Still Life

by Joy Fielding

  “I keep telling them that my life is here,” he’d replied. “In this hospital.”

  All those wonderful things he’d told Patsy about her. Had he meant any of them? Or had he merely been setting the stage, acting the bereaved and loving husband for her benefit? And, of course, his own. Like any true sociopath, Casey thought, giving the people what they needed to hear.

  The police have pretty much eliminated all their major suspects.

  “I want you to know how much these last two years have meant to me,” he’d told her. “You’ve been such a great wife, Casey, the best lover and companion any man could hope for.”

  Had he meant any of it? Casey wondered now. Had he been confessing his true feelings or merely grandstanding for Patsy’s benefit?

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there,” she’d heard him say—how many times?—to the nurse’s aide watching from the doorway.

  “Our time together has been the happiest time of my life,” he’d said. “It’s very important to me that you know that.”

  Why? Was this his way of telling her she shouldn’t take his attempt on her life too personally, that she shouldn’t consider his wanting her dead to be indicative of his dissatisfaction with her performance as a wife?

  How disappointed he must have been to learn she’d actually survived the hit-and-run, how stunned to discover that she could grow old in her coma, that she could, in his own words, “outlive them all.” And then, to find out she was not only improving daily but also getting stronger—what a bitter pill to swallow, especially when further tests determined she could actually hear.

  Did this information keep him up at night? Did he lie in bed wondering, as she did, what his next move would be, and when would be the best time to make it?

  “So, I guess you and Mrs. Marshall have been friends for a long time, huh?” Patsy’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Since college.”

  And yet I doubted you, too. What kind of friend does that make me?

  “Mr. Marshall said you used to be in business together.”

  “Really? When did he tell you that?”

  “After your last visit. I was saying how you and that other woman … what’s her name?”

  “Gail?”

  “Gail, right. Nice to have such good friends.”

  My only friends, really, Casey acknowledged. She had lots of acquaintances, to be sure, but her circle of close friends had grown smaller over the years, especially since her marriage to Warren. There was only so much time, as Janine had remarked earlier, and Warren had filled so much of it.

  “So what else did Mr. Marshall say about me?” Janine was asking.

  “That was pretty much it.”

  “Pretty much it,” Janine repeated absently. “So how does he seem to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How is he holding up?”

  “I think he’s amazing.”

  “Amazing, no less.”

  “I guess they were really crazy about each other, huh?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, you can just tell. The way he looks at her. The way he’s always holding her hand and whispering to her. It’s got to be so hard, don’t you think? I mean, one minute, you’re a happily married man, and the next minute, well …”

  “Life’s just full of unpleasant little surprises,” Janine said.

  Tell me about it.

  Poor Patsy, Casey thought, almost feeling sorry for the girl. Warren’s playing you, just like he played me. Of course, you’ve been playing him as well. Maybe the two of you deserve each other.

  “So, what kind of lawyer is he?” Patsy asked.

  “Why? You in some sort of trouble?”

  “Me? No. Of course not. I was just making conversation.”

  “Not really necessary,” Janine said.

  Patsy cleared her throat. “I guess I should go.”

  Casey felt Janine smile brightly in response. “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Well,” Patsy said, lingering nonetheless. “It was nice talking to you.”

  “Have a good day,” came the quick retort.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Marshall,” Patsy exclaimed suddenly, her voice lifting at least half an octave. “You’re late today.”

  So that’s why you’ve been hanging around.

  “I had a meeting with Casey’s doctors,” Warren said, approaching the bed and kissing Casey’s forehead. “Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling this morning?” Improving a little bit every day. Isn’t that what you’re afraid of?

  “Hi, Janine. How are things in Middlemarch?”

  “Marching steadily toward the middle,” Janine quipped.

  Patsy laughed. “Your friend’s very funny.”

  Casey felt every muscle in Janine’s body tense.

  “Yes, she is,” Warren said, a playful twinkle in his voice. “Casey looks pretty good today, don’t you think?”

  “Her trach’s healing up real nicely,” Patsy said. “Now that the ventilator’s gone and the tubes are all out, I’d say it’s just a matter of time.”

  And time is exactly what you don’t have, isn’t it, Warren? At least, not if I’m really on the road to a full recovery.

  “Time for what?” Janine asked.

  “I’m planning to take Casey home,” Warren answered.

  “Really? You think that’s a good idea?”

  “I think it’s a great idea. I can’t think of anything better than Casey in her own home, in her own room, surrounded by the things she loves.”

  If it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon stay where I am.

  “What do her doctors say?”

  “They agree that now that Casey’s injuries have healed and she’s able to breathe on her own, there’s no real reason to keep her here.”

  Except that once they release me, I’m as good as dead.

  “She still has a feeding tube,” Janine reminded him.

  “That won’t be a problem.”

  “She’s still unconscious,” she pressed.

  “And could be for some time.” A trace of impatience whisked through Warren’s voice. “But that’s irrelevant at this point.”

  Irrelevant?

  “Irrelevant?”

  “The doctors have done all they can here, and they desperately need the bed. It becomes a question of whether Casey goes into a rehab clinic or whether she comes home.”

  Don’t let him take me home. Please, Janine. He only wants to get me home so he can finish what he started.

  “But how are you going to take care of her? She’ll need nurses around the clock.”

  “She’ll have them,” Warren said. “I’ve also hired a full-time housekeeper and arranged for Jeremy, her physical therapist, to come to the house three times a week.”

  Not to mention the hit man he hired to kill me.

  “And I’ll be there,” Patsy chirped.

  “You?” Janine asked.

  “Casey’s going to need all the love and care she can get,” Warren said.

  “Well,” Janine said. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

  Not quite. He still hasn’t worked out the final details. He knows he can’t move too quickly, yet he can’t afford to wait too long. He can’t do anything that might arouse police suspicion, yet he can’t chance my waking up, not if I’ve understood anything of what I’ve heard. It’s a tricky situation, a delicate balancing act. He has to proceed very carefully.

  With malice aforethought.

  “So when is the big move scheduled to take place?”

  “As soon as all the necessary paperwork can be processed.” Warren leaned closer, brushed tender fingers across Casey’s cheek. “God willing, I might be able to take my wife home as early as tomorrow.”

  Casey felt his eyes boring into hers.

  “Isn’t that wonderful, Casey? You’re going home.”

  SEVENTEEN

  They came for her at ten o’clo
ck the next morning.

  “Well, this is a very big day for you,” one of the interns said, radiating the fake cheer they all seemed to adopt when talking to her, as if she were a not very bright three-year-old.

  Casey thought the voice belonged to Dr. Slotnick, but she couldn’t be sure. A new batch of interns had arrived only last week, and she hadn’t had time to attach the names to their respective voices. I need more time, she thought.

  “I bet you can’t wait to get out of here.”

  No, you’re wrong. I don’t want to go. Please, don’t let them take me. I need more time.

  But Casey knew it was too late for any last-minute reprieve. The arrangements had all been made. The finances had been dealt with, the releases signed. All morning, nurses and orderlies had been filing in to say good-bye and wish her well. Interns, residents, surgeons, and specialists alike had all dropped by to pay their respects.

  As if I’ve already died, Casey thought.

  “Good luck, Casey,” another intern offered, touching her arm.

  “Well, I think that’s everything,” Warren suddenly announced, bounding into the room. “Everything is signed, sealed, and ready to go. They should be here any minute with the stretcher, and then we can be off.”

  “You’ll keep us apprised of her progress?” Dr. Keith asked.

  Has anybody called the police? Does Detective Spinetti know I’m about to be released?

  “Of course,” Warren answered. “Every little improvement, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

  “If there are any problems at all, if at any point you feel you’ve taken on too much …”

  “I’ll get in touch with your office immediately.”

  “Lankenau Hospital in Wynnewood has a wonderful rehab center, or there’s Moss Rehab over on—”

  “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but thank you. Thank you all,” Warren said, his voice cracking. “You’ve been so kind to Casey, and to me, and words can never adequately express how grateful I am for everything Pennsylvania Hospital has done for us during this extremely difficult time.”

  Casey heard sniffling and realized people were fighting back tears.

  “But now it’s my turn to take care of Casey,” Warren continued. “Here’s hoping that next time I see any of you, my wife will be standing beside me, and she’ll be able to thank each and every one of you in person.”

  “Here’s hoping,” several voices agreed.

  “Amen,” someone added.

  Sounds like a full house, Casey thought, picturing the small crowd gathered around her bed. Was Patsy among the visitors? she wondered, the squeal of a stretcher racing down the hall, then banging up against the door to her room. The vibrations reverberated throughout Casey’s body, traveling up her spine and settling, like a dull cramp, in the pit of her stomach.

  “Well, here we are,” Warren said.

  “Make room, people,” Dr. Keith advised.

  Casey felt the air in the room stir as people moved out of the way, jockeying for new positions. She felt bodies hovering above her head, and sheets being pushed aside.

  “Be careful with her head,” someone cautioned, as strong hands gripped her ankles, hips, and shoulders.

  No. Don’t move me. Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.

  “On three. One … two … three.”

  Casey’s body slid effortlessly from the narrow bed that had been her home for the last three months onto the even narrower stretcher. In the next second, she was being strapped in and wheeled from the room.

  Maybe this is all a dream. Soon I’ll wake up and Drew will be sitting beside me watching The Price Is Right.

  “Good-bye, Casey,” she heard several of the nurses call out as her stretcher was pushed down the hall, the smell of the sick and the dying assaulting her nose, accompanying her to the elevator.

  “Good luck, Casey,” more voices offered.

  No, I don’t want to go. Please don’t let them take me.

  And suddenly everything stopped. Had they heard her? Had she actually spoken those words out loud?

  “These elevators take forever,” someone remarked.

  So, they were simply waiting for the elevator to arrive, she realized. No one had heard her. Casey listened to the sound of distant wires being pulled and tugged and knew an elevator was on its way. Her hearing had become so acute in the last weeks, and her sense of smell was getting stronger every day. She knew when she was being touched. She felt pain and discomfort, could tell the difference between hot and cold. She recognized when her head ached and her muscles needed massaging.

  Slowly, everything was coming back.

  She just needed more time.

  How much longer before her vision returned, before she regained the use of her arms and legs, before she was able to speak, before she could tell everyone what had really happened to her—that her beloved husband had hired a man to kill her, and that it was only a matter of time before he tried again?

  And this time, Casey understood with sickening certainty, he’d succeed.

  Unless she could find a way to get through to someone.

  Please. There has to be a way.

  “Here it is.”

  “Finally,” Warren said as the elevator doors opened and several people filed out.

  A man and a woman, Casey thought, judging by the cloying combination of aftershave and perfume she smelled as they brushed past. Had either of them noticed she was there, or had they instinctively turned their heads and averted their gaze, as most people did when confronted with their own tenuous hold on mortality? Were they even now whispering a little prayer—“Please let me stay healthy, don’t let anything like that ever happen to me”—as they hurried down the hall? Did they have any idea how lucky they were?

  Because in the end it was all about luck, Casey decided as the elevator doors closed behind her. Some people were lucky; some weren’t. It was that simple. Some people enjoyed a lifetime of good fortune, others were merely afforded a few fleeting moments. Still others … how did that song go—if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?

  She knew most people considered her one of the very fortunate few. Born into a life of great privilege, possessing both beauty and brains, she’d succeeded at everything she’d set her mind to. She had the Midas touch, as Janine had remarked on more than one occasion.

  Until one afternoon on an unseasonably warm day in late March when her luck had suddenly run out, and the gold reverted to sawdust, and the sky went from radiant blue to hopeless black.

  The elevator bounced to a tenuous halt on every floor, letting people in and out. “Sorry,” a man said as he lost his balance and fell against her stretcher. The apology was followed by a cough and a clearing of his throat. Casey imagined the man quickly righting his position and facing forward, gazing resolutely at the numbers above the doors, until the elevator came to its final, bumpy stop. He can’t bear to look at me, she thought, recalling Drew’s earlier remark. Where was her sister? Was she off on another mindless cruise? Or was she lying in some stranger’s bed, stoned out of her mind? Was she taking care of herself, of her daughter?

  “Okay, clear some room, please, everybody,” the orderly instructed as he pushed the stretcher out of the elevator and down the long corridor toward the exit. “Will you be riding with your wife in the ambulance, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Absolutely,” Warren replied, as a heavy blanket of heat and humidity descended on Casey’s head like a shroud.

  “Whew,” the orderly remarked. “It’s a hot one today.”

  “Over ninety,” another voice agreed.

  “We can take it from here,” yet another voice announced.

  Who were all these people? Casey wondered as her stretcher was transferred into the back of the ambulance. Warren was right beside her, his hand on top of hers.

  “Good luck with everything, Mr. Marshall,” the orderly said as he closed the ambulance door.

  “Thank you,” Warren
said, settling in beside Casey.

  A minute later, the ambulance was on its way.

  “We’re going up to the Main Line, is that correct?” the driver asked.

  The same voice that had commented on the temperature, Casey realized.

  “Nineteen twenty-three Old Gulph Road,” Warren elaborated. “The town of Rosemont. Just past Haverford. About a half-hour drive. It’s probably best to go north on Ninth Street, then make a left on Vine till you get to the Schuylkill Expressway.”

  “Let’s just hope it’s not the Schuylkill Parking Lot,” the second voice added, the one who’d told the orderly they could take it from here.

  So there were two men in the front seat, Casey concluded.

  “It shouldn’t be too bad this time of day,” Warren told them. “I’m Warren Marshall, by the way.”

  “Ricardo,” the driver said. “And this here’s Tyrone.”

  “Thanks for doing this, guys.”

  “No problem. It’s what we do. Sorry about your wife, man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How long’s she been in a coma?” Ricardo asked.

  “Since the end of March.”

  “Jeez. How’d it happen?”

  “Hit-and-run.”

  “Yeah? They catch the guy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You know what I think, man? I think guys like that should be shot.”

  “You think everybody should be shot,” Tyrone said.

  “Yeah, well, you start shooting a few of these people, I’m talking now about people who drive drunk, and people who leave the scene of an accident, you start hauling them out of their cars and shooting them on the spot, you’re gonna see a lot less people drinking and doing bad stuff before they get behind the wheel. They’re gonna think twice. You know what I’m saying?”

  “You really think people are thinking that clearly after they’ve had a few drinks?” Tyrone argued.

  “I’m saying they’re going to think twice before having that drink in the first place. If they know there’s a good chance they’re gonna get shot, they just might call a cab instead of deciding to drive home themselves. All it takes is a little careful planning.”

  A little careful planning.

  “You give people too much credit.”