When I entered the cafeteria, I smiled. Connie was a dear, sweet lady, albeit slightly strange. Shaped like a pear, flat-chested and broad-hipped, she maintained her weight at one thirty-five and stood at least five-seven. Her uniforms, dropped-waist styles with gathered skirts accentuating the negative, almost reached her ankles. A mess of brown, raggedy curls—the result of repeated cheap home perms—and bushy brows framed a thin face. She was unmindful of the effect she created but was compulsive about detail and fanatic about her patients, family, and keeping a clean house. I thought all her eccentricities made her patients love her more. Adults and children alike seemed to absorb her compassion and thrive under her care.
I thrived with Connie as my friend. My parents lived in North Dakota, and I was alone in South Florida. Connie and her family adopted me. She was several years my senior and served as friend, sister, and sometime-mother.
I met her when I was her patient after the shooting. I contacted her when I was in nursing school and our friendship blossomed. She was the main reason I went to work at CBMC after graduation. Connie recruited me and earned several hundred dollars as a bonus.
We picked a table in front of the window. Outside the smokers clustered around concrete tables frying in the sun. In whispered tones, I filled Connie in on the double-homicide-rape case. "Amber is scheduled for admission to your unit this afternoon. The doctors decided it's premature to send her to CCS for placement in foster care. They want to make sure she's healing and do whatever they can to help her."
"I saw it in the paper this morning," Connie said, taking a healthy-sized bite of salad. "There's an all-out search for the man. The cops consider him armed and dangerous."
"I hadn't heard that part of it." I tasted my vegetable soup. Flat. I added salt, which made it salty and flat. "Yuk," I said, pushing the bowl to the back of my brown plastic tray. The egg salad sandwich was edible, even tasty. "I haven't talked to Ray since he left last night. What else did they say?"
Connie continued. "The father—his name's Alfred Leon Pyle, Jr.—is a known pedophile. He spent a couple of years in an Alabama prison for assaulting his neighbor's child. He earned parole and married Mrs. Pyle. The couple moved to Florida when he completed his probation. The article didn't say if the wife knew about his background, but even Pyle's cousin denies knowledge. The cousin said they lost touch for several years. Then Pyle showed up one day about four years ago."
"He didn't do much jail time for a sex crime against a child."
"They released him early. There was some discussion about how that happened, but I missed most of it when I stopped to talk with the security guard outside the employee lot."
"The rights of the criminal endanger the public. The poor woman. Meet a pedophile. Fall in love. Have kids. Die. Doesn't sound much like happily ever after."
"Not to me, either. How's the child doing?"
"Sleeping mostly. I medicated her mid-morning, and she conked out. I'll let her sleep as long as she wants, then bring her upstairs. There's not a lot to do other than be with her and listen when she talks."
I told Connie about Ray's troubles with his son and secured her promise to watch Sunshine.
"I wouldn't go along if I were you. Some things," she said in her best motherly voice, "are best done alone. And a man dealing with his former wife and trouble-making kids are high on that list."
6
Before going off duty at seven, I carried Amber to a room on the pediatric unit. A patient care assistant followed close behind with Amber's chart and meager belongings.
Amber clung to me and cried, not wanting me to leave. I tried to reassure her, then gave in to her pleadings and sat with her until she fell asleep. Turmoil had dominated her young life, but I feared Amber's troubles had just begun. The mother had no known relatives to take her, her father's whereabouts were unknown, and she couldn't go to his kin. Who knew when he'd appear and continue his atrocities? Amber faced foster care, maybe adoption—if she was lucky. For the present, she'd have a few days in the hospital.
I dragged home a few minutes before ten. It was clear Ray had been there, showered, changed clothes, and let out the dog. Good. At least Sunshine wasn't bursting at his seams. Ray had left a note saying he'd call, and he had. The message on the machine said not to expect him home anytime soon. I was tired and my hip ached, so I showered, ate a bowl of cereal for dinner, and climbed into bed.
Like old times, the dog and I snuggled, he on the pillows, me under the covers.
At three in the morning, the bed jarred. I knew the time because I had a clock about the size of a billboard. All I had to do was open one eye, and the big digital numbers glowed at me with enough intensity to light the room. I liked it that way. Given the chance, Ray would throw a towel over it, claiming he didn't need a night-light. It was about the only thing we disagreed on in bed. We were compatible that way.
"Sorry, Babe," Ray said, his voice rumbling in his throat, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"I'm glad you did." I rolled over on my side and snuggled into his arms. Sunshine, apparently miffed at the intrusion, hopped off the bed and left the room. "How you doing?"
"I . . . oh, hell, I wish Dick hadn't wanted me on the case. I see those kids . . . I think . . . Branden and Kerri. Can't help myself. The bastard . . ." I felt his muscles tense with emotion.
"Focus on the job. Try not to obsess on what happened to the children."
"It hits so close to home."
"How is this different? Dick has called you in before." I wanted to help him focus on the priorities.
"It's just different. I . . ."
I didn't say anything more, but I had the sense he wasn't telling all. I rubbed his back and hugged him close. My big, strong homicide detective wasn't really big and strong all the time. Ray had a sensitive interior. That was why he and Dick were such good friends. Woven from the same fibers, each understood the soft underside of the other. I suspected that was why Dick hauled Ray along to the scene rather than Ray's partner, Lewis, who was the one on call. Lewis came across as a real hard-ass most of the time, taking the world and its pain in stride, keeping his feelings, if he had any, concealed. I waited, wondering what Ray was holding back.
After a couple minutes, Ray sighed. "Dick said he saw you at the hospital."
I felt his muscles relax as he changed the direction of the conversation. "He did."
"Did you see the little girl?"
"I took care of her today. Amber's a beautiful child."
"How's she doing?" he asked in a quiet voice. "Before you showed up, Dick was trying to comfort her. Amber kept pushing him away and screaming, trying to get close to her mother's body."
I explained Amber's injuries to him again and the extensive repair required. "The doctor believes she'll heal and will be able to have a normal life, physically at least. The biggest concern is her emotional health. Amber told me what she saw and what happened to her."
"The bastard. I'm going to see his ass fried."
"I hope you do. Any idea where he went?"
"Pyle went to his cousin's house, but he ran when he spotted the surveillance. Even working with the K9 squad, we weren't able to track him down, but we know he was still in town at midnight. I got a good look at him. Unfortunately, he got a good look at me, too. His picture was all over the eleven o'clock news. By tomorrow, there should be no place for him to hide in South Florida."
Ray was quiet for a long time, and I thought he had drifted into sleep. Then he said, "Before I forget. Can you help Kathleen unpack tomorrow? Dick and I have things we need to do."
"I figured she'd need help. She has no energy reserve anymore. When I asked her about it, she said she and Dick could handle it, but that was before this case started. There's no way she can put things away herself." I kissed him on the forehead. "Don't worry about it. I'll give her a hand." I continued to hold him until his breathing was regular.
He tossed and turned in his sleep. I suspected he was dreaming about the horr
or he'd seen. He had experienced ugly cases before, but this time Ray's response felt different to me.
7
When I awoke in the morning, Ray was gone. He couldn't have slept more than a couple of hours. Then I wondered if he'd been home at all, or if I'd been dreaming. Looking around the room, I saw evidence of Ray's temporary presence, a drawer slightly ajar, a few coins on his dresser that had not been there the night before. It wasn't my imagination.
The grandfather clock sitting outside my bedroom door chimed eight. Ignoring Sunshine's look and plea for a good rub, I jumped out of bed and into a pair of jean shorts and a stretch top. Kathleen would have the windows closed and the air conditioning on high, but handling boxes all day would still be hot work, and I couldn't let her do much of it herself.
As I headed for the garage, pocketbook in hand, the dog's sad eyes took their toll on my resolve. I relented and scooped him into my arms. Kathleen never objected to Sunshine visiting. He kept four-year old Mikey busy.
As I expected, Kathleen seemed relieved to see us. Dick hadn't told her I might be coming, and she said I was an unexpected and welcome surprise. We dove into the boxes, she sitting and unwrapping things, I putting them away, bagging the trash, and hauling things to the dumpster. By noon, the place looked half-decent. Kathleen had managed to do a lot the day before, and progress was good. She was also exhausted, given the limitations imposed by her disease.
Kathleen put Mikey in bed for a nap, and we sat at the kitchen table for a fresh cup of coffee and lunch. The tuna salad specials I concocted with the bits and pieces of available foodstuffs tasted elegant, a result of my fine culinary skills and the crusty fresh bread Kathleen purchased from a gourmet bakery.
I picked up the second half of my sandwich and glanced in Kathleen's direction. "How are you really feeling?" I said.
"Tired . . . very tired. The summer heat makes me weaker. That's the bad thing. I'm dragging my foot some. Nobody says anything, but I feel it. I can live with that." Kathleen took a bite of her sandwich, then a sip of coffee. When I looked at her, she continued, "I feel lucky, too. I don't think I'm getting any worse. Dick does a lot of the cooking and most of the laundry and cleaning. He won't let me do anything strenuous when he's around. As long as I have Dick and Mikey, I can handle anything this darn disease throws at me."
I patted Kathleen's hand. "Do you think the new medicine is helping?"
Multiple sclerosis is a progressive degenerative disorder of the central nervous system. The simplest explanation is to envision electrical wires with the insulation scraped off interfering with the conduction of current.
Kathleen said, "My symptoms haven't gotten any worse since I started the Copaxone, but they haven't gotten any better either. It's discouraging. I talk to other people who are in the same position I am, and they claim to know people who have had dramatic improvement with some of the experimental treatments."
"Who have you talked to?"
Kathleen leaned forward in her chair, looking me in the eye. "Other people with MS, mostly on the web. I read yesterday about a lady who was in a wheelchair, and now she's walking well enough to go back to work. If I can beat the fatigue, I can work full-time and still have energy for Mikey."
I hadn't worked with many neurological patients, but I knew enough from reading about the disease to know a patient's expectations were often not realistic. In my opinion, Kathleen was no exception.
The ER manager, Nancy, covertly arranged Kathleen's assignments to lighten the physical stress of her job. To date, the other RNs were compassionate enough not to complain about the favored treatment Kathleen received. I didn't know how long that would continue. Nurses have a reputation for eating their own, and eventually someone with a big mouth would suggest Kathleen seek employment in a physician's office or other less intense environment.
The conversation drifted to Dick and Ray's case. Kathleen said, "I consider Dick's involvement with the victims to be both his weakness and his strength. It burns a hole in his soul. I'm glad Ray is working with him. Dick says Ray understands the emotional dynamics."
"I believe he does, but he's unglued about this one, taking it personally. For some reason I can't fathom, Ray's relating it to his children. Maybe it's because he left when they were close to the ages of the Pyle children, or . . . I just don't know . . ."
Kathleen nibbled at her sandwich, then returned the last piece to her plate, using the heel of her hand to shove the plate. "Dick is taken with the girl. CCS wants to place her in foster care, and he would like to bring her here. The doctors recommend I don't get pregnant again. Maybe we can adopt Amber. We've wanted a second child."
"Sounds like a conflict of interest that wouldn't go well at a trial," I said, shifting my weight in the chair to relieve the cramp in my right hip and thigh.
"If there is one." Kathleen's tone was matter-of-fact.
"Meaning what?" I didn't like the sound of what she had said.
"Dick is convinced Pyle left town. Why would he stay to be arrested and convicted in a death penalty state?" She raised a hand.
"Ray didn't think he left town," I said.
"Captain García called Dick early this morning about a car stolen a couple of blocks north of Pyle's cousin's house. García thought it was hot-wired. Pyle did the same thing in Alabama to avoid capture."
"If Pyle gets away, it'll stop progress in finding a permanent home for Amber."
"Tell me about her." Kathleen's expression displayed more than simple curiosity. Concern? Worry? Longing?
"Better yet, why don't we take a break and go visit her? I promised Amber last night that I'd come back today. We can go together. I'll have to drop the dog at home, and I'm sure Connie will watch Mikey for a few minutes while we see Amber."
8
After leaving my car and dog at home, I climbed into the passenger seat of Kathleen's Camry. Mikey sat secured in the child seat in the back whining about leaving Sunshine behind. He'd insisted the dog ride with him on the way over.
"Mikey," I said, "you'll get to see him again. But he can't come to the hospital." As I explained the obvious, Kathleen backed out of my driveway and took the first left to get out of the cul-de-sac. The child seemed mollified.
The car's forward jerking motion caused my head to bang repeatedly against the headrest. Kathleen didn't apologize or explain. She seemed downright unconcerned, but the jarring had my attention. I watched as she continued to drive. Kathleen's left leg and the clutch was the problem. I set my jaw and braced myself each time she shifted in an effort to minimize the effects of the spasmodic accelerations. I wondered when she'd pack in the stick shift. Soon, I hoped. The situation was an accident waiting to happen.
We parked in front of the hospital and entered through the front lobby, clearing security easily. The guards were the regular crew and knew us well.
"Your husband just left, Mrs. Schneider. You missed him," the guard who usually worked in the ER said.
"Too bad." Kathleen smiled, then turned to me. "It really is too bad. He could have stayed with Mikey."
"Let's take him with us." I glanced at the closest guard who looked as if he were pretending not to listen. The hospital discouraged children visiting. I took Mikey's hand. "Come on, kid."
As if prompted by a flash of duty, the guard called after us, "Don't keep the boy there very long, ladies."
"Yes, sir." I punched the elevator button.
Connie saw us coming, buzzed open the locked doors, and waved us into the unit. As usual, she was a sight. She'd made an effort to capture her raggedy brown curls in a banana clip, but escaping ringlets littered her neckline. Her huge white cotton scrub dress formed deep puckers over her ample hips and nearly touched her clunky white clogs. I shook my head in wonder as Connie bent to talk to Mikey.
"Why don't you come with me, big guy? The freezer is filled with the ice cream cups you like, and then you can visit the playroom while your mom and Sophia visit with Amber." Connie led Mikey in the direction of
the dietary pantry.
Kathleen and I headed the other way. Amber was in the private room across the hall from the fish tank.
Amber looked squeaky clean, and her hair shone. The light from the window brought out streaks of golden highlights in the chestnut brown silk. She shared her bed with the stuffed fish from the ER, a small teddy bear, two Barbies, one of which was naked, and a large economy-sized box of crayons sitting atop a stack of crisp, new coloring books. Remembering Kathleen's comment about Dick and Amber, I suspected Dick had been shopping.
She wore her own pajamas, pink cotton shorties with white bunnies dancing among tiny red and yellow flowers, and there were two large boxes stacked in the corner of the room.
"Hello, Amber," I said, stepping into the room.
She smiled with more life than the day before. "Hi, Miss Sophia."
Good southern manners. "I want you to meet my friend, Miss Kathleen." I motioned to Kathleen who stood in the doorway.
"Hi, Sweetie." She crossed the room, her eyes locked with the child's.
At first, Amber turned away and then looked from me to Kathleen, as if she was unsure it was okay to like both of us.
I nodded. "Amber, Miss Kathleen wants to meet you and be your friend, too. Detective Schneider is her husband."
The child began to dress the naked Barbie. "Is Policeman Dick a nice man?"
"Oh yes," Kathleen responded.
"Does he hit you?"
"No, never. He loves me, and he loves our son."
"Does he hit your little boy?" Amber said.
"No, never. He loves him."
Amber rolled the Barbie over on her face and expertly closed a couple of tiny snaps. We watched as she selected a pair of pink pumps from a pile of accessories on the over bed table.
Imperfect Daddy Page 3