The Waiting Hours

by Shandi Mitchell

  “What are you doing?” He addressed the bulging garbage bags.

  “Cleaning up your mess.” Her voice was neutral, but her jaw was tight and her spine rigid. He dropped to his knees and rifled through one of the bags, pulling out the severed paper. His face contorted in a mask of grief, an agonized collapse of mouth and eyes.

  Through the matted knots of grey-streaked hair, the back of his neck was mottled with dirt. She could count the vertebrae on the thin Braille of his spine. His pants, sagging from jutting hips, exposed the crack of his bare behind. His heels were blistered and callused, and the soles of his sneakers worn through.

  “You’ve lost how it ends!” The words bled from him in a deep, primal anguish. A sound she had only heard before at work. And then she did what she was trained never to do when a mentally unstable patient was distressed. She touched his shoulder.

  She felt it before she saw it. A direct blow to her solar plexus knocked the breath from her chest and sent her flying onto her back. Choking for air, she barely caught Zeus’s collar as he leapt over her, teeth gnashing. His weight arrested mid-air, wrenching her sideways. His collar cut into her fingers. She grabbed hold with both hands and he dragged her onto her stomach. His claws scrabbled, and losing his footing, he crashed to his side. Thrashing upright, he pulled her forward. His raging bark pierced her eardrums. She gasped for the words that needed air to be said. STOP! SIT! STOP!

  Matthew slammed the bedroom door and the lock clicked. She released her strangled hold. Zeus hurled against the door. His claws dug into the soft wood. His eyes were wild and the whites exposed. “ENOUGH!” The word came out hard and broken. She kneed him away. It was the humiliation that enflamed her, but it was hate that obliterated her. She kicked at the door. The frame shuddered. “OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!”

  Zeus was barking, darting between her and each crash of her boot. He charged, spinning sideways to stop her leg. She slammed her shoulder into the door again and again and rained her fists against the wood. Zeus was barking, shrill and sharp, a bark she hadn’t heard him make before. He was barking, she realized, at her. His ears were pinned back and his tail cowed.

  She knelt before him and he nuzzled his head to her pounding chest. His ears flicked forward with each whispered “Sorry.”

  He pressed harder, nudging her to her feet. He circled her legs, prodding her towards the stairs. He shepherded her away.

  * * *

  —

  Kate pressed the numbers slowly. Her chest ached a blooming bruise.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  * * *

  —

  She was waiting on the front steps when the cruisers pulled in. White smoke billowed from the fire barrel at the side of the house. Paper ash drifted in the deadened evening air. Zeus was nestled between her legs. She rubbed his chest to assure him that all was well. He glanced uncertainly up at her when the first cruiser pulled in. His bum shifted and he leaned in harder. An officer stepped out of the vehicle, but didn’t move beyond the safety of his door. To her dismay she recognized him as the cop from the hospital. She couldn’t keep any part of herself private. He looked crisp and pressed like he was just starting his shift. She could taste her shame. A second car pulled in behind. The cop she recognized said, “Is the dog restrained?” He spoke with surprising authority, considering how small he’d seemed in the trauma room.

  “No,” she said. “But he won’t hurt you.”

  “You’ll need to secure the dog, ma’am.”

  Maybe he didn’t recognize her. “I have to get a leash from my truck.”

  She stood, and the second officer, who was younger, stepped out of his vehicle. His hand was on his holster. Zeus hugged her leg as she walked past them into the shade of the old maple. Slowly she opened the hatch, so the officers could see what was inside, recognize her SAR kit, and understand that she was not a threat. She retrieved a lead and tethered Zeus to the hitch. “Good boy. Stay.” She patted him on the head. Only then did the older officer step out from behind his door. They were afraid. She could smell it. She approached them calmly, so they wouldn’t be afraid.

  “Do you have any weapons on you, ma’am?”

  “No.” She understood they had a protocol to follow.

  “Any in the house?”

  “No,” she said. “My brother’s stopped taking his meds and needs to go to hospital.”

  “Where is he now?” The first officer asked all the questions. His pupils were constricted and his blue eyes shining. She noted his tight jaw and too-straight back and dark circles under his eyes. He was on something.

  “He’s in his room, upstairs.” She knew the magic words she needed to say to have him involuntarily admitted. He tried to kill me. He tried to kill himself. He’s going to kill you. Only an immediate threat would trigger a response. The officer was leaning back on his heels. His cheek twitched. He was grinding his teeth.

  “He needs help,” she said. “He’s not dangerous, he’s…” How could she explain You’ll need to break down the bedroom door. He’ll be in the corner. He’ll scream. You’ll need to restrain him to carry him down. Don’t let him grab the railing. Once he’s in the back of the car he’ll stop resisting. He’ll just give up.

  Instead, she said, “I’m a nurse.” As though that would explain everything and they could trust her assessment. The officer recognized her then. She could see it in his eyes.

  “He’s not eating. He’s not communicating. He’s unable to care for himself…” She wondered how many checklist symptoms she had to recite to convince them. She didn’t tell them about the pain over her heart with every breath.

  “And you can’t get him to admit himself?”

  “No.” She repressed the urge to bite back at the unspoken Did you try? “He doesn’t think he’s sick.”

  “You know what happens if we take him in.” She heard the emphasis on you and the lack of a question.

  “He’s inside,” she said. Her mother’s angels would provide some comic relief back at the station. She couldn’t blame them. No one wanted to be here. The pain in her chest spilled hot against her ribs and her eyes burned with heat.

  Zeus reared, baying, straining his tether. The officer took a step back, closer to the hood of his car. The line whipped behind Zeus, who was trying to slip his collar.

  “Zeus!” She marched towards him. “Stop!”

  The second officer, the young one, drew his weapon and aimed it at Zeus. Kate held up her hand to the cop—a warning, a stop. “Don’t you fuckin’ point that at him!”

  Zeus’s barking reached a frenzied pitch. He was going to snap the line. She continued towards him, adding an emphatic hand command and the bore of her eyes. He ignored her.

  The older officer’s voice hardened to a deep growl. “Stay away from the dog, ma’am.”

  She turned to face him, taking in his paunchy belly and crooked lean that favoured his right side. He was big and hopped up and afraid of dogs. “I need to calm him down.” She used her most professional voice, the one reserved for small children and the elderly. She turned her back on him. Zeus lunged, strangling against the collar. He didn’t understand that now wasn’t the same as before.

  “Enough!”

  The front door opened and Zeus assumed the down position. His eyes were fixed on the danger. In the swell of silence, the officers and Kate turned to stare at Matthew in the doorway. He had taken off his coat and pulled up his pants. He was barefoot and wearing a ballcap.

  “Is everything okay?” His voice was casual, concerned, and calm.

  “Are you her brother?” the older officer asked. His voice had changed to a friendly banter.

  “Yeah,” Matthew said, but didn’t look at Kate.

  “Your sister called us because she’s worried about you.”

  “It was a misunderstanding. She was in my room. You know how that is with sisters.” He actually smiled. She almost laughed at the audacity of the performance.

  She said, “Ma
ybe you should show the officers your room?” But then she remembered the evidence burning in the barrel. No one moved.

  The officer tugged on his belt and hitched it over his hipbone. “Your sister says you haven’t been taking your medication.”

  “She doesn’t know,” Matthew said. “She doesn’t live here. I’m good. I’m fine.”

  He had passed the test. He was lucid and communicative. Harmless. He didn’t meet the criteria. The officer glanced to his backup. She saw the stand down exchange. The younger officer holstered his weapon.

  “If there’s another misunderstanding,” he said, “we’ll have to come back and sort it out. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” Matthew smiled through thin lips. “Have a good day.” The door shut softly behind him.

  Her voice wobbled, “That’s not him.”

  The older officer’s back flinched. When he turned to her, she saw the weariness in his eyes. He looked to the ground, searching for platitudes. “Sometimes us coming by is enough.” When he looked back up, his eyes were sharp and insistent. “Did he do that?”

  Her hand went to her welted cheek. Her elbow and chest pulsed pain, but the welt was all they could see. Everything else she’d said was true. He was sick. Her word should be enough. He needed medical help, not an assault charge. “No.”

  His eyes said she was lying and she could feel him pull away. “If the situation escalates or you feel you, or he, are in danger, you call and we’ll be here.” The second officer was already in his cruiser.

  “So, we wait?” She hated the smallness of her voice.

  The officer paused at the door of his vehicle. “You know how it is,” he said and his voice was small, too. Wincing, he lowered himself into his car. He would need another hit soon. He rolled down his window and her heart leaned in for the words that could save her.

  “There’s a burning ban in effect,” he said. “With a substantial fine.” He added the pause so she would understand he was doing her a favour.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  In the upstairs window, Matthew was there and then he was gone.

  28

  Mike knew where to find him. The kid would eventually show up on the corner. It didn’t matter how many times he was busted, he always returned to his regular spot. Dumb as a bag of nails. Or he just didn’t give a damn. The kid never ran. He handed his stuff over like it was candy, knowing he was underage and they couldn’t touch him. His preferred operating hours were eleven to midnight. Bedtime hours. It was ten to eleven.

  Mike stretched his legs the best he could, careful not to jar his back. This night was never going to end. Everybody at the station knew what had happened at home. At call they asked if he wanted coffee, chatted him up about how the new squad car handled, if he’d seen last night’s ball game, and the frigging weather…talking, talking about nothing while their eyes and relentless smiles said, You okay?

  He was called to the duty desk and questioned whether he wanted to take vacation time. For Chrissakes, his four-year-old son had a bad dream, thought bad guys were in the house and—like he’d been taught—called 911. It was no big deal. But the cops who came to the door, one he had friggin’ trained, came into his house and looked around like he had something to hide. Now Lori wasn’t speaking to him. But oh, she had plenty to say to her mother. And every time he moved, she watched him like he was under house arrest.

  And the cops, his brothers, treated him as though he was one of those dirtbags. Separating Lori so they could question her privately. Looking for bruises and handprints on his little boy’s arms and legs. Hell, he had carried child victims from their homes himself. Bare-assed and snot-nosed. Silent even in their tears. Only to be returned to their assailants after a mandated anger management course and counselling sessions at a parent resource centre. And there was nothing he could do about it except wait until the next time they were called. Keep building the evidence and compiling a baseline, until the bastard or bitch could be put away. Always too late.

  Like the guy at that farmhouse. Batshit crazy, six foot tall and weighing maybe a hundred pounds. His hair ratted up under his ball cap, shirt three sizes too large, pants sagging off his hips, and filthy feet. If he took his goddamn pills, they wouldn’t be called out there. Then he wouldn’t have to look the sister in the eye and walk away. Good luck. Is that what he had said? It’s what it sounded like. His last pill was on the edge of wearing off at that call. The woman—whom he was certain he’d seen before at the hospital, but couldn’t remember when—had pissed him off.

  The brother couldn’t help it. He didn’t even know his mind was lying to him. But her…she had a sharper edge. She wasn’t afraid of the police. She stood with her feet apart like she was ready for combat and her eyes judged him with contempt like he wasn’t doing his job. Like it was his duty to come in and clean up their mess. There was nothing he could do—that was the friggin’ law. Everyone had rights. Which meant standing by until someone was in imminent risk of dying—either the poor sick bastard or whoever got in his way. And she knew it. There wasn’t enough money, not enough beds, doctors, social workers, not enough people who gave a damn. He hated unstable calls. Hated the misery of them. Hated his impotence.

  And that woman was lying about something. Something had happened for her to make that call, but then she clammed up. So what was he supposed to do? Forcibly drag the guy off to the hospital, fill out five hours of paperwork, only to see him back on the street a few hours later? Another casualty of government cutbacks to balance budgets. It was cheaper to have them on the streets than in hospital beds. And this one lived only blocks from Mike’s own home. They were all lucky the dog’s leash held. It would have been a public relations disaster, because it would have been shot. His right calf muscle cramped. He rubbed around the jagged scar, a lifelong reminder of the ten stitches and rabies shots he endured at the age of six.

  “Come on, kid, where are you?”

  All this shit was because of his friggin’ back, which was a direct result of his job. He should file a compensation claim, but it would go on his record and next time he’d be denied benefits because of a pre-existing condition. Gotta love the lawyers. He had tried to get help. Two walk-in clinics before his shift started and the same useless scripts for massages, over-the-counter meds, and rest. He was on his own.

  He didn’t bother telling the docs that he wasn’t sleeping either. Not just last night, when Lori banished him to the friggin’ couch and its jabbing coil springs with the sun blasting through the living room window at five o’-friggin’-clock in the morning because she wanted sheers so she wouldn’t feel closed in. And the fans were in the bedrooms, so even without a sheet, he was soaking in sweat. And after breakfast Caleb crawled onto the couch with his friggin’ stuffed toy that smelled like piss. And when he finally did get to sleep, despite the baby crying and Lori banging dishes, he was woken a couple hours later by pain so intense, a bullet would have been merciful. All on a day when he was supposed to be turning around for nights. One ailment per visit, please. He considered himself a tough guy. He wouldn’t ask if he didn’t need it. Just because they couldn’t see it, didn’t mean it wasn’t killing him.

  He stiffened as the kid approached the corner. Right on time. What the hell was a kid his age doing out at this time of night anyway? But he knew his history. He had taken him out of the house twice. No mother. Alcoholic father. Three younger siblings. The kid was probably fourteen now, soon he wouldn’t be able to plead out in youth court. He had his hoodie pulled over his face and his hands tucked in his kangaroo pouch pocket. If he wasn’t always looking at the ground, he might have noticed the squad car parked a block away. He doubted the kid weighed more than seventy pounds. It was tough to be out alone without handlers. He was a self-starter.

  Kids were different now. The only trouble he got into as a boy was stealing a pack of gum from a corner store. He was seven. The police were called and the old cop scared the shit out of him. Gave him the talk.
Told him he didn’t think he was a bad kid, just a dumb kid making stupid choices. He didn’t think Mike would do it again and was willing to give him that trust, man to little man. There was no need to call his parents.

  He had the same sickness in his belly now as when he stole that gum and the cashier grabbed him by the shirt, and his friends ran out with their pockets crammed with chocolate bars and chip bags. The old cop made him look the storeowner in the eye and apologize. The man barely spoke English. All the kids called him the Paki.

  The old cop said, “This is who you’re stealing from. You don’t know nothing about him. You don’t know where he’s come from or how hard he’s had it. You don’t even know his name. This is Mr. Patel. He has two girls and one boy, all getting good grades despite little shits like you beating on them every other day. He has two budgies and his wife sings to them. He’s been robbed three times, twice at gunpoint, and once with a knife. He’s had his cheekbone fractured and ‘Go home Paki’ spray-painted on the front of his store, even though Mr. Patel is Indian.”

  The cop made him shake Mr. Patel’s hand. Then cuffed him on the back of the head and told him to get the hell out of there. That’s the moment Mike knew what he wanted to be. He understood the power of changing the direction of a life. He never went back to that store. Mike flicked on his headlights, roared up to the corner on the wrong side of the street, and flashed the red lights once for business. The kid didn’t run.

  He rolled down his window. “Sean, what are you doing out here again?”

  “Oh, man.” The kid said it like he had been tagged out of a child’s game. “I’m just out for a walk.”

  Mike got out of the car. A low grunt in his throat absorbed the pain. “I told you I was going to have to take you in if I saw you out here again. I know you’re not stupid, so why are you acting it?”

  “Gotta pay the bills.” The kid, all freckles and acne, didn’t stand any higher than his chest.