by A B Whelan
Nurse Aimee shuddered. “Sir, I could be wrong. We need a doctor to check Emma.”
The director leaned back in his chair and propped his hands behind his head. “Let me think for a second.”
“With all due respect, sir, this can’t be swept under the rug. If Emma is truly pregnant, then there is a predator rapist among us. A man who abused that poor girl is working for you, working with me.” She pounded on her chest. “We need to call the police and notify her family.”
The director slammed his fists onto the table. “Fuck!” he repeated as if all the available words in the dictionary evaded him. “Look, let’s not create any undue panic until we’re a hundred-percent sure what we are dealing with here. I want to see her. Gather all her charts and meet me in the patient’s room.”
“All right, sir. I’ll bring them to you.”
The nurse reached for the door handle.
“Aimee!” the director called out to her. “Please, not a word to anyone. I’m serious.”
The nurse nodded solemnly and stepped out of the office. Without as much as a glance at the secretary, she rushed out to the records room, feeling the piercing eyes on her back. She hated lying and was never good at it. It was difficult for her to remain silent, especially when she knew there was someone in the building who should be cuffed and publicly humiliated for the crime.
She passed Jorge who used to be a soccer player in Mexico in his prime and now was responsible for the maintenance of the building. Aimee lowered her eyes as her brain was firing with speculation. Although he had an accent, Jorge spoke decent English. He coached a youth soccer team and earned extra cash as a referee on the weekends. Aimee had never noticed him staring awkwardly at any female employees or heard of him making inappropriate comments.
Conversely, there was a part-time psychologist, Tim McGrath. He never missed an opportunity to recite the latest standup comedy jokes in the break room, regardless of how borderline inappropriate they were. There was Scott Adams, the bald male nurse who was obesely overweight, loud, and obnoxious. She couldn’t help imagining him wheezing on top of the helpless girl who couldn’t move a muscle but still felt everything like any other person. She could feel pain, fear, and hunger but had no power to defend herself. It was painful to consider the ordeal Emma must have gone through.
Aimee’s fingers rolled into a ball at the thought of someone violating that innocent girl who was suffering through so much already. She thought of what she would do to the person that committed this atrocity. Rage and fear coiled inside her chest like fighting snakes as she looked for the files in the filing cabinet. The head nurse, Mandee Dee, was in the records room too and put the back of her hand against Aimee’s forehead to check if she had a fever.
“I have a slight headache, that’s all,” Aimee said, without looking up from her search.
“Do you need help? What are you looking for?”
“Emma Alexis’s charts … Uhm … the boss wants to see her feeding schedule.”
Apparently surprised, the blood drained from the chief nurse’s face. “Why didn’t he ask me for the schedule?”
Lies, like bitter pills, sat on Aimee’s tongue. “He caught me in the hallway and probably didn’t want to bother you with something so … so …” She wanted to say “something so basic and irrelevant,” but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words, so she shrugged instead. “Got them. All good. See you at lunch.”
Aimee tucked the files under her arm and headed to room 178-A. Inside, she found her boss looking down at Emma with a creased face and folded arms.
After a glance at the young woman, nearly ripping her heart in two, she handed the files to her boss and pulled the blanket back to the patient’s upper thighs. She pointed to the small bump on her lower abdomen. “See that? I don’t think I’m wrong about this.”
The director pushed his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose and immersed himself in reading the files. When he emerged, his face was ashen. “How come nobody noticed the changes in her menstruation cycle?”
“I’ve only been working here for eighteen months, sir, but I remember she skipped her period a month or two before. We were told it was common for someone in Emma’s situation.”
“Fuck!” the director blurted out for the third time, causing Emma’s heartbeat to elevate. Aimee took note of her pulse on the monitor and leaned in to caress the patient’s angelic face while battling to keep back her own tears.
“When was the last time her grandparents visited?” he spoke without making eye contact as if he was ashamed of causing the girl further anxiety.
“I already checked the logbook. The grandparents were here three days ago. They don’t visit more than two or three times a year. We need to call them.”
“All right. I know someone from school … Haven’t talked to him in years. He went to med school. If he still practices, I’ll get him here to see what he can do to terminate the pregnancy.”
“Are you going to call the police and the grandparents?”
“No, not yet. If we can handle this in-house, then we can save the reputation of the business and everybody’s job, including yours. Let’s get a complete picture of the situation first, then we decide on a course of action.”
“What about the rapist?”
“He must be caught. There is no question about it. We can draw blood from the fetus and compare it to our male employees. We have everyone’s blood type on file, which is good, as I imagine people won’t be willing to give up their blood voluntarily without a valid reason.”
“That sounds too risky. We need something less evasive.”
“Got any ideas?”
“I’m thinking…” the nurse strained hard to wreck her brain for a friendlier and faster solution. “Sir, remember how Emma reacted to your cussing? Her heart started beating faster and her respirations increased. It’s how our body reacts to trauma or fear, isn’t it?”
“In most cases, yet. Very clever, Aimee.” The director pinched his chin, deep in thought. “I’ll go and unearth my old school buddy, and you can arrange to have every possible assailant in this room individually and monitor the patient's response.”
He no longer called Emma by her name, as if he were trying to detach himself emotionally from the innocent girl who had been the guest of this institute for years.
“How should I do that, sir?”
“I’m sure you’ll find some excuse to get people in here. You have three days but no more than three attempts a day. This poor girl must have lived through hell under our watch. If I find out who did this … I don’t know what I’ll do.” The director touched the patient’s toes through the blanket and then walked out of the room.
*****
The most terrifying and frustrating week followed after the director of the care facility and Nurse Aimee made a pact to find the man who raped and impregnated Emma Alexis while she was in a vegetative state. Aimee went home from work that night, broken and devasted, her faith lost in humanity. She pulled her cardigan tight over her chest, despite the pleasantly warm weather that May evening in North Park, San Diego. Her husband attributed her sadness to the failing health of her aunt. He graciously accepted the reheated leftover dinner of meatloaf and mashed potatoes from the refrigerator. Aimee’s grief and confusion strangled her appetite, and she watched her beloved eat as they sat on the sofa in the living room.
The Cosby Show was on, and he pretended to watch it when, in fact, Aimee knew he was focusing on her instead. He offered his wife a beer. Then a second one. She also poured herself a shot of gin in the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers for a pack of cigarettes left from her party days.
The young nurse waited until her husband went to bed before chain-smoking four Pall Malls on the back patio. She was haunted by her vivid imagination, recollecting the possible events Emma had to suffer through under her care.
She pictured the disabled girl in terror as a stranger climbed on top of her, clouding her face wit
h his rancid breath. His sweaty hands groping underneath her nightgown. His drooling mouth latching onto her pristine lips. And then violating her.
Emma must have been awake and aware, feeling every thrust and hearing every groan, lying there helplessly. She had already surrendered control over her body when she suffered a traumatic brain and spinal injury as a little girl. She was in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. Her parents lost their lives in the accident, and young Emma had been living in the care facility ever since. Her brain could sense touch and other sensations but was unable to respond to anything. She couldn’t move or talk. She only lay in bed, eyes set on the blank ceiling. Someone so evil capable of taking advantage of her disability didn’t deserve to live in society.
Aimee leaned against the sliding door and drew in the smell of the city: a hint of the salty ocean, eucalyptus trees, and someone barbequing nearby. The newlyweds were planning on starting a family soon, but how could she bring a child into this mad world?
“Honey, are you coming to bed?” her husband called through the kitchen window, running his hands through his already tangled hair.
“I’m trying. I just … I need to see something beautiful to ease my soul.”
“Beautiful, you say? Let’s see. How about I take off work early tomorrow and take you to the gardens. Mama Grigolato said the flowers are still blooming due to all the rain we had this year.”
And just like that, Aimee had a spark of an idea. Emma was staring at the white ceiling above her bed all day, every day. She could offer the idea of painting her room with colorful pictures to please her and stimulate her brain. All male employees would be required to help with this project.
Aimee put out her cigarette, went inside, and draped her arms over her husband’s neck. “Did I tell you how much I love you?”
He smirked. “Of course you love me! How could you not love a cool cat like me?”
In the morning, Aimee was up and at it early. Her husband had time to sleep in. The Italian restaurant he managed didn’t open for lunch until eleven. Aimee did her best to look as she did on any other day of the week to avoid raising anyone’s suspicion.
At the end of the seventh day, she collapsed into the chair next to Emma’s bed, drenched in failure. She sincerely believed her plan would work. The concerned nurse had invited every male employee to Room 178-A, but the heartbeat of the young paralyzed girl never increased.
Aimee smoothed her hair back and rubbed her face in irritation, ransacking her brain for a solution. Did I miss someone? Who else had access to her room that would have had enough time to commit such a heinous act without ever being caught?
Aimee put her hand on Emma’s hand, promising her to find whoever did this to her.
The director’s friend from school had visited two days ago. He confirmed her suspicion. Emma was, indeed, expecting a child.
Despite Aimee’s suspicion, the director’s childhood buddy turned out to be a sincere doctor. If he was once a drugged-up hippy who got caught up with the wrong crowd in the seventies, he had since cleaned up his act. He was an outdoorsy guy with a mop of dark curly hair and black stubble that dotted most of his face below his eyeline. After his examination of Emma, he offered to bring an ultrasound to the facility to examine the fetus.
The director and Aimee were still awaiting his return.
Aimee’s arm reflexively pulled away at the sound of the door creaking behind her. Gus, one of the contractors doing occasional work on the building materialized in the doorframe. He’d come by every couple of months with a crew to remove the leaves and debris from the gutters, clean the glass panels that wrapped around the building, and power wash the tile roof. As usual, his face was swollen and his nose was netted with veins from heavy drinking. A thin, white beard highlighted the ridge of his lower face and stretched up to his ear, giving him the look of Doc from the Seven Dwarfs. He wasn’t Aimee’s favorite handyman, because he would never look her in the eye, and she didn’t trust people who couldn’t look her in the eye. But he was quiet and caused no problems, so most of the time she hadn’t even noticed him.
“Oh … I’m sorry to disturb you, babyface. I can come back later,” Gus said, pulling back the door with an ashen face and smashing a red bucket against the wood frame. The rhythm of the lulling monotone beeping of the monitor changed, Emma’s vitals increasing to the point of alarm.
I shot up from the chair to face the window cleaner. “I—it’s okay … Come in.” Aimee said, eagerly listening to the monitor’s beeping. Emma was reacting to something or someone.
The man hesitated, switching his eyes from Emma to the nurse, then stepped inside of the room, wearing his signature work coveralls. A bucket swung in his hand, and the cleaning bottles beat against the sides like an orchestra. As he passed the nurse, Aimee caught a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with cheap aftershave. She had skipped breakfast, and his stench turned her empty stomach.
Aimee glanced at the monitor. Emma’s pulse was rapidly beating. Small dark eyes under arched bushy eyebrows of the man were intensely watching her moves. The stubby man’s protruding cheeks were redder now, and there was a sizable pale ring around his eyes.
Fear gripped the nurse, and she froze. The door was only a few feet away from her, and her mind told her to flee, but she couldn’t leave that revolting man alone with Emma. In the past week, this was the first time she had showed any reaction to the presence of another human being.
“I think there’s been too much excitement for the patient for one day. How about we let her rest and you skip this room this time?” Aimee said, hoping the man didn’t notice her trembling knees and weak voice.
The disappointed man looked back at Emma for a brief moment.
“All right, babyface. No problem,” Gus agreed trudging toward the nurse.
Alternating cold and hot flashes washed over her body as she escorted him out of the room and forced a smile. She locked Emma’s door with shaking fingers, and half-ran, half-stumbled to the director’s office.
“I found him, sir!” Aimee blurted, the moment she shut the door behind her. “You’re … you’re not going to like it.”
The director jumped up, nearly knocking over his high-backed chair. “Well then, who is it?” he asked with an unyielding, anxious expression.
“Sir, it’s Gus. Your brother.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
It’s a relief to finally reclaim my freedom. The free world is so close I can almost taste it. It’s a brutal and lonely world, but it’s still my home.
The alarm blares above the door and the barred gate slides open in front of me. I follow the guard to the out-processing station for the final checkout procedure I must endure at the hands of these apes—state employees that walk around with an aura of pride like they own the place; as if they’ve never slipped up in life. The only difference between them and me is that I got caught.
With every step, the bottom of my pantleg brushes against the top of my feet. I relish the rough touch of the seam of my jeans, the hardness of leather flip-flops cushioning my steps and the softness of my one-hundred-percent cotton tee against my skin. I feel like myself again, minus the stale smell my clothes soaked up while in storage.
I’ve gained some weight during the past eight months, despite my efforts to regularly work out. I blame the prison food. The company that caters to the inmates uses obscene amounts of salt and sugar to make the otherwise tasteless meals somewhat palatable. We have no right to complain. We are the scum of society.
I close my eyes and summon sweet memories of the hot chicken potpies, braised beef sandwiches, and my favorite—the fried sausage and apple dish—served in The Hawk’s Head at Riley’s Farm in Yucaipa Valley. The first foster family I was placed with after social services removed me from my aunt’s care used to take me to that historic farm at the foothill of Oak Glen, treating me to homemade goods and outdoor pioneer games. The head of the household, Rich Ballard, paid ten dollars for me to throw a dozen hatchets in
to old wood stumps in front of piles of hay. Then his wife, Laura, would take me to pick strawberries in the nearby fields or apples in the orchards.
The Ballards treated me as part of their family, even though their two spoiled daughters, Caroline and Colleen, both my seniors, despised me. They never missed an opportunity to spit vile things at me, to belittle me, or push me around. But I didn’t care about those girls because I had my own room and there was food on the table three times a day. A much better situation than my biological aunt had been given me when I was dropped into her care after my parents died.
Then my aunt had decided to put down the crack pipe and test clean for the drug screening. She swore to the Riverside County Child Protective Services and to my CASA, my court-appointed special advocate, that she was clean and ready to take on the responsibilities of caring for her deceased brother’s son once again. Despite my pleading—begging, crying, kicking, and failed attempts at running away—I was soon back in the house my aunt had bought from my inheritance. A mini-mansion is a better word to describe the property. A few hundred thousand dollars bought a lot of square footage in Beaumont, California, but culture and taste didn’t come with it.
An army of garden gnomes guarded the front yard, facing the fence in unison like a band of freakish soldiers. The stucco was an ugly pink that reminded me of the girls’ clothing section in Walmart’s—a favorite store for the Ballard girls to fill their wardrobes. The inside of the house was an eyesore. Each space decorated by a spur of the moment inspiration. The inspiration came from anywhere with her. A picture my aunt saw in a magazine, or the design of a doctor’s office, or a room decoration at a friend’s house. The result was an assortment of bright colors and confused style that would have made my father roll over in his grave.
My aunt attempted to interview a few housekeepers to bring order to the chaos, but one of her coming-and-going boyfriends scolded her for paying for help when she had me. The length and content of my list of chores depended on the parental involvement of the current boyfriend. One passive-aggressive boyfriend required me to mow the yard with the riding lawn mower at eight years old. I might have accidentally run over a few flowers or dinged the shed. My punishment was usually a belt, or electrical cord, to my backside in the garage, with the vengeance of a Viking god. Sometimes, when I was sore and bleeding, I would lie on my bed and cry myself to sleep, wondering if these damned full-grown apes were aware of their strength. Probably not, as they never held back when they pounded on my forty-pound frame.