Grimsby seemed impatient. “Please begin.”
“Well….I commenced the day in my apartment, where I awoke from my slumber at precisely seven-thirty, as is my custom. After removing my sleeping mask and attiring myself in a bathrobe, I entered my kitchen where I concocted a modest breakfast that consisted of a bowl of Kellogg’s cornflakes—”
“Maybe not so much detail,” Grimsby said. “Then what?”
“I motored to my office, or rather Dean Fletcher’s office, at eight-thirty and remained there until five o’clock, after which I drove my vehicle to the grocery store. Following this adventure, I returned to my abode at six-thirty and proceeded to organize my apartment in anticipation of Abigail’s arrival.”
“Can any witnesses account for your whereabouts?”
“Yes,” I said. “When I departed from my apartment that morning, my landlord, Mr. Felix Eugenides, bid me good morning. I stopped for gasoline at the Chevron station on Route 11. Then I proceeded to my office, as Ms. Anastasia Goldfine can verify.”
“Go on.”
“Must I?”
“Please.”
After another dramatic exhalation, I continued. “Then, as I stated earlier, I motored to the supermarket where I conducted a brief conversation with Abigail’s…um…mother as we spotted each other quite by happenstance. When I arrived home, I saw Mr. Eugenides and we greeted each other again. You know the rest, Sheriff. Constance and I proceeded to your office where we found you watching TV and consuming a snack food from a plastic bag.”
I considered mentioning my initial encounter with William Octavian Butler on my doorstep Friday night but decided it would be irrelevant, as the accident had occurred during the day.
Evidently satisfied with my testimony, Grimsby closed his notebook and placed his pen in his shirt pocket. “Okay, you’re good to go, Professor. Thanks for your time.”
“Perhaps we can do this again sometime after you chance upon criminal activity in which I was not the culprit.”
“I don’t make up the rules, Professor.”
But I had more pressing questions. “Have you heard anything from the doctors yet? Will she be all right? Is she conscious?”
“I haven’t heard anything yet,” he said. “I’m guessing it’s just a minor concussion. I’ve seen that before.”
“That would be a profound relief,” I said.
Following Sheriff Grimsby’s departure, I rejoined Constance. An hour passed. The longer we sat there, the more agitated I became. I was compelled to pace the room several times, partly out of anxiety and partly because the plastic chairs upon which we sat had a painful effect upon my buttocks.
Constance glanced at her timepiece from time to time. “I’m sorry but I have to go, Ishmael.” At that, she rose to her feet.
“I know,” I said. “This is not really your concern.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Ishmael—I am truly sorry about what happened to Abigail. And, as your close friend, I feel terrible that you must go through this. I will be here to console you or offer you moral support.”
“Most kind of you, Constance,” I said. “Will you be able to return later?”
“I don’t know. I’m a bit busy today. Two lectures and a student conference, but if I have time, yes.”
A few moments after Constance had departed, a physician sporting a white lab coat materialized through the sliding doors and approached me. He was a gentleman of about thirty, and I immediately noticed that his appearance was not unlike that of Edgar Allen Poe, although his expression did not feature the author’s characteristic grimness, and he lacked a mustache. He introduced himself as Dr. Martin Van Buren and took a seat across from me.
“I thought her mother was here,” he said.
“I’m afraid she was compelled to depart for a short time,” I said. “You may inform me, as I am her uncle.”
Thereupon, he explained that Abigail, apart from having sustained a minor fracture of her knee, was presently in a coma due to a blood clot, the result of a traumatic brain injury. He assured me, however, that there was no cause for alarm and that a simple operation, to be performed the following morning, would most likely relieve the pressure on her brain. Dr. Van Buren then told me that the procedure would require several hours, whereupon he bid me farewell and disappeared behind the sliding doors.
Half an hour later, I decided that I required some fresh air, so I departed the waiting lounge and paced in the parking lot for several minutes. When I returned I was surprised to find William Octavian Butler occupying my seat. He was tapping the keys of his laptop computer. I noted immediately that he wore a bow tie, one that was not dissimilar to the types I frequently sported, and a blazer made of a fabric known as seersucker, an ensemble that caused him to resemble an old-time Southern attorney. I was particularly struck by the bow tie. Hmm.
“I came as soon as I heard,” he said.
“Greetings,” I said in a monotone. “And how did you hear about it?”
“I called the police station. How is she? What happened?”
I lowered myself into the chair beside his and offered him an abridged version of the day’s activities, ending with the words, “Fortunately, the prognosis is good.”
“My God, that’s a relief,” he said. “I’d like to be here when she wakes up, but regrettably I must catch a plane in two hours.”
“If I may ask, how did you get here? It’s five miles from my apartment.”
“I stole a bike,” he said. I found his tone of voice to be distressingly casual.
I was outraged. “You stole a bike! There are taxis. Well, one taxi anyway. You did not have to resort to criminality.”
“I didn’t want to wait for a cab. It was an emergency. I wanted to be here. Besides, where’s your sense of adventure, man?”
“More than a few rungs below my sense of decency on the ladder of morality, if you’ll pardon the poor analogy.”
“Actually, it’s not a bad analogy,” he said with a low chuckle. But he must have noted that my face did not display amusement. “Don’t worry, Archer, I plan to return it.”
This was something of a relief but did not, in my mind, absolve him of his misconduct. I imagined the poor soul who owned the bicycle, possibly a student, reacting with shock at its absence. As we waited, William Octavian Butler gradually grew impatient. Finally, he stood up and grabbed his duffel.
“I must be off,” he said. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Please call me if there is any news.”
I nodded.
“Archer, would you mind taking me to the bus station?”
“I am afraid I cannot. I was transported to the hospital by the police and my vehicle is currently stationed at my friend Constance’s apartment.”
“No problem. I’ll call for the taxi.” At that, he handed me my apartment keys, removed his cell phone from his pocket, and made the call.
At this juncture, I realized of a sudden that Abigail’s true next of kin, namely her father, had not been alerted to his daughter’s traumatic accident. In all the brouhaha, it had simply escaped my perception, but I felt it incumbent upon me to notify him as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I was unaware of either his first name or his whereabouts. No doubt this information was contained in Abigail’s cell phone but this device was in the possession of the police department and considered to be evidence. Lest I arouse suspicion—after all, I was supposed to be Abigail’s uncle—I concluded that it would not be prudent for me to ask Sheriff Grimsby if I might examine it.
That night, I drove to Abigail’s dwelling and parked my vehicle several blocks away so as not to appear suspicious. As good fortune would have it, her apartment door remained unlocked for the sheriff did not own a key, and I suspected the authorities were no longer interested in searching the place f
or clues as they had already done so. Stealthily, I entered and commenced to search for something that would yield the information I required.
Fifteen minutes passed before I discovered a bureau drawer that contained several birthday cards that had been addressed to Abigail, all of them in the same handwriting. One of these had been placed back into its envelope, and said enclosure yielded the information I had been searching for, namely the return address: “Dr. Balthazar J. Bird, St. Mary’s Medical Center, Newburgh, NY.”
After returning to my abode, I easily located St. Mary’s phone number on my search engine and placed the call, informing the operator that it was of some urgency. I was then connected to a receptionist who stated that Dr. Bird was in the midst of performing a heart transplant, and that he would not be able to return my call for several hours.
It was not until nightfall that Dr. Bird rang. Predictably, he was quite beside himself when I informed him of his daughter’s condition. He then asked me a great many questions, only some of which I was able to adequately answer, for my knowledge regarding her injury was limited.
“She is sleeping now,” I said. “They plan to operate tomorrow.”
As the distance between Syracuse and Newburgh was but three hours via automobile and one hour via aircraft, he promised that he would travel to our small town as soon as his schedule would allow him to depart. Apparently, he was required to perform several serious procedures early the following morning. As he wished to make an appearance at Abigail’s bedside as soon as possible, he would attempt to find another doctor to substitute for him that afternoon but warned me that such an endeavor might prove fruitless, as the surgical schedule was quite full of patients who required immediate surgery and the hospital only employed three heart surgeons. He then inquired regarding my precise relationship to Abigail. I simply told him that I was a close friend.
“However, I must warn you of one slight dilemma, Dr. Bird,” I said. “You see, the police and hospital officials required information regarding Abigail from next of kin. Thus, I felt compelled to prevaricate on this issue. The authorities currently believe that I am Abigail’s uncle and that a female friend of mine named Constance is her mother.”
I was relieved by his reply. “I thank you for doing that, Professor Archer,” he said. “When I arrive, I’ll be happy to verify that information if the local police and hospital officials should ask. I don’t want you or this woman named Constance to get into any trouble. Thank you again for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
“I will see you tomorrow afternoon if I can get away.”
Constance and I were present in Abigail’s hospital room when a nurse ushered Dr. Bird in the following evening. Before acknowledging our presence, he dashed to Abigail’s bedside, took her hand and kissed her cheek. When he turned to us, I saw that his eyes were filled with worry.
“Dr. Bird, I presume?” I said.
“How rude of me,” he said. “You must be Professor Archer.”
“I am indeed. And this is Constance Oswald, Abigail’s fictitious mother. I believe I mentioned that.”
We all shook hands. “I suppose that makes you my wife, Ms. Oswald, and you either my brother or brother-in-law, Professor Archer.”
“Call me Ishmael,” I said with a glance at Constance, who smirked.
“Constance,” Constance said.
“Balthazar,” he said. “And by the way, thank you both for taking such good care of my princess. She’s all I have in the world.”
“Of course,” I said. “I only wish that I had been able to contact you earlier. It was irresponsible of me.”
“Nonsense, Professor. I’m sure you were distracted by events. At least I am here now. Fortunately, I was able reschedule a minor surgery.”
I smiled at him. He was a gentleman of medium height, perhaps in his late fifties, and possessed of a neatly groomed beard and mustache as well as a prominent chin, although his forest green blazer, yellow trousers and ascot made him look as if he had just attended a Nantucket yacht club event. If one looked closely, one could detect a slight resemblance to Abigail in the structure of his face and the kindness in his eyes. He seemed an amiable fellow by disposition, and it occurred to me that had I been in need of cardiac surgery, I would find him trustworthy and most likely quite capable.
“Where will you be residing, Balthazar?” I asked him.
“I’ve booked a room at the Hilton in Syracuse and rented a car,” he said. “I understand there is a motel in town but it has a one-star rating.”
“That much?” I said, somewhat awestruck that a reviewer would summon that much magnanimity. I was tempted to ask the good doctor if he wished to reside temporarily at my apartment but thought better of it and refrained. After all, a man of Dr. Bird’s stature and wealth would likely find my dreary abode, with its lumpy single bed and lack of laundry appliances, quite unsatisfactory. Moreover, I was not certain I could endure playing the role of host for an indefinite length of time.
Balthazar approached Abigail again. He glanced at the heart monitor, examined the contents of her IV bag, took her pulse, and then moved to the foot of the bed where her chart was located. After studying its pages for several moments, he placed it back in its slot.
“If you two don’t mind, I think I’ll see if I can find Dr. Van Buren,” he said, heading for the door. “Time for a doctor-to-doctor consultation.”
“By all means,” I told him. “We will see you again shortly.”
He nodded and slipped out the door.
Chapter Twelve
Four days later Balthazar was compelled to return to Newburgh. He was most distressed at having to leave his daughter’s bedside, but I assured him that, should there be any new developments, I would alert him immediately.
Unfortunately, nothing of import changed regarding Abigail’s condition. She remained in a coma following the completion of another minor surgical procedure during which Dr. Bird was present, and Dr. Van Buren was at a loss regarding the possible duration of said coma, although he postulated that it would probably not continue for more than a week or two in spite of her low score on the Glasgow Coma Scale. Sadly, this optimistic prognostication proved inaccurate. Abigail stirred from time to time, but she did not regain consciousness.
Of course, I was present at Abigail’s bedside nearly every day, usually in the early evenings and on weekends. Constance, who was also concerned, joined me on several occasions, a gesture that greatly touched me. The vague prognoses offered by Abigail’s neurologists had left me in a state of despair, tempered by the hope that one day she would magically awaken.
Dr. Bird made regular appearances at the hospital and on one such occasion, I questioned him regarding Abigail’s condition and what developments might be expected. He was not a neurologist, of course, but he had studied the subject in medical school and had conferred with Dr. Van Buren a number of times.
“I’m afraid the prognosis is unpredictable, Professor,” Balthazar said. “It’s my understanding that people who suffer traumatic brain injuries that result in a comatose state, even with no verbal or optical responses, can wake up and act normally within a short period of time.”
“And if that is not the case?”
He took a deep breath. “The most common consequence of brain injury is memory loss but it’s usually manageable. Reminders of the past such as old photos, music, or common odors can often jog the memory back to normalcy. This is what Dr. Van Buren told me.”
I braced myself. “Please continue.”
“A second possibility is a form of delirium characterized by hallucinations. The patient hears voices or sees things that aren’t there.”
Dr. Bird seemed reluctant to continue, but perhaps he sensed that I was adamant. “One of the rarest outcomes is a type of paranoid delusion in which the patient believes that a loved one is an imposter.”
; Although the information he had imparted placed me in a state of profound anguish, I asked him to continue.
He paused . “Dr. Van Buren also described another reaction in which the patient believes that every person is the same person in disguise.”
“This is most upsetting.”
“Apparently, it, too, is extremely rare.”
Once he had finished, I gave forth a sigh and said, “I suppose we must simply hope for the best.” Balthazar responded with a somewhat forced smile and a pensive nod.
We were stationed in Abigail’s room at the time of this dispiriting discussion, and for a moment both of us watched her as she slept. I glanced over at Balthazar and noticed the liquidity in his eyes. We both sat down.
“She was such a goofy little girl,” Balthazar told me in a voice laden with sorrow. “Did she tell you she played the tuba?”
“Yes, she did.”
“I’m afraid she wasn’t very good at it. It sounded like a type of baritone flatulence most of the time.”
“Hah!”
“She was in the marching band,” he continued, his eyes brightening with a smile of reminiscence. “But her hat was always too big and it fell over her eyes.” He laughed. “Half the time, she bumped into the person in front of her or just wandered out of the line-up.”
I suppressed a laugh. The image was endearing.
“Smart as a whip too. Always beat me at checkers. Later chess.” He sighed as if visualizing his words. “At the age of twelve, she could finish the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in an hour. In ink no less!”
“I was not aware of that.”
“But then her mother died,” Balthazar said. “Abigail was only thirteen at the time.”
“She informed me of this dreadful tragedy.”
“After that…” he began with a gloomy shrug. “After that, she became withdrawn, timid, and suspicious of peoples’ motives. The only things that seemed to give her joy were books. She abandoned the tuba and spent half her time at the library. We’re great pals, though, Abigail and me.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 14