Mustard on Top

by Wanda Degolier

“No. You go home and get some rest. I’ll try not to wake you when I get there.” Ben winked.

  Heat rose to Helen’s face and she tried for non-chalance. The next day was full, so she wished Emma good luck in New York, said her final adieux, and left.

  Chapter 17

  Halfway home a bout of dizziness made Helen’s head spin. Thinking about the day, she reasoned she ought to be okay. She’d eaten enough and had taken her insulin, or at least she thought she had.

  Her stomach churned as if she were riding the spinning teacups at Disneyland. Headlights from an oncoming car turned into four lights, then eight. She shook her head and the headlights returned to two. Her blood sugar was dropping, fast.

  She leaned across the passenger’s seat, popped open the glove box, and thrust her hand inside searching for the stash of glucose gels she kept there. Finding nothing, she began pulling things out. The sound of a car horn caused her to jerk upright. She was straddling the centerline and swerved to the right.

  If she pulled over to search for candy and didn’t find any, the precious few seconds could be the difference between losing consciousness or not. Home was less than ten minutes away and there were no open stores closer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Her hand trembled as she searched the glove box. She found nothing and growled in frustration. Her fingertips grazed something hard and round wedged in the corner. She pinched the wrapper between her fingernails and extracted out a hard candy. She tore the wrapper open, popped the candy in her mouth, and bit it into shards.

  She needed more food and considered going directly to the hospital, but with her mental calculations dimming, it took seconds to decide that the hospital was further than her home.

  She could arrive home in less than five minutes if she sped. One glucose packet would do the trick. Helen hit the gas. Her speedometer shot to the right, and Helen leaned over the steering wheel with her face mere inches from the windshield.

  Just blocks from her home, her peripheral vision shrank. She viewed the world through a tunnel. Too dangerous. Helen jerked the car toward the right as she stomped on the brakes. Her car jerked up over a curb and stopped.

  Helen, acting automatically, cut the lights and tumbled out of the driver’s door before getting up and staggering toward the closest house. She tripped on the porch stairs, landing flat on her chest. Fresh pain gave her a moment of clarity, and she forced herself onto hands and knees and lunged at the door only to fall short.

  A distant screech, sounding like a speeding car was overtaken by the roaring river in her head. Helen fought the oncoming darkness.

  “Helen.” She thought she heard her name over the waterfall in her ears.

  Blindly, she swiped an arm through the air.

  “Helen.”

  Focusing her energy, she opened her eyes. A figure hovered over her. A savior.

  “Helen what’s wrong with you?”

  “Need food,” she managed. An arm slip under her back then another at her knees.

  “There’s some Coke in the car.” The words swam in her brain like a fish in the sea.

  “Diabetic,” Helen managed.

  Someone hoisted her into the air. She tried to lean into the body, to hold on. “Ben?”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I’m not Ben.”

  “Oh.” The thunk of a car door opening sounded, and she was dropped in a heap onto a seat. She labored to push herself upright before crumpling. The door slammed. “Food. Sugar.”

  Someone shoved her upright. She fell, angled against the door.

  “Here.” Something pushed against her mouth. “Open.” Helen opened her mouth and the angel poured the bubbly concoction in. Coke had never tasted so good. Buoyed by her good luck, Helen found the strength to hold the can. She drank the entire thing nonstop then dropped her head on the back of the headrest. Her body would take a few minutes to process the sugar. Helen’s body shook and her teeth chattered.

  “Helen, look at me.”

  The voice was familiar. Helen rolled her face toward the man and squinted. “Seth?”

  “Why’d you let Ben throw my flowers in a dumpster?”

  “Huh?”

  “The flowers I sent you. Ben threw them in a dumpster, but I resurrected them for you.”

  Helen’s hands vibrated as if live, electric wires had been inserted into her wrists. When would the sugar kick in? “Flowers?”

  “I see,” Seth said.

  A crinkling noise caught her attention. She opened her eyes long enough to see Seth crush the silver-and-red Coke can. Silver-and-red, not normal Coca-Cola colors. “D…d…diet Coke?” With her hopes squashed, Helen’s energy drained away. She dropped her chin to her chest. Her head felt heavy, as if a weight dangled from it.

  “The shit Ben’s been telling you about me isn’t true you know.”

  Seth’s words weren’t making sense. “Huh? Home. Food. Please.”

  “He’s why you said no to my proposal isn’t he?”

  The memory of Seth’s proposal slid into her thoughts sideways. “No. It’s…” Her vocabulary gave out. “Food.”

  Seth gripped her chin and yanked her face toward him. “Oh my God. Are you drooling?”

  Helen laughed, her giddiness a sign of the oncoming insulin shock. The relative coherence would be short lived. “I’m…sh…sh…shock.” She giggled.

  Using the hand that held her chin, Seth smashed her head back into the headrest. “You disgust me. Get out of my car.”

  Helen chortled. “Can’t move.”

  Seth lean over her, pressing his chest into her ribs. Helen heard the pop of the car door, then Seth placed one hand on her inner hip and the other on her inner shoulder and shoved.

  “Wait.” Pain shot up Helen’s back as her butt connected with the ground. Helen opened her eyes in time to see the Jeep door slam shut. The engine revved then something pinned Helen’s leg to the ground. She struggled to pull away, but the pressure grew worse. Helen cried out. A cracking noise was followed by crushing pain. Helen screamed, groping at the air until darkness enveloped her.

  ****

  After driving home nine drunk teenagers, Ben’s car smelled like beer. By the time he pulled his BMW in front of Helen’s house, he wished he had toothpicks to hold his eyes open. Aside from working nonstop in Chicago, the partnership offer had forced him to come to terms with his feelings toward Helen and Nalley.

  He’d been up half the night mulling over the partnership opportunity and had decided more money and power held little appeal if his life would be devoid of Helen’s warmth. The idea of opening his own practice in the sleepy, little town, which had once seemed too small, had grown on him.

  Although he feared her reaction, Ben intended to ask Helen to share the rest of her life with him. Looking forward to curling up in bed next to her, he walked up the cracked sidewalk, unlocked the front door, and pushed it open. Something stunk, not a Jeremy stink, a decay stink. Ben braced himself and switched on the light. Colors, textures, and smells intermingled to create a gruesome mess. Crimson, orange, purple, green. Dying flowers. Dead flowers. The flowers he’d gotten rid of a week earlier.

  Confusion mingled with panic and Ben realized there was an order to the jumble. The flowers had been taped to the walls with silver duct tape. Die bitch was spelled across the living room wall.

  Terror seized Ben, and adrenaline pumped through his veins. Yelling Helen’s name, he charged through the house tossing furniture aside and checking closets. Every room was colored with dying, stinking flowers and hateful words. He flicked on the light to the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. There were no flowers there and no Helen.

  Ben ran to the backyard then to the front. Helen’s missing car gave him some relief, but where was she? With nowhere else to search, logic set in. He called the police and told them he knew, knew, Helen was in danger and that Seth Drivoul’s place was the where they should start. He’d go himself if had the address.

  The police told him to wait where he was
, but Ben couldn’t stand around. After hanging up, he found Helen’s phone book. There was no listing for Seth. An Internet search netted no address or phone number. The minutes dragged, and Ben weighed his options. The police would know where the ex-actor lived. He ought to wait.

  Ben searched the house again. This time more thoroughly. He found no evidence Helen had returned home and no clues as to where she might be. Ben reminded himself her car was gone. Maybe she’d come home, seen the house, and left. Once Helen was safe, Ben was getting her a cell phone, no matter how much she objected.

  He ran to Agatha’s and pounded on her door. A few minutes later Moe opened it. They hadn’t heard from Helen either. Ben sprinted down the block searching the shadows. He’d reached the corner when a police car drove by, so he jogged back. A pasty-white cop introduced himself as Officer Benson.

  Ben talked nonstop as the officer pulled his notepad from his pocket. Another cop came and stood next to the first.

  “Spell your name for me,” Officer Benson said.

  “Oh jeez.” Ben didn’t have time for formalities.

  “Your name, sir.”

  The next minutes were agonizing. The officers seemed more interested in him, and his relationship with Helen, rather than Helen’s disappearance. Ben thought his head would explode. Because his legal address was in Chicago and not Helen’s home, they refused to investigate the vandalism. They informed him that Helen, the resident homeowner, was the only one who could open an investigation.

  If Ben had been thinking, he would have predicted that. Exasperated, he spread his arms wide. “Helen Ableman is missing and that idiot who put those flowers in her house has something to do with it.”

  Officer Benson snapped his pad closed. “She’s been missing for a few hours. Call us when she’s been gone twenty-four.”

  “It’s a gut feeling, officers,” Ben implored.

  “Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time these things sort themselves out. If you still haven’t heard from her by tomorrow night, call back.”

  Bewildered, Ben called Theo and went into voice mail. Seeing no other options, Ben got in his Bimmer and drove in the direction Helen would likely have taken. He turned on a residential street, less than two blocks from her house, and spotted a human-sized lump laying the center of the road. His heart slammed in his chest.

  Ben parked the car, got out, and ran. The human form took shape, and he didn’t need to see the dark hair, matted with rainwater, the familiar jacket, or the jeans to know, the person lying face down was Helen. He drew near, one of her legs was bent at an awkward angle, and even in the dim light and on the black pavement, he could see a river of blood flowing from her body.

  Ben pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed 9-1-1, dropped to his knees, and waited for the police to answer. He brushed Helen’s hair off her face, and lowered his face to her cheek, pressing his lips to her skin. She was cool and firm like a peeled, hard-boiled egg straight out of the refrigerator.

  “You’re going to be okay.” Ben’s voice shook as he pressed the tips of his fingers to her neck searching for a pulse. The tiniest of blips greeted him.

  A dispatcher answered the phone. Ben scanned the street, Helen’s car was parked halfway across someone’s lawn. A few porch lights tossed swaths of light in front of houses, otherwise the street was dark.

  Ben answered the dispatcher’s questions, while he placed his coat over Helen. He could make her injuries worse by moving her, so he lay beside her cradling her for warmth. He hugged her and silently cheered as her chest move with her every breath. He cooed encouraging words.

  Within a few minutes, Officer Benson and his partner arrived along with an ambulance. Ben lay next to Helen until the paramedics were ready to put her on a gurney.

  “Be careful,” he said getting up. The suit he’d worn was soaked through, and he watched as they immobilized her neck and leg then moved her onto a body board. Ben followed them as they carried her back to the ambulance. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “We hope so,” the short, blond, female paramedic said. “You a relative?”

  Ben paused. “Her boyfriend.”

  “You want to come along and help us identify her?” They slid Helen into the back of the ambulance.

  “Yes.”

  “Hop in then.”

  ****

  Once Ben informed the doctors Helen was diabetic, they diagnosed her with insulin shock. She remained unconscious, while they treated her through an IV and X-rayed her leg. An eight-inch chunk of both the tibia and fibula bones had been crushed.

  The doctor explained that Helen was lucky her femoral artery hadn’t been severed and that the hospital had called in a specialist to perform emergency surgery on her leg. Before that could happen, they needed to raise her blood sugar.

  Within an hour, Helen regained consciousness. She moaned and writhed in pain until the doctor prescribed a pain-killer that knocked her out. She stayed that way until the surgeon arrived.

  While they’d allowed Ben to stay with her in the emergency room and through the X-rays, they banned him from the operating room. With a heavy heart, he entered the mute, latte-colored waiting room. Another man, slumped in a chair, slept while a teen-aged boy sat watching TV. A monitor hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room listed each patient and their current state of surgery.

  Helen’s name showing on the monitor, gave Ben a sense of comfort. Nothing on television at 4:21 a.m. held his attention, so Ben leafed through tattered magazines. Time played tricks on him. His time with Theo had flown by in the blink of an eye, now time was being cruel, with minutes feeling like hours. Ben ached to talk with Theo, but had already left him two messages.

  He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. Exhausted and emotionally drained, he tried to sleep, but couldn’t. Beneath the haze, his thoughts bubbled and growled. At 7:46 a.m. Helen’s status on the monitor changed from a red In Surgery to a green In Recovery. The tension squeezing Ben’s heart loosened and he took a deep breath

  He’d been told that until she left recovery, he couldn’t visit. After surgery, however, the surgeon would come out and talk to him. Ben stared at the entrance to the waiting room and fidgeted until a petite woman in khaki-green scrubs entered the waiting room.

  “Ben Smiley?”

  Ben crossed the room. “I’m Ben Smiley.” He offered his hand and they shook.

  “I’m Dr. Abeti.”

  The woman was too young and simply too small to be a doctor, but Ben had been told she was one of the best. “How’s Helen?”

  “I understand you came in with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?” Her intelligent eyes were appraising him.

  “I don’t know. I found her in the street.” Ben’s voice cracked from the emotion of picturing her lying in a heap. “I’m guessing she was run over by a car.” His throat constricted, and Ben couldn’t say more.

  “Hmm.” Dr. Abeti’s features softened. “Her tibia and fibula bones were crushed. Pieces of the bone were ground into the surrounding tissue. The tendons and muscles have been shredded. All I could do today was clean the area out and try to stabilize it. Six inches of both bones had to be extracted.”

  Lightheaded and nauseous, Ben leaned on a nearby chair back.

  “Do you need to sit?” Dr. Abeti asked.

  “No. Go on.”

  “I’ll be brief. With her diabetic condition, her chances of a full recovery are compromised. She needs to be diligent with her insulin and to eat healthier.”

  Ben nodded.

  “She’ll need at minimum two more surgeries if she hopes to walk again. She’ll be in a lot of pain, and it’ll take rehabilitation. Iven with that there’s no guarantee she’ll heal properly. A lot will depend on her motivation and dedication.”

  “I understand.”

  “I like to prepare people.” The doctor nodded then said, “I am sorry. The accident was unfortunate.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”
Ben felt as if he were wandering around in a nightmare. “When will she be moved from recovery?”

  “An hour or two. It varies by the individual.”

  Back to waiting. At least morning had descended, and he had a receptionist to pester. Exhaustion bore down on him, and Ben slumped in a chair. He made calls to Theo and Emma’s parents. Neither answered. Cupping his chin in one hand, Ben let his gaze skim the room. Then his eyes drifted closed, and he fell asleep.

  Ben woke with a start when someone shook his shoulder.

  “Sorry. You’re Ben Smiley?”

  “Yes.” Ben sat up. A woman wearing scrubs covered in tiny red hearts stood before him.

  “Helen Ableman’s been asking for you.”

  “She has?” Ben shot out of his chair.

  “Can I take you to her?”

  “Let’s go.”

  The woman led him to room 342 then stepped away as Ben entered. Helen looked pale, nearly translucent, under the harsh lights. An IV dangled off a pole and fed into her arm. Her leg was in a cast and attached to a contraption that hung from the ceiling. When she looked up, a smile lit her face and Ben wondered how she could be cheerful.

  “You’re okay,” she said.

  “I’m okay?” Ben almost laughed at the absurd statement. He moved into the room, and sat in the chair next to her bed then reached for her hand.

  “I was worried…” Her voice trailed off.

  “About what?”

  “Seth. I thought… I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Seth did this to you?” Barely contained rage bubbled beneath his calm demeanor.

  Helen responded slowly, blinking her eyes with exaggeration. “I’m loopy from the drugs and my leg hurts like the dickens, but at least I’m alive. How was Chicago?”

  “What did Seth do?”

  Helen closed her eyes. “Not now. I’m tired, Ben.”

  He didn’t want to grill her; she’d just lived through hell, but he needed to know. “Chicago was busy. I’m glad to be back.”

  She squeezed his hand in response. Ben wondered if she realized the extent of the damage to her leg and if not, who should tell her. “I’ll never let Seth hurt you again,” Ben said.