I can’t save them if I’m back staying in a hospital ward.
53
Danny
None of my husbands would allow this. They would come get me and rescue me from Trang.
But the rescue won’t come, because Trang and I are inseparable.
Here is how it works.
Trang sits on the cold toilet ring and waits for the suppository to melt. She imagines it turning waxy in her anus and the capillaries flooding with narcotic to transform her bloodstream into a fire hose of pain relief in her brain.
She insists she's a psychiatric nurse and she has self-diagnosed her pain. I know the pain is psychosexual, laid down long ago in her personal history by hundreds of unwanted men. I know Trang and I know what's happening is a snowball of psychosexual images and incidents that roll through her brain, growing, dividing as in mitosis, overwhelming her with memories that ache. Frightened at what she's feeling. she stands up from the toilet, and, like a skeleton freed from its articular ligaments, immediately collapses.
It's the thud of skull bone against wood floor, a ripe thud like a dropped watermelon, which shuts my eyes.
Where my face has connected with the oak floor a fissure has opened, from which seeps a small but furious flow, as if the blood is relieved to be escaping, finally, the crazy overlord it has served. Soon there is a growing pool beneath my face. It spreads across the floor in the shape of a summer squash. Trang moans in her sleep, a soft moan. The sound issues from the good part of Trang, the side people like, the polite and humble side. She blinks and one eye opens while one stays stuck shut. Sticky me, she thinks. Her cycloptic gaze fastens on the first square of Charmin, brushing the floor with its distended length. She closes the eye. Nothing.
"Trang?" I call again. "Are you all right?" She's very likely playing the I don't hear you game—she has achieved Master level.
When I find myself, I am on my back. One eye open and one eye stuck shut behind blood muck. I begin to move and then think better of it. "Jesus!" I shout. "What the fuck?" My mind races. Am I dead? Will it kill me too? If a personality dies, do I die too?
My phone is lying beside me on the floor. I slide it over and look at myself. Myself as delivered back by Trang.
I am completely nude. What will 911 think about that? This is my thinking as I punch it in the phone. Is this a time for dignity? I realize that my thoughts are outrageous and I take my pulse. Slow down, slow down. I tell the dispatcher my address. "Down and conscious. My name is Danny. How long will it take them? Should I move?" I listen to the operator's instructions. Five minutes/no/stay calm, Danny.
Then I hear the siren. It grows louder, its guidance system homing in on my house, slowing, stopping outside, doors opening and slamming shut, hurried footsteps, knocking. They force the door open and I hear them coming.
Dressed in yellow fire suits and wearing black rubber boots they stream through the door and head straight back. They know they won't miss us if they just keep coming straight back. They will probably have questions for us.
The woman in the yellow coveralls turns her head up, the stethoscope plugged in her ears. “Do you use drugs?”
I moan. ”Yes. She's a nurse. She brings stuff home."
"Do you have any of those you can turn over to us?"
"I found 150 Oxycontin under the mattress when I made the bed yesterday. I counted them into the toilet."
"Were they your prescription?"
"She said they were a dead guy's. She said she had cleaned up after he was taken away. She brought them home by mistake."
"And you hid them under the mattress by mistake?"
"Hey," I say, “the pills are her thing. She hid them."
"If you say."
"Ninety over sixty," the man says. He has huge shoulders and small, delicate hands. He seems not to notice we are nude, as he pumps the BP cuff a second time. "She's got a load of something onboard," he says to the woman.
"Naloxone?"
"Call it in and clear it. But I'd say yes."
"Okay, ma'am, we're going to the ER."
At the hospital they wheel me into a room which, with its examination bed and its array of colored lights and blinking circuitry, would make the NSA jealous. And there I am: propped up against two pillows, a tube running into the back of her hand. A flock of butterfly bandages climb the head wound. I check my watch. Forty minutes since I called 911.
The resident stands up from my heart sounds. He looks down at me.
“You’ll be fine," he says.
"What happened?"
"Suppository."
"I don't know what that means."
The resident is young. And direct. “You stuck a drug up your butt. It knocked you out. We've administered a very common OD cocktail, irrigated your anus, and you’re as good as new."
I feel anything but good and new to me.
"Neurology looks good. Maybe yes, maybe no on the cat scan. Sue me if you need to—you can have my student loans. You will be kept overnight for observation. We do that with all closed head injuries of this severity. But tomorrow morning you’re good to go.”
Trang says to the nurse. "Can I have OJ? I haven't had my Vitamin C today."
"I'll be right back," the nurse chirps. "With the juice."
She leaves, the doctor right behind.
"You should have some OJ too," Trang says. She speaks directly to me. It is the first time ever. Ever!
"You're right, OJ would be good,“ I tell her.
"It would be good for your blood sugar."
"Yes."
"We need to rest. You’ve got work tomorrow."
"I wonder if she would bring me OJ too?"
"I'm sure she will. Just ask."
"I will."
I have to admit, she's right about the blood sugar. We both need to smooth out, to chill, to get ready for tomorrow. Relief floods over me. I'm very glad she's going to be all right. Which means I’m all right, too.
"I've been having an affair at work,” she says, speaking to me like we’re old friends.
"Bi or hetero?"
"Bi."
"We can talk about it later. Right now, let's make sure you're okay."
"There's nothing to talk about. She broke it off with me."
"I figured it was something like that which set you off."
Her head slumps back on the pillow. "It was painful. Excruciating."
"So you medicated."
"I did."
"That's what you do."
"I know. My shoulder hurts where I fell. Should I tell them?"
"Definitely. They might want films."
The OJ arrives. One is enough now.
So I sit in the bed and trace my face with my finger. I am careful to avoid the wound. It reminds me of football laces.
“Now,” she says. "We're even."
She's referring to Michael. I've been married to Michael for many years, and all morning she's been in a pique over last night when Michael made love to me.
They're all jealous of Michael.
Every last one of them.
54
Michael
"Michael," says Esley Risson, the Chief Legal Counsel of the hospital, "our records show that Dania spoke of a man named Gunnar Mendelssohn many times. Do you know this man?"
"I don't. I mean, I've heard of him through Danny, but I never met him. He supposedly met Danny at the Day Preston law firm here in Chicago and extended an invitation to us to enjoy a night at the Palmer House hotel. But then he used Danny’s credit card to pay for us. That’s a whole other story. We showed up and that's when Danny went missing. I've looked high and low for the man, my investigator has spent hundreds of hours looking for him, the FBI has been all over it, even Interpol has looked around. So far nothing. Nor can we find any records that the man was ever born, ever went to school or to a doctor or dentist in the Free World—nothing shows up."
"Wow."
"But one thing's for sure. He sure as hell wasn't a lawyer wor
king at the Day firm like he supposedly told Danny he was. He isn't an American lawyer in any state, much less in Chicago."
"What about Jana Emerich?"
"What about him? Well, he did sexually assault my wife but that was several years ago. That assault resulted in our son being born to us."
"My goodness. I'm sure that was difficult."
"Oh, unbelievable. In fact, Danny was still struggling with it at the time she disappeared."
"Well, Detective Tingo, who has been working up—"
"Yes, I've spoken with him before, too."
"He tells us that he spoke with your wife in a corporate hotel in Schaumburg just days ago."
I am shocked. Why didn't he call me and let me know? Did she ask him not to? Then who the hell is the guy working for? He knows what's going on—Danny is sick and needs me now of all people. He should have been in touch with me immediately.
"Can you give me some details about that? Name of hotel and location?"
"That's an ongoing hospital investigation related to the release of your wife to Jana Emerich and her escape from her ward. I'm sorry but we cannot give that out. I suggest you contact Detective Tingo directly, Mr. Gresham, as he’s investigating the same Jana Emerich for running her down in his car.”
"Roger that. I'm going to do that very thing just as soon as we hang up. Are we done here?"
"For now, yes."
"Well, you won't give me details, so please don't bother calling me again unless it's going to be a two-way street. I have nothing more to add."
"But if you find your wife you'll be bringing her back down here?"
"Doubtful. In fact, no, I won't. She'll be treated up here. She already has a psychologist here."
"Can I have that person's name?"
"No. Hell, no."
"Then we're done here."
"Goodbye, Mr. Risson."
Three minutes later I have Detective Tingo on the line.
"You found her?" I ask.
"I found her."
"And you didn't call me?"
"No. She doesn't want to see you at this point. I kept my promise to her and didn't notify you, Mr. Gresham. I'm terribly sorry, but that's just how it is."
"Detective, I'm worried for my wife. She needs help. She needs hospitalization right now."
"Tomorrow morning I'll be meeting her. I'll be asking her to allow me to take her to the hospital. If that in fact happens, then I'll notify you, sir."
"That's it?"
"Until then, yes."
We hang up.
55
Danny
They come and change the dressing on my head. Where I fell in the bathroom was put back together with butterfly bandages but they kept me overnight for observation because it was a closed head injury. I haven't told them about my shoulder, which is killing me where I fell. They would do more tests if I tell them—so I'm keeping quiet. It is dangerous when Trang has my body. Bad things can happen, like the suppository and the fall on the bathroom floor.
Then I take a taxi home and I am resting comfortably for the next several hours. Then, who should come to visit me but detective Tingo. My old friend, Tingo. We head out for Denny's Restaurant.
Detective Tingo has just told me that Nurse Trang was found dead. He thinks it happened at the hospital where I was staying. No, I'm thinking it happened at my condo.
But I don't disagree with him.
We're eating at Denny's. Dr. Thomas is nowhere to be seen. It's Friday morning, quarter past nine, and we've just ordered our Grand Slams. Mine with orange juice, his with V-8.
"She was so young," I say wistfully. Her death has made me very sad. And more determined than ever to bring Jana to justice.
Detective Tingo looks at me. "She was in her forties. She'd been a nurse almost twenty years."
I laugh. "She wasn't a nurse, silly man. She was a hooker."
He looks at me again. This time it's a hard look and I am reminded of my first husband who cheated on me. He used to give me the same kind of blistering look whenever I challenged his version of reality by telling him I knew he was having an affair. He thought that by shooting arrows at me with his eyes he could make the affair go away. Well, that's Tingo's look. His reality is better than mine, his look says.
"She was a nurse, Danny. I want you to come with me now, back to the hospital. They need to talk to you about this."
Our breakfasts arrive. Food is spread two plates deep across our table: eggs, ham, pancakes, potatoes, water glasses, juice, coffee, toast, half-and-half tubs and butter plates. We are definitely not leaving here hungry.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Our waitress shows me the way, when I get a little disoriented and forget exactly where I am.
"Right through there, hon," she tells me. "Do you need me to come with you?"
"No, no, no, I'll be fine. I've been in the hospital and I'm a little weak, that's all."
"I'm going to wait here for you."
"Suit yourself, but there's really no need."
In the bathroom I find an empty stall and relieve my bladder. There is pornography scratched into the stall door on my side. FOR A GOOD TIME AND A GREAT SUCK CALL—
I wipe and retrieve my jeans from the floor. I hate it when they get down around my ankles in a public restroom. Ugh!
Then I head back to our booth.
And there I find that Tingo has left and his plates and drinks have been cleared away.
I call our waitress over.
"Miss, do you know where my friend went?"
"Who?"
"The man I was sitting with."
"Hon, there wasn't anyone with you. You've been alone since you came in. Do you want me to call someone?"
"I want to see my ticket. There will be two Grand Slams on there."
She whips out her checks and flips back two pages. She smiles and holds it out for me to read.
"Table eight—that's you. See where it says one guest? And one Grand Slam. You've been here alone all morning, sweetheart."
"What time did I come in?"
"Well, that's just it. You've had my table tied up a good hour now. I think I need to call someone for you."
"Call my husband. Michael Gresham."
"Do you have his number?"
"He's a lawyer here in Chicago. He's in the book."
"Spell that."
I spell our last name.
It is time for Michael to come help me with Jana.
I cannot do it alone anymore.
56
Michael
How did we get here? What happened to my wife?
The doctors say it was related in large measure to the trauma of giving birth to a child conceived by sexual assault. Danny just couldn't handle it. But she was always very vague about much of her early years as a young woman. I’ve always had my suspicions that she was maybe quite loose, but I’ve never forced the question with her. Still, her sexual skills imply wide experience.
So I told the doctors only what I knew to be a fact.
I remember when things boiled over at the counselor's office. Her name was Betty Ingram and she held a Ph.D. in clinical psychology from Notre Dame. A good Catholic lass. What happened pushed Betty over the clinical edge. Danny had imploded.
"Why do you think you have these feelings about your son, Danny?" Dr. Ingram asked at the outset.
Danny's eyes filled with tears. They rolled down her cheeks. Her body was shuddering.
"His father raped me. Held me down and raped me while he laughed and called me the filthiest names I've ever heard. Imagine nine months of that reminder growing in your belly. That's what I went through. And all the time, I'm afraid to mention a word of it to Michael, who's acting like all is well and aren't we the happy couple, expecting our second child. He even took me to Babies R Us three times during that pregnancy. Three times! 'Remember, we're buying blue,' he told me with all this huge fucking excitement. Buying blue! And I was dying and couldn't tell him because you can't tel
l Michael stuff that might disagree with his precious Church. I call bullshit on the Church for making me carry Mikey!"
"Michael? Do you want to respond to that?"
Danny's eyes were fixed on a far point in the room but the doctor's eyes locked on mine. She was telling me something with her hard stare, but I missed it completely.
"I just want to say I'm sorry. If I hadn't been so crazy by the whole thing, we could have gone to see our priest and—"
Danny leapt up from the couch and stalked angrily around the room, spewing curse words and slapping her own face with her open hand. "That's how much I wanted to see a goddam priest!" she wailed. "Just what the fuck I needed to do—see a goddam priest! Another man to tell me what to do with my body! What the fuck?"
"Please, Danny, let's all remain in our seats and let's take a deep breath. I know this is difficult."
"Difficult? Is that what you call this?" Danny stepped right into the doctor's space. The woman was sitting in her executive chair, swung around from her desk, facing us. Danny was inches from her, hands on her knees, shouting into the woman's face. "Fuck difficult! This is my life we're talking about! This is impossible! Do you understand me? My husband and his priest and this goddam church have ruined my life! Now you're trying to minimize what's happened to me by calling it 'difficult.' Well fuck you, lady and—" turning to me now, "fuck you too, Michael!"
"Honey—" I began.
"Stop! Whatever you're about to say is wrong! Just totally wrong, wrong, wrong! I hate what Jana did to me. And I hate his son because of him! And all the words that have ever been said in this room aren't going to fix that. It's over. I'm giving him up. Let's put him up for adoption, Michael. Then we can watch me slowly go insane over that!"
"Danny, I'm thinking maybe you need to go back to your psychiatrist for a second look at meds. Does that make sense? Something to help make it through this hard time?"
Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series) Page 21