No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Did any of them say anything?”

  “No. Didn’t anybody see anything?”

  “We’re investigating some possibilities,” Joe says vaguely. “No witnesses as yet, but we haven’t stopped digging. Neither of the men said anything to you?”

  “No. They were very prepared. They had a bag with duct tape. They wore gloves. They were dressed in black, I remember that.”

  “No distinguishing features on either of them?”

  “No.”

  “Height?”

  “They were both quite tall, I think. And big, they were both big.”

  “Hmm. And you didn’t see their faces?”

  “It happened so fast,” I say. “Only the one man beat me up. The other one stood to the side and watched.”

  “That’s helpful,” Joe says, but I notice that he isn’t writing anything down.

  “Do you remember what time this happened?”

  I sigh. “No. I was asleep. I don’t remember anything else. I’m sorry. I can’t help you as much as I want to. They didn’t leave anything behind to help you identify them?”

  “Not a thing. Like you said, they were prepared. Here’s my card in case you think of anything else, okay? You’ve just woken up. You never know, you might remember more in a few days.”

  “Thank you.” I want to ask him if he has a girlfriend and if they are happy and then I notice that he is wearing a shiny new wedding ring. “Recently married?” I ask, and he looks surprised.

  “Yeah, still trying to get used to wearing a ring.” He looks at it with surprise and clear delight.

  “Congratulations,” I say and he smiles.

  His partner, Dan Harms, has not said anything; he just stands there, unmoving, watching me. They turn to leave and clearly Dan thinks I am deaf as well as battered because I hear him clearly. “She’s lying,” he says and Joe grunts.

  “She just woke up,” Joe replies.

  “She’s lying and you know it.”

  I watch them through the glass window of my room. They stop and talk to the nurse holding a tray. She nods and they leave and she comes in.

  “Mashed potato, mashed chicken, mashed carrots, and vanilla pudding,” she says and she puts the tray down. The food looks terrible and I think back to Purgatory’s menu with longing. I should have taken advantage of it.

  I try a tiny piece of the chicken which succeeds in being tasteless and creamy at the same time, and I wonder if the cops think it is odd that I haven’t mentioned the most obvious suspect, Junior.

  I wonder if Junior knows I am still alive. He must. I try a forkful of mashed potato and it is so dry, I have to wash it down with water.

  “This food is dreadful,” I tell the nurse when she returns and she smiles.

  “Maybe I could get takeout?” my former self suggests, but then I remember that she is gone and her vanished beauty and diva demands hold no sway in this world.

  “Aw, it’s not that bad,” the nurse says. “You’ll get used to it.”

  I am moving the carrots around on the plate when Joe comes back.

  “One thing I forgot to ask,” he says. “You’re sure it wasn’t Patrick Ralph Davidson-Loach IV who did this? I understand you have some history.”

  I shake my head, but I immediately stop because it hurts. “Which doesn’t mean to say he wasn’t behind it.”

  “Davidson-Loach says he was at a private poker game in Vegas and his buddies confirm that, but they’d lie for him. There are hotel reservations in their names but that doesn’t mean Junior was actually there. We can’t find records of him having spent any money while he was supposedly there, there are no credit card receipts or ATM withdrawals. He says his buddies comped him and they support that claim. And we couldn’t find any credit card activity on this end either, so it’s not like we could prove he was in town when you were attacked. We couldn’t find a single thing to tie him to this. But who else could it have been?” He looks at me.

  “You’re the detective,” I tell him. “Look at me. I’ve got enough problems dealing with my injuries and trying to heal my body. Don’t you think I want you catch the guys? Of course I do. Do I think you will? No. Therefore, I don’t want to waste any more time on it. I need to get better. I need to get on with my life, such as it is.”

  My voice sounds less like a rusty old truck than it did before, and if the tasteless, creamed chicken helps, I will eat it by the pound.

  “You’re not afraid that whoever did it will come back?”

  “They’ve ruined me,” I say simply. “They’ve ruined me. They did what they wanted to do. I wasn’t exactly Miss Popularity and someone made me pay.”

  “Well, call me if you need anything,” he says. “I feel like we’ve met before. Have we?”

  I shake my head gently. “We haven’t. But thank you.”

  “And let me know if you want me to bring you a shawarma or a burger from McDonald’s. That glop on your plate looks pretty crappy.”

  I laugh, my first laugh back on Earth. He sounds so much like Eno that it is funny. He tips a mock hat at me and leaves.

  “You’ve got a fan,” the nurse teases me. “Your reconstructive surgeon will be down shortly after you’ve had your lunch.”

  I do what I can to finish the food and I doze off, waking when I hear voices next to my bed. I struggle to focus and sit up. I blink and I see Richard, Grace’s husband.

  “I’m Doctor Silino,” he tells me, “and I’m here to give you a new nose and hopefully a few other reconstructions to help the healing process.”

  “We’ve met before,” I say. “You gave me a Candice Bergen nose.”

  He looks surprised. “I did? I don’t remember.”

  “You’ve probably got a lot of patients and it was a long time ago.”

  He seems to be functioning fine for a heroin addict and I think about what Eno had said, how that was possible. I also think about what Eno had said, about him getting the itch while I was under the knife, but I push that thought from my mind. Besides, whatever he does, it can only be an improvement.

  I first met Richard Silino when I was twenty five. I had decided to give myself a nose job for my birthday, a self-gift I had wanted for a very long time. The rest of my face and body had grown up beautifully but my nose was a big, awful hook, a witch’s nose.

  In what was my first episode of online shopping, I researched top plastic surgeons and he came out far ahead of the others. I sat in his office and told him what I wanted, and I recalled seeing the framed portrait of his perfect family on the bookshelf behind his desk. And I remember thinking that his wife was lucky, that she could get all the surgeries she wanted for free. Little did I know.

  “The good news is that there’s still cartilage for me to work with. However, I’ll still need to take material from your ear or your rib to for the rebuild, or I could use silicon rubber. The advantage of using your tissues is that your body is less likely to reject them. However, the cartilage may later be absorbed by your body, and further surgery might be needed. Silicon is less likely to shift but there may be the chance of infection at the site, but this is a minimal risk.”

  “Which one do you think is better?”

  “In your case, silicon. I’ll create a new bridge for your nose and I can’t promise it will be a Candice Bergen special but it will be much better than the one you have now.”He smiles.

  “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “And my cheekbones? Can you fix them?”No one has noticed that I have an intimate knowledge of my injuries, despite not having access to a mirror.

  “I will do the best I can,” he says. “Each of us has asymmetry but not to the degree inflicted on you here. In years to come, the work I do may need to be touched up. As I say, the body shifts and moves and things can change. However, sometimes they don’t change at all, it’s hard to know in advance.�
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  “Buyer beware,” I say. “I am very grateful for this and I’m lucky to have you as my surgeon.” I feel disloyal to Grace but if flattery will help, then I am willing to pay that small price for now. I’ll collect the debts later.

  “My pleasure,” he says. “I hope they find the men who did this to you. See you in surgery.”

  He leaves and I spend the remainder of the day having the cast taken off my leg and making the long journey of eight steps to the washroom, unassisted. I am determined to get out of the hospital as soon as I can. Thoughts of revenge will have to wait. What I need to do now is to heal.

  34. HEALING

  I MAKE GREAT PROGRESS. And, with Eno Joe’s help, I change my name. “I get why you need to do this,” he says as he helps me fill out the paperwork. “I do.”

  Julia Redner for only a few days longer, I stand in the parking lot of the hospital, my arms crossed against my chest, smoking a cigarette. I know that smoking retards the healing process but right now, it’s my only source of pleasure. Joe and I agreed it would be best if Julia left the hospital and vanished, and only once she was gone, would Lula Jane Harris emerge.

  “Sounds like a country and western singer,” Joe had grumbled. “You should be June or at least Jane. That way when you start saying the ‘j’, people won’t think it’s odd when you get your own name slightly wrong. But if you start with ‘j’ and then swerve into Lula like a bad lady driver, you’ll be calling attention to yourself.”

  I laughed. “I won’t get it wrong. I like Jane, but Lula means famous warrior, and I need something with meaning. I fought hard to stay alive and I’m going to fight to build a new life.”

  “Yeah, see now, that’s the spirit!”

  Joe has been a real help to me, visiting and counseling, and so has his new wife, Ella. Ella, unlike Isabelle, doesn’t remove her clothing when we meet.

  Ella is, by Isabelle’s standards, conservatively, even primly dressed and she’s initially shy and reserved but she quickly warms to me. “Lovely to meet you,” she said. “Joe’s told me a lot about you. When you get out of hospital, you must come over for supper.”

  “I’d really love that,” I said and she grinned.

  It’s clear that she and Joe dote on one another and I want to tell them how delighted I am that it all worked out, but of course I can’t say anything.

  When Ella turned to leave, she paused with a perplexed look on her face, as if she thought we’d met me somewhere before, but couldn’t quite remember where. “I’ll be back tomorrow with a bedside picnic,” she said, and that was all it took for us to become firm friends.

  I am thinking about her and Joe and the glad news of their baby on the way, when I spot Richard, my plastic surgeon, across the parking lot. I am about to wave and thank him again for my new face but he’s with another man and they are arguing furiously.

  The vision in my right eye is still fuzzy and I have been fitted with a new pair of glasses but I can’t wear them until my reconstructed nose is fully healed. I close my bad eye and strain with the good one, hoping to catch sight of who it is that Richard is arguing with. I can hear his raised voice from where I am standing.

  I duck around the side of a parked ambulance, and it is then that I recognize the man. It’s Mr. Healey, the man who killed Agnes and Josh, the man who tossed Auntie Miriam’s room and was thrown out by Agnes’s mother. Mr. Healey, the drug dealer. Clearly, Richard is still in the grip of his heroin addiction.

  I can hear their voices raised in anger, but I can’t make out what they are saying.

  Mr. Healey shrugs and turns to leave but Richard catches him by the sleeve and yanks him back. Mr. Healey doesn’t like that and he grabs Richard by the lapels of his doctor’s coat and shoves him against a parked car.

  “Dr. Silino!” A security guard dashes across the parking lot. “Hey, let him go!” he shouts.

  Mr. Healey releases Richard and raises his hands. “Just leaving,” he says. “See you around, doctor.”

  Richard looks more upset than angry, and he adjusts his clothing and waves off the security guard. Then he looks up and sees me watching him.

  We stare at each other until he turns and strides off into the hospital.

  “I’m not surprised,” one of my nurses says. She has come up next to me without my having noticed. She takes a deep drag of her cigarette. “He’s a moody bastard. Never know what you’re going to get with him. Sometimes he’s like your best friend, the next minute, he’s biting your head off.”

  “The pressure of being a brilliant surgeon,” I murmur but she shakes her head.

  “Psycho is more like it. Anyway, I’ve said too much.” She grinds her cigarette out and walks away, and I shade my eyes, and look over to where the argument had taken place.

  I have been so busy attending to my healing that I have forgotten certain things—well, not forgotten, but I pushed them to the back of my mind. But it is nearly time to remember. And once Lula is in place, she is going to set a few things straight.

  36. LULA JANE HARRIS

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, Lula Jane Harris looks back at me from the bathroom mirror in my old apartment. I study her. I was shocked the first time I saw her because, by a freakish twist of fate, she looks horribly similar to Junior’s wife, Sharon.

  Sharon had been a pretty cheerleader in her youth, but her features melted in her later years and the loss of her taut and peachy complexion created a softer facsimile of her former self. The woman I am looking at is no great beauty either, but she is a great improvement on the ruin that Junior left behind.

  Like Sharon, I am now blonde. A visiting makeup artist recommended the change. “Black hair is harsh with facial scarring,” she had said and I had appreciated her honesty. “Blonde softens things and these days, it’s easy to maintain the colour at home.”

  I wear black-framed glasses that also help disguise the fact that my one cheekbone is lower and flatter than its counterpart. My scarring from the stitches is still vivid but I have creams and lotions and I know that the crisscross tracks will fade in time.

  And now, it’s time to start putting things into motion.

  The first thing I do is get in touch with my niece, Emma. Joe helps me find her, and he comes with me to meet her.

  My hands are shaking on the drive there and I can hardly sit still. I keep tugging at my seatbelt. How can I explain abandoning her like I did? Never mind that I don’t even know how to talk to a ten-year old girl.

  “Treat her like an adult,” Joe says when I tell him what I am thinking. “And tell her you’re sorry. Kids have a great capacity for forgiveness.”

  “What if I’ve scarred her for life? What if she has abandonment issues forever because of me? First she loses her parents and then her aunt doesn’t want her.”

  “Her aunt’s lifestyle at the time wasn’t conducive to raising a child,” Joe corrects me and he reminds me of Cedar who had said the same thing. “You used to be a big-time career girl but not any more. Things change and now you know what really matters. The truth is, if she’s going to be screwed up forever by the things that happened to her, then that’s her issue. I’ve seen kids in the same situations react in completely different ways, it depends on who they are.” Joe is a lot more mature and serious than Eno had been and it took me a while to get used to it.

  “True,” I say. “My parents died and I never felt like they abandoned me.”

  “No, but you did bury yourself in work and you hid in relationships that couldn’t last,” he comments, and I feel slighted.

  “What the fuck, Joe? You spend your spare time psycho-analyzing me? I don’t need a shrink, I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am your friend,” he says calmly, handing me a cigarette. “Which is why I point things out to you, from time to time. I care. People who don’t care will say you’re wonderful no matter what you do, because th
ey don’t care. I care.”

  “Yeah, and if I do the same to you?”

  He laughs and grins at me. “Bring it on, lady, I’ve got big shoulders. But my point is, you’ve changed. Things are different for you now, things matter that didn’t before. You never wanted to see her before but now you do.”

  “I do and I don’t. I’m terrified.”

  “Understandable. Well, hang onto your hat because we’re nearly there.”

  We pull up outside a plain yellow semi-detached house with a neatly kept front garden and a white picket fence.

  “They’ve got a picket fence,” I say, panic-stricken by this symbol of normalcy.

  “Relax Lulabelle, we’re just here for a meet and greet, okay? No pressure. Breathe. No one expects you to be the perfect auntie right out the gate.”

  “I do,” I mutter under my breath and I follow him up to the front door.

  The woman who answers the door is not what I was expecting. I had a different kind of mom in mind, the kind with plump hips, wearing a shapeless peach or beige cardigan, with cropped, sensible, greying hair.

  This woman is tall, boyish and skinny, with long red hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail. She has pale green eyes and freckles and she’s wearing slim fit jeans and a sleeveless black tank top. She’s friendly enough. “Hi, you’re Lula, come on in. I’m Bev, Emma’s foster mom.”

  Joe had looped her in that Julia was no more.

  I follow her inside the house and find an artist’s haven of pottery, knitting, drawings, sculptures, and paintings. “We’re very organic,” Bev explains, “very tactile. Creativity is crucial to children and helps nurture their souls. We make our own yoghurt and we grow cucumbers and kale and tomatoes in the backyard. We ride our bikes as much as we can and Em decorated her room all by herself. Handmade is so much nicer than store-bought, don’t you think?”

  I gurgle something and Joe grins. Bev and I are about as different at two people could be.