A Perfect Eye

by Stephanie Kane

  She saw something on the lawn.

  “Dad!”

  He was black with smoke and in his underwear. A fireman ran to him. Others followed. They waved frantically for a medic. Two EMTs rushed over. They laid him on a gurney and clamped an oxygen mask over his mouth.

  “He’s my dad!” His hair and eyebrows were singed. His eyes didn’t focus. They lifted the gurney into the back of the ambulance. He gagged.

  “Good sign,” an EMT said over his shoulder. “How old is he?”

  “Seventy-six.” Next year, please let him make it….

  One EMT set up an IV drip. Another slapped inside his elbow for a vein. When the bag was connected they heaved sighs of relief. They covered him with a warming blanket. She climbed in back and took his hand. Did she imagine him squeezing back?

  “We’re taking him to Swedish,” the driver said.

  She wiped his face. Under the soot he was grey. He looked very young and very old. The blanket made him a child-sized bag of bones. Nine lives, Dad, she whispered, like Jack.

  He opened his eyes and winked.

  An EMT frowned. “Miss, you really shouldn’t—”

  “I’m coming.”

  Chapter Forty

  Men in scrubs rushed him to the ER. She gave a nurse his information. The door swung open. Doctors bent over him.

  “Can I see him?”

  “Not yet.”

  The waiting room had a bored cop and a woman with a broken nose. Lily sat near the swinging doors. The cop finished his coffee and sauntered down the hall. The woman left with a man who might have been her husband. A closed-circuit TV played videos about the importance of flu shots and the role of diet in treating diabetes. The codeine had definitely worn off. Finally an older doctor in scrubs emerged and spoke to the nurse.

  Lily went to the counter.

  “You’re his daughter?” The doc had wire-rimmed glasses and a neat beard. He motioned her to follow him into the ER. The activity centered on her dad in a bay with open curtains. “We stabilized him.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “More or less. We’re waiting for test results before moving him to the ICU.”

  “But he’s okay?”

  “Mainly smoke inhalation. He’s dehydrated and on an IV, but he’s a tough old bird.”

  Her eyes welled. So much she wanted to tell him, things she’d never said. “Can I speak to him?”

  “For a minute.” The doctor was looking at the gauze on her hand. “Is that something—”

  She shook her head. “I need to see my dad.”

  He was hooked up to oxygen and wasn’t so grey. The IV port was in the back of one hand. She lifted the other and kissed it. It was wiry but fragile, with age spots. He couldn’t stand to be idle or cooped up inside. Amazing how alike they were.

  “Dad?”

  His eyes flew open. Recognizing her, he tried to give a thumb’s-up.

  “Lie still,” she said.

  He tugged at his mask. A nurse started to readjust it, but he shook his head. His fingers gripped hers. “My house…”

  “Gone, Dad.”

  His eyes widened with panic.

  She patted his hand. “You can come home with me later. Lounge on the balcony and watch ballgames with Jack.” He relaxed his grip. The nurse reconnected his oxygen mask.

  An orderly gave the doctor a sheaf of X-rays and printouts and wheeled him to the ICU.

  “Test results?” she asked. But the doctor was looking at her again. More specifically, her hand. Before she could jam it in her pocket, he was unwrapping the gauze. The two-inch gash in her palm oozed a colorless fluid. “I cut it.”

  “With a scalpel?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Let’s hope so.” He took her by the elbow to an examination room. She gasped. “Your arm?” He signaled for a nurse.

  With bandage scissors he cut through Frank’s gauze. The flesh on the back of her forearm was raw and red. The blisters were wet and ugly. He touched one with a swab. She blanched.

  “Pain is good,” he said. “When was your last tetanus shot?” He administered the shot and a systemic antibiotic. The nurse brought a surgical tray. “This will hurt,” he warned. “Want a valium?”

  “That’s all you’ve got?”

  He gave her a Percocet, then injected her hand with liquid fire. Before she could protest, he stitched the wound up. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the drug. More pricks in her forearm. Then it was bathed in something wet and cool. When she opened her eyes, her arm was swaddled like a baby. The skin above and below the bandage was painted golden brown.

  “You may need skin grafts,” the doctor said. “Too soon to tell.”

  “How’s my dad?”

  “You’re in worse shape than he is, though he could stand to gain a few pounds.” He leaned back in his chair. “What happened tonight?”

  “His bungalow exploded.”

  “That explains your dad, but what about you?”

  “A lab accident.”

  He peered at her curiously. “That’s not a chemical burn.”

  “I’m a conservator at a museum.”

  “Conservators use scalpels?”

  “Occasionally.”

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I want to admit you overnight.” He tried to make a joke of it. “At least you’ll be safe.”

  How long was it since someone believed her? Not Frank, or Joey. Or Paul. “I—” She stopped. Too much to explain. “How about me hanging out tonight at the ICU with him instead?”

  “That’s a deal.” The doctor looked relieved.

  “And you’re keeping him in the hospital awhile, right?” She couldn’t protect him at the condo. She couldn’t even protect herself.

  “Is there someone—” He thought the better of it. “That sounds like a good idea all around.” But something seemed to be bothering him.

  “How is he really?” she asked.

  The doctor put his glasses back on. He shuffled through the reports again. “Smoke inhalation, as I said. At your dad’s age that’s not trivial, but…” He held up an X-ray and frowned. Her breath caught. “I’m more concerned about his leg.”

  She exhaled. “You mean the polio.”

  “Who said he had polio?”

  “He got it as a boy.”

  “There’s no sign of it.” The doctor was emphatic. “His leg was fractured, a nasty break.”

  “From tonight?”

  “At least thirty years ago…”

  Her head spun.

  “…was your dad in a car accident?”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lily spent the night in the ICU at his side. In the morning they moved him to a private room. He was off the IV. When he complained about his soft-boiled eggs and the oxygen cannula making his nose itch, she knew it was okay for her to go home. He’d be safe here, and she was relieved not to have to make small talk. The only thing she wanted to talk about was what happened thirty years ago when her mom died.

  At the condo she fed Jack. She yearned for a hot shower and settled for a change of clothes. She tried Nick again. No answer. She knocked on Louise’s door.

  “Can you take Jack for a few days?”

  “Of course!” Louise made no effort to conceal her delight. “Are you going on a trip?”

  “No. I just—” Kurtz’s killer had already tangled with Jack. He had no reason to go after Louise.

  “What happened to your arm, dear?”

  “A little accident at work. I’m not supposed to lift anything.”

  “Well, don’t you worry about Jack,” Louise assured her. “We’re good friends.”

  When this is over, will I even have a cat?

  The cops had brushed off the break-ins at her condo. Frank and Joey thought she was crazy. The ER doc had done his part by being generous with the Percocet and checking her dressing before going off duty. To whom could she turn? Paul and Nick were MIA. She certainly couldn’t depend on her dad
.

  What’s Kurtz’s killer doing right now?

  Her scalpel had penetrated meat, she’d heard his anguished moan. Like her, he’d be nursing his wound and gathering strength. Was he in the crowd watching when the bungalow blew? He’d have to move pretty damn fast to rig it to explode so soon after attacking her in the lab. Which meant he’d cut the gas line beforehand. He planned to kill her dad all along. They’d survived. But he’d come after them again.

  Her arm hurt. She wanted a Percocet.

  Think about the killer.

  He forged Seven and butchered Kurtz to make a point.

  Think, think, think. Her hand thumped like a snare drum in her head. Pain, and anger. At the killer, Paul. Her dad. Was anything he ever said true? He’d lied about the polio. What else was a lie? And how could she confront him now, with the killer out there, and when he’d barely survived his bungalow exploding?

  Who will I be if I look away from the truth now?

  He’d cultivated her perfect eye. He’d raised her to believe her perceptions were infallible, that all that mattered was what she saw. But she wasn’t perfect. She’d been blind to Seven and to him. What else had she missed? Paul was right about that too. There was only one thing to do.

  Go ask your lying father.

  ―

  The sign on Brandt Gallery of Fine Art’s door said Closed. Through the window Lily saw Elena and a man with a Van Dyke beard and an elegant sport coat. She knocked on the glass. Elena answered in a zebra-striped caftan and ankle-high velvet boots. Her customer looked put off.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” Lily said.

  “You?” Elena smiled. “Never.”

  Her new exhibition, The Modern Muse, was winding down. The massive oils were by late twentieth-century female artists, some of whom had inspired their more famous male peers. The show had drawn excellent reviews and a well-heeled crowd. Almost every painting had a red sticker indicating it was sold. The pièce de resistance was an enormous ochre, crimson and cobalt canvas with a jagged black center. Elena’s customer was peering at it intently.

  “Geoffrey’s one of my best collectors,” Elena whispered to Lily. “Vaginas don’t frighten him. When he comes back, he’ll buy.”

  She turned back to Geoffrey, who pecked her on the cheek. With a stiff nod in Lily’s direction, he left. Elena locked the door behind him. Behind her outsized glasses, her eyes sharpened with concern.

  “Are you all right, my dear?”

  The paintings, her mentor, the sheer civility of the gallery almost made Lily forget why she’d come. She couldn’t put Elena at risk. But to go after Kurtz’s killer she had to trust herself again. How fitting to seek help in dealing with her fraud of a father, from the woman who was as close to a mother as she’d ever had.

  “A lab accident.” Lie enough times and maybe it’ll become true. Elena’s shrewd gaze said she wasn’t fooled. “I need your advice.”

  “About the FBI man?”

  “My father.”

  “Let’s sit.” Elena had met her dad once and liked him. She gestured to the divan in back. “What happened?”

  “He’s been lying to me.”

  Elena laughed. “We do that to protect those we love, Lily.”

  “He was protecting himself, not me.”

  “And you think pulling off a scab will make you whole?”

  “Not just any scab, Elena. How my mother died.”

  “Sometimes the greater good is accepting who you are, Lily.” She smiled to take the sting out of it. “Sleep on it tonight. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

  “But I can’t just—”

  “Is it so bad not to know the truth, if it spoils the illusion?”

  Never ask where a painting comes from, or what it costs.

  What else did Elena turn a blind eye to, what did she regret? But ignorance was a luxury Lily could no longer afford. She rose and kissed Elena’s cheek.

  “Don’t look too closely, Lily. See too much and it stays with you forever.”

  ―

  When Lily arrived at Swedish, her dad was flirting with a young carrot-haired nurse. He scowled comically and the nurse giggled. Seeing her in the doorway, he waved her in like an impresario. All he needed was a top hat and cane.

  “Your dad’s a real charmer,” the nurse said.

  “I brought him food.” She’d stopped at Boston Market on the way.

  “Doc said to fatten him up. Whatever he wants, he can have.” The nurse patted his arm and left.

  Lily unpacked the sweet corn and mashed potatoes. His eyes lit up at the food.

  “That’s my girl. I can always count on you, Lily.”

  She fed him a couple mouthfuls, then gave him the spoon. “The doctor says you’ll be fine.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Damn thing blew up.”

  That bungalow had been all that was left of her past. The Franciscan ware, her old bedroom where he’d tucked her in and read to her, the door where her mom stood that last time. All in smithereens. What did those losses mean to him? He looked so vulnerable in his flannel gown with the heart monitors on his chest. Watching him dig into his potatoes with childlike glee, Lily wondered if she knew him at all.

  “How’s your leg?”

  The spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. “What do you mean?”

  Was Elena right, was it better not to know how he truly injured it? She’d never told him about Paul. Wasn’t he entitled to secrets of his own? But he lied. “The doctor said it never healed.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Polio’s a gift that keeps giving, Lily.”

  And a father’s love, does that keep giving too?

  “He says you broke it in an accident.”

  He set down his spoon. Dusk was falling. The only illumination was the light over his bed. It made his face look naked. For an instant she saw him as a boy, uncertain and pure. He blinked, and his innocence was replaced with the imperious expression she knew so well.

  “Remember our walks? What did I teach you, Lily?”

  “Nothing matters but what you see.” Who, what, when and where. Never why.

  “Why do you think I taught you that?”

  “To protect me.” Because the one time you didn’t look, it cost my mom her life?

  “Damn right.” He pushed away his tray. “Look at me, Lily. What do you see?”

  The father who’d loved her all her life, and a man who wouldn’t answer a simple question. “How did you hurt your leg, Dad?”

  “What the hell does it matter?” He started pulling monitors off his chest.

  How many times had they tiptoed around her mom’s death? And did it really matter now? The details were obviously painful to him. And wouldn’t she rather not know? Look too closely and you’ll see too much.

  “How did she die?”

  Finger on the call button, he stopped. His eyes narrowed like they did when he bluffed poor old Walt. But he wasn’t playing for pennies now. “What do you want, Lily?”

  “The truth.”

  His façade cracked. Behind it she saw desperation—a gambler with one last bluff. “You were a little girl, I did what was best…. We’ve been over this a thousand times, Lily. She was killed by a drunk driver.”

  His limp, throwing out her mom’s belongings. Not saying her name, refusing to drink. He couldn’t even admit it to her now.

  “That driver was you.”

  “Don’t you dare judge me!” Anger flared and died. “There’s more to it….”

  “Tell me something to make me believe you again.”

  “She was leaving us.”

  “Us?”

  She saw her mother clearly now, in a blue coat and white gloves and gripping that suitcase. Her eyes were cold. Angry. Lily reached out to her and cried, but her mom wouldn’t look at her.

  “She was abandoning you too, Lily.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  He reached to touch the scar on her forehead. She drew back.

>   “I lost control of the car, but I saved you.” He was begging now. “I’m not the one who abandoned you. Give me credit for that.”

  She owed him everything: her legal career—Give that case to Sparks, she’ll chase it down a hole!—her meticulousness as a conservator, her entire view of the world. His protectiveness and concern, his pride in her successes and how she’d used what he taught. All a sham. He’d hated her mom. Worst of all, he’d taken away her chance to know her, to make her love her. To prove she deserved to be loved.

  “We’re two of a kind, Lily. She knew that and so do you.”

  Her perfect eye had blinded her. Not anymore.

  Lily put the potatoes and corn back in the Boston Market bag and placed it in the trash. At the door, she turned. Whatever Harry Sparks was, he was no longer her father. She had one last thing to say to the stranger in the hospital bed.

  “You didn’t save me. The person I needed to be protected from was you.”

  ―

  Lily got in her Prius and drove. The night air was a balm. She found herself in the old neighborhood and parked across from her grade school. The anticipation of fall, the excitement of returning to class, the glee of recounting over supper what she’d learned that day. Her dad was a hero; everyone knew he’d saved that kid on Gaylord by calling the cops after he spotted the abandoned ball. Was any of it real?

  She drove to their street. This used to be a place where neighbors comfortably gossiped and watched over each other’s kids. When a classmate later robbed a convenience store, they clucked, What’s this neighborhood coming to? And when the housewife three doors down gassed herself in her garage, they talked about it for years. But nobody ever mentioned her mom. It was as if she never existed.

  She left her car and walked the streets where they’d played his game. Chalk on the sidewalk, paw prints in the grass, the tab from a soda can. He didn’t teach her to look to protect her. He did it so I wouldn’t see.

  One brick wall of the bungalow stood. The rest was a smoldering rubble. Were any of her mom’s dishes left, or were they, too an illusion? She remembered searching the house for her belongings for years after she died, but he’d been ruthlessly thorough. The one thing he’d overlooked was the little gold compact with the galaxy and stars, and that was gone too. Next door, the McMansion glowed in the moonlight. A fine veil of ash had settled on it.