“Several injuries, from what I saw coming around, and a lot of people that’ll need to be treated for that fucking gas, but I think we’re gonna look good to the media. I think the bank manager hates us, though. He’s over against the wall with quite the bloody nose. Gave me quite the look as I went by.”
“Martinez, Wallace, Carol, get some other unis and start getting statements, will ya?” Thorne sighed. “Yeah, a lot of paperwork.”
Reporters gathered and flocked outside the police perimeter. Thunder pealed in the distance and the rain started a little harder.
“Shall we?” she asked him, gesturing to the puddle of reporters.
“Yeah, let’s give them something diff’rent to talk about, something positive for a change.”
She led the way. It was hard enough being a woman in the bureau in this city, let alone a black woman. As much as she did not enjoy talking to reporters, she wanted to be the one they addressed first this time. And she had earned a moment of spotlight, which she would be sure to share. She could not have done it without the department’s help and cooperation, and she would make a point to say so. She could take the lead without hogging it. And Assistant Director West would stop griping about the PR around this particular case.
“Got you,” she said a little smugly beneath her breath as she reached the barricade.
CHAPTER 2 – THE HOSPITAL
He woke up in stages. Awareness came in bits and pieces. Harsh fluorescent lights glared at him from the white-tiled ceiling above him. He could not move. That startled him into a sharper level of awareness and focus.
He could move his eyes, but not turn his head. A hardware strip along the ceiling seemed to surround him. Muffled sounds came from somewhere nearby, but he couldn’t make them out. He could make out a mount for something suspended near the ceiling past his feet.
The lighting shifted and something creaked. A vague figure approached until a goateed face with bushy eyebrows and short, dark hair came into his vision. The white coat and stethoscope answered a lot of questions and raised others.
What? Am I in a hospital?
“I’m Doctor Pierce,” the man said, “can you tell me your name?”
He thought for a moment, and realized he couldn’t. “No,” he said, alarmed. His voice sounded hoarse and scratchy.
“That’s okay. Your name is Steven Ambrose,” the doctor said. “Do you know what year it is?”
He did not. The doctor asked an overwhelming litany of other questions. Some, simple math problems, he could do. He could recite the alphabet. He could name five different colors when asked. He could identify a parade of shapes from pictures. He could not answer how old he was, or the names of his parents, or whether he had any siblings, or his address or phone number. He grew more scared with each question he couldn’t answer, and his eyes began to tear up. He asked again what happened to him.
“Steven, you’re at St Mary’s hospital,” the doctor explained. “You’ve been shot, and you’ve suffered some brain injury. We’re still trying to determine the extent of some of damage. It does, however look like you have retrograde amnesia. We’ll run more tests on that later, and we’ll monitor your ability to create new memories. Right now you are stable, though, and you’re not at risk of dying.”
The doctor had him follow a light with his eyes, which he could do. The doctor performed other tests—he guessed maybe the doctor tested reflexes but he could not see for sure and could feel nothing. He endured a dreadful sequence of “can you feel this” questions—he could only assume he was being poked or prodded somewhere each time. He felt nothing below his jaw. Each time he felt nothing a pervasive dread grew heavier.
“We’ve had you on a feeding tube,” the doctor explained, “but we removed that an hour or so ago when it looked like you were starting to wake up. You were in a coma for two weeks. Your throat might be a little rough, but that’ll clear up.”
He tried to feel his throat. Presumably he actually had one, but he could not prove it to himself. Wait, he could swallow. He felt part of that, and felt his tongue moving with it.
“You do appear to be paralyzed, from more or less the neck down,” the doctor diagnosed almost casually, clinically. “Most commonly, paralysis like this comes from spinal damage. In your case it’s from damage to the motor cortex of your brain. Your heart and lungs are working normally, and the rest of your organs appear to be, too, so we’re not seeing indications of autonomic injury. You’re going to have some difficult adjustment coming up, but you’re alive. That’s a lucky thing worth being thankful for.”
That was not the consolation the doctor might have intended it to be. It was all so much to take in. He was so tired. His eyes just wanted to close.
“Can you remember my name?” The doctor’s voice was flat, without rising at the end. Monotone recital, reading off a form probably, not really asking.
“Um...Pierce?”
“Yes, good. And where you are?”
“Hospital.”
“Which one?”
“Saint...Joseph’s?”
“Saint Mary’s, but that’s close enough for right now. I’m sure you’re feeling a little overwhelmed. We’re not expecting one hundred percent anything at this point.”
“What happened to me?” he asked yet again, unwilling to let go.
“There are some police officers waiting to talk to you. I’m sure they’ll go over that with you. I’ll have the nurses check in with you in a little while.”
He had too many questions, and they clogged his sluggish brain. Before he could decide which to ask first, the doctor disappeared.
He looked up, the only place he could. The hardware track would be for a hanging curtain, he concluded. If a curtain hung from it, he could not see it. He suspected the mounting bracket towards his feet was a TV. If he strained his eyes he could just see the top of it, but it hurt to do so he gave up.
He did not know how long he waited before the door opened again. Had he fallen asleep? He thought he had. He heard the click-clack footsteps of high heels before an attractive black woman in a casual suit came into view. Some of her straightened hair spilled over her ear as she leaned forward. She tucked it back, restoring the professional-looking bob.
“I’m Special Agent Rachel Moore,” the woman said, holding out an FBI badge where he could see it. “I’m here to talk about what happened, Mr. Ambrose. Can you tell me what you remember?”
FBI? he asked himself, confused. The doctor had said there were police here; he said nothing about FBI.
“I didn’t remember my name...before the doctor told me. I don’t remember anything. He said I was shot?”
“The doctors warned me some memory loss was possible,” Moore said. “You’ve had a lot of trauma. You don’t remember being at a bank?”
“No,” he admitted, trying to shrug—failing to as far as he could tell.
The agent responded with disappointed-looking frown that stole some of the oval shape from her face. Her lipstick drew his eye, too red to be natural but still professional-looking.
“Can you remember the last time you went to a bank, and which bank it might have been?”
Really? That was important? Why had he been shot?! “No....Why?”
“I’m going to read a list of names. Tell me if any of them are in any way familiar, even if it’s something minor or vague.” She listed six names, but he had not heard any of them before. They could have been cousins or random tourists for all he knew.
“How about this. Do you know what city you’re in?”
“Bay City?” Why wouldn’t she get on with things and explain what was going on? It was questions he had, not answers.
“Good, that’s something, at least.”
Next she pulled a stack of papers from somewhere out of his limited sight. She showed him a progression of photographs, asking if any of them looked familiar. Black man with hair so short it could have just been stubble, a cute Asian woman, a geeky looking redhead, two Hispa
nic men, one heavily tattooed. None of them even the smallest bit familiar.
“Have you ever been to prison, Mr. Ambrose?”
“What? No! What...what does that have to do with anything? What happened to me?!”
“Okay,” she said, sounding resigned. “I’m afraid I can’t answer all of your questions. I can tell you you were injured during a bank robbery. There are questions about some of the specifics. I’m sorry.”
“But...,” he protested feebly.
“Thank you, Mr. Ambrose. There will be an officer outside the door if you do remember anything. The hospital staff has my number as well.”
The agent turned and he could only see her about halfway to the door before she left his narrow range of vision. He tried to think of something to say to make her wait, but found himself lost in a whirl of confusion.
He could hear her talk to someone outside, but not enough to guess at what they were discussing.
Sometime later a nurse came in. Mexican, he guessed. She had round cheeks and frown lines and leaned in close to introduce herself. He must have fallen asleep again.
“Mr. Ambrose,” she said with more force than she needed to, “I’m Angela; I’m here to check on your IV and vitals.”
“Please,” he said between breaths, “call me Steven.” Huh. He had a preference about that? He wasn’t Steve, he was Steven. Steven was the name the doctor had used. Was that all it was?
“And I can hear you,” he added, “just fine.”
“Your blood pressure is good,” she said at a regular, conversational level. “It was a little low earlier.” Her whole face still frowned. Resting bitch face.
“Is there a policeman outside my door?”
“Yeah, there’s been one pretty much the whole time,” she replied, looking down towards where he supposed the IV should be. She seemed to avoid looking at him.
“Why?” Maybe they were protecting him from whoever shot him, he supposed.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about that,” she said, scrunching her eyebrows even more.
“Wait, what do you mean? Aren’t they trying to find out who shot me? Is that why they’re waiting? In case I remember something helpful?
“Um, no,” she said, one eye raised. “I...I don’t think that’s it.” Something in her voice suggested she was leaving something out.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“They know who shot you,” she said. “Your IV looks good,” she added, as if there were nothing at all remarkable about their conversation. “Nothing needs changing just yet.”
“Oh, so they need more evidence?” It seemed the most likely explanation if it wasn’t a protective detail. “Do they know why? Why won’t anyone tell me what happened?”
“Um,” she started, seeming reluctant, “you were shot by police. It was in the news.” She turned where he could see her better. She shifted about, looking uncomfortable. Her eyes narrowed, judging him.
“Wait,” he protested, “what? Why?” None of this made any sense.
“You robbed a bank,” she accused, what little compassion she had offered at the start of the conversation apparently gone.
“I what?!”
“Well, they say you robbed something like seven or eight. I think I’m not supposed to talk to you, but it’s not like you can hurt me.” She poked at his chest, emphasizing the point. He could see the motion, but felt nothing. It did not seem like professional nurse-like behavior. Then again, was he a fair judge of how a nurse would behave? Did he have experience with nurses?
“Um, yeah,” he managed.
“Someone will be in later to feed you. You were on a feeding tube earlier, but now that you’re awake they’ll probably start getting you ready for one of the therapists. You might have some difficulty swallowing at first. I should go now.”
She didn’t wait or give him an opportunity to say more before she turned, tucking a clipboard under her arm, and left.
He was alone again in his room. There was nothing to do—nothing he could do. Except think. Right now he didn’t want to think. He wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the television just out of his sight. Or just fall asleep again; that would be just fine.
Was he seriously a bank robber? Seven or eight? That was ridiculous. How could he be a bank robber? But he supposed he also had no evidence he wasn’t. No, I can’t be a bank robber! Wake up with nothing and I’m a criminal? No!
Acknowledgment it might be possible crept through him like a rising tide. He must have been shot during a heist, then. Had he shot anyone? If he had shot a cop then that would explain one staying nearby. That had to have been what happened.
His eyes drifted closed, doom dragging them down. His trapped mind spiraled into depression, pinned down by the dead weight of his own body he was helpless to lift. What could he say in his defense? That he didn’t remember doing it? He rather doubted that would matter to the court, or to a jury. What evidence did they have for a jury to see?
In the end, he supposed, dejected, it did not really matter. How would helpless and paralyzed in jail be any different than helpless and paralyzed anywhere else? The doctors should have let him die. There was no life waiting for him. The doctors had not saved him from anything.
Angela came in again. She did not talk to him or answer him. She set her clipboard down somewhere towards his feet while she checked things over again. She hung a new IV bag.
“Please,” he asked as she was about to leave, “can you turn the TV on?”
She stopped and turned. He thought she was judging him, deciding whether he deserved the simple accommodation and mercy. She huffed and moved toward the TV. A brief whining buzzing noise preceded voices. She left without a word. But the sound of a news program came from the television. It was something to occupy his mind. It was the best thing that had happened in his life so far, although that bar had not sat high. Small mercies.
While he could not see the television, being able to hear it was much better than nothing. He heard some of what was going on in the city and the world around him. A hurricane loomed off Mexico. Tensions were escalating in the Middle East again; there were new conflicts in central Africa. Locally, a high pressure system was bringing warmer temperatures. There was controversy around a bombing at a local construction site. A group of suspected drug dealers had been found beaten, with speculation that a vigilante was involved, although the police were blaming it on gang rivalry.
There was no mention of a failed bank robbery that had left a man paralyzed at a local hospital.
He was three stories into the second god-awful repetition of it all when a woman came in.
“Hello, Steven,” she said in a too-cheerful voice. “I’m Veronica; I’m one of the occupational therapists here. How are you doing today?”
“I haven’t killed myself yet,” he offered, not caring enough to fake optimism or cheerfulness. The news had distracted him from some of the worst of his feelings, but none of it had helped him feel any better about his hopeless lot in life.
“Come, now, Steven,” she scolded, still sounding cheerful about it. “Let’s get you propped up and have some lunch, okay?”
She moved to the side of his bed when he did not bother to reply. His view of the world shifted as his the bed raised him up to a sitting position. She had to lower him back when his neck would not support his head.
But he got a new view as a result, and that was something he could find a little positive, even if only for a moment. Two whiteboards hung on the wall side by side, one labeled 310A, with his name and the names of nurses in blue and a stupid, pointless row of smiling and frowning faces to describe pain he could not feel. There were quite a few medications listed, but the line for pain management was conspicuously blank. The board for 310B was completely blank, confirming there was no one else in the room with him. A clock hung on the wall above them. It was almost one-thirty.
“You’re still not feeling any pain, right?” she asked, setting a t
ray of covered dishes on a table to his left.
“No. Nothing,” he said numbly.
“There are people here who would love not to feel anything today,” she pointed out, putting purple gloves on her skinny hands. Other people being in pain and wishing to be numb did not make him feel any better.
He ignored her narration of what she was doing moving arms and legs about to prevent muscle problems and he avoided watching. It did not matter what she did, and seeing arms and legs he could not use or feel did not help. Christ, he was even handcuffed to the bed! Was that really necessary? They really did think he was a criminal. Did they think he was a dangerous one, too? Yeah, so dangerous!
He tried to pay attention to the TV. It was still the same negative crap, but there were images to go with it. They just made the stories even more negative and depressing.
On a band along the bottom, between stock market ticker information that was meaningless gibberish to him, was the time and the date. The time agreed with the wall clock, now one thirty-seven. It was March twenty-third. The nurses hadn’t even bothered filling that in on the stupid whiteboard.
After a while he was aware of being hungry. It was the first sensation he had gotten from his torso since waking up. That just added to his confusion. Why would he feel that but nothing else?
Eventually she brought the tray closer, sliding the table so it extended over his legs. She uncovered the dishes, stacking maroon plastic lids on top of each other. Soup, applesauce, and red Jell-O. None of it looked appetizing. He knew he was hungry, but he also did not care.
She hand-fed him like he was a baby, and he hated and resented every degrading moment of it. Sometimes he drooled a little, and she scooped it off his chin with the spoon. Swallowing was difficult and uncomfortable at first, and she kept the spoon-fulls small in the beginning. The soup was flavorless, the applesauce bland and dull, and the Jell-O tasted...artificial.
By the time she finished feeding it to him it was easier and more natural feeling. He ate everything, but more because she coaxed him to, making a clicking sound with her tongue whenever he was less cooperative, and left him with little other choice. He could accept the food or struggle to turn his head like a baby. So he ate.
Simon Rising Page 2
