or a schmuck a schmuck.
Mack harrumphed.
“What about the cloning?” I asked.
He stared at me. His phone rang. He took the very convenient out and ignored my question to answer the call.
While he listened, his face tightened, his brow furrowed. He didn’t do much talking, just occasional uh-huhs or uh-uhs, then he shut it off and put it away.
“I have to go,” he said. “Sorry. I have to take care of something. Can you catch a cab home?”
My sarcastic “Why not?” popped out before I could stop it. What a way to start over.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Really. But it can’t be helped.” He threw some cash on the table linen and dashed away before I had a chance to pout enough to let him know how hurt I was. I don’t think he had a clue.
While I brooded over my abandonment and contemplated my confused emotions, the food arrived. Hot wet steam swirled intense spicy aromas right up my nostrils. That did it.
Just as the server said Enjoy, my hand flew over my mouth and I fled the premises. The speedy getaway and the crisp evening air averted disaster temporarily and I was able to get home with my gorge still down. But it wasn’t without tremendous effort. I knew a night at work wasn’t going to happen with this flu bug still tormenting me. I’d be dry heaving in the john most of the night. I’d have to call and tell them I couldn’t come in after all.
I had no idea the jolt I was about to get.
Chapter 20
When I talked to Charge Sarge, she told me I had been suspended for an unspecified length of time and was required to turn in my badge.
“I’m sorry, Johnston,” she said, “but I couldn’t get a good explanation. Everyone was tight-lipped.” She said someone would be calling me, or I could request a formal meeting after the weekend.
I didn’t even notice when I said good-bye or hung up the phone. I racked my brain but nothing surfaced that could explain my suspension. There were plenty of sick days left in my PTO bank. And it’s not like anyone had died on my shift. We hardly ever, almost never had a death in Labor and Delivery. I couldn’t fathom what had happened.
So I chewed up a Tums and suppressed all my worry.
Denying it gave me the chance to watch a movie. I’d cut up all but one of my credit cards, and that one was for emergencies only. And RedBox, of course. They didn’t take cash. I couldn’t give up movies. There was a RedBox only two blocks away, so I made it there and back without puking. Part way through the film, I stopped it and took a break to make toast and drink a soda. The TV blared. Willie the Nerd was on, sounding very severe and affected with his Tom Brokaw voice. In between the Ohs and My-mys of his platinum sidekick, he related the story of another kidnapping which had just taken place. The camera cut away to the home of the latest victim with their On-the-Spot Reporter, Live-at-the-Scene.
The Clone's Mother Page 10
