by Ellen Hart
26
One of the nurses in the ICU brought in a recliner for Jane, telling her that the doctor had given Julia a sedative and that she would likely sleep for the next few hours. As Jane sat in the dimly lit room, her eyes fixed on the thin, pale woman in the hospital bed, it hurt her to see how many medical devices had been set up to monitor Julia’s condition. Nurses and staff were in and out, checking on her. Jane was grateful for the constant attention. Since she had nothing to do but wait and watch, the quiet gave her time to reflect on the last few weeks.
If Julia had agreed to become part of a clinical trial, something that carried with it a certain amount of risk, perhaps that was the reason she’d kept the details to herself. Jane ached for Julia to wake up. She wanted to talk to her, to understand what she was thinking and feeling, although Jane knew that sleeping through the worst of the vertigo was a mercy. Eventually, she fell asleep herself. She woke to the sound of a gurney being rolled past the door. Sitting up, she saw that Julia’s eyes were open.
“You’re awake,” said Jane, moving to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” said Julia. “I’m sorry I gave you such a scare.”
“Don’t worry about me. Do you remember what happened?”
With a thin, tired smile Julia said, “I do. When I saw Cordelia looking down at me with such concern on her face, not the usual hostility, I thought, for just a moment, that I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“You’re safe now. Lots of people looking after you.”
“Thanks for staying.”
“Where else would I be? Did the doctor talk to you? Do you know what’s going on?”
“You mean Reid? I’ve got so many doctors these days, it’s hard to keep track of them. Yeah, he said he thought I’d had a stroke. I guess my blood pressure was through the roof. I should have taken a reading myself before Carol drove me over to your restaurant. Sometimes it all gets to be too much.” She lifted her arm, but seeing that she was hooked up to an IV, she gave up. “Speaking of Carol, will you call her? Tell her I need to see her in the morning.”
“I don’t think they’ll let her into the ICU. And even if they did, you need to relax for the next few days, see what the doctors have to say.”
“Oh, all right. What time is it?”
Jane checked her watch. “Going on five in the morning.” It was still pitch dark outside. The sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours. “I’m so glad to see you awake. How’s the headache?”
“Not bad. I had a bunch of tests a few days ago. The results should be back soon.”
“Julia?” Jane bent close and spoke more softly. “Why do you keep me in the dark about your health? I only get a few comments here and there. Never the full story.”
“How much do you want to know? I mean, really.”
Jane was taken aback. “I want to know everything.”
“Do you? I love you, Jane. So much. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’d invite me into your home so I wouldn’t have to go through this alone. But—” She turned her face away. “I have to stay realistic. Otherwise it hurts too much.”
Two nurses and a woman in a white lab coat came into the room. “Julia Martinsen?” said one of the nurses. “We’re here to take you down for tests.”
“This early?” said Jane.
“We start early around here,” said the other nurse, unhooking the monitors and preparing Julia’s bed for the transfer.
“How long will it take?” asked Jane, stepping back as the first nurse bent over to release the breaks on the wheels.
“Hard to say,” said the woman in the white coat. “At least a few hours.”
“You go,” said Julia.
“No, I’m staying.”
“Go home. Take a shower. Get some rest. Come back later if you want.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m going to be busy. No use hanging out in an empty room.”
Jane was deeply conflicted. If there ever was a time when saying “I love you,” seemed important, it was now. And yet she resisted. She knew very well what Julia wanted, and yet she also knew that she wasn’t able to give it. She’d set some important boundaries for herself before Julia had moved in, rules she was determined to keep. Their difficult history together made it impossible for Jane to act in any other way. Even so, the emotion of the moment threatened to overwhelm her.
Moving up to the bed, she bent to give Julia a kiss. “Good luck with the tests. I’ll see you soon.”
Julia kept her gaze on Jane as she was wheeled out, her beautiful blue eyes big and sad and serious. For someone so fearsomely contained, it was an admission of sorts, as clear as it would ever be, of need.
* * *
Because she didn’t have to take care of her dogs, Jane decided to return to the Skarsvold place. Exhaustion was beginning to overtake her as she pulled her Mini up to the curb, hoping to find a spot that was fairly clear of snow. The plows had been through, although, because a few cars hadn’t been moved along Cumberland Avenue, they hadn’t been able to clear the street curb to curb. As the winter progressed, and the police got their act together, those cars would be ticketed and towed to impound lots.
Climbing up a mound of snow on the boulevard, Jane slid down the other side and headed for the front walk. She was startled when she noticed Lena’s wheelchair on the front porch. As she came closer, she saw a body lying facedown in the snow.
Rushing now, Jane skidded to a stop next to Lena, feeling for a pulse. “Can you hear me? Lena?” She was alive, though only barely. The smell of alcohol wafting off her body was so strong, it was almost as if she’d bathed in a tub of bourbon.
Jane fumbled for her cell phone and called 911. As she spoke, she took in the scene, noticing that the snow around her had been disturbed. Was it possible that Lena had somehow fallen off the porch and crawled around, trying to get back up?
“Yes, she’s breathing,” said Jane, responding to the 911 operator’s question. She bent closer. “Her skin is ice cold.”
Jane had no idea how long Lena had been lying in the snow and feared that hypothermia had set in. “She’s not wearing a coat or gloves. Just a thin sweater, jeans, and bedroom slippers. No socks. And it smells like she’s been drinking.”
The 911 operator said she was sending an ambulance. “Does she seem injured?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to tell.”
The operator said not to move her, just in case she’d injured her spine, but to cover her with something warm.
As soon as she was done talking, Jane scrambled to her feet and raced back to her car. She found the heavy wool blanket she kept in the trunk as part of a winter survival kit. Returning to Lena, she covered her up, tucking the folds under her torso, the most critical part of her body to rewarm. Next, she took off her wool peacoat and placed it over Lena’s upper back and head.
And then she waited. It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive.
“Be real gentle with her,” said one of the paramedics as they began checking her vitals.
As soon as Jane was sure the two men had the situation well in hand, she rushed up the steps to the front door, letting herself in with her key. The smell of the evening’s wood fire still lingered in the air. Charging up the stairs, she knocked on Eleanor’s door. Because Eleanor was hard of hearing Jane figured she might actually have to go into the room to wake her. Another few seconds went by before the door was finally drawn back.
Tying her bathrobe, Eleanor peered quizzically at Jane. “It’s awfully early. Is something wrong?”
Without her glasses, Eleanor seemed older and more vulnerable. “It’s Lena. I just got home. When I came up the walk, I found her in the front yard, facedown in the snow.”
She appeared confused. “Lena, you say? Wait, let me get my hearing aids.” She crossed to her nightstand, sat down on the bed and spent a few seconds fitting one in each ear. “Now,” she said, “say that again.” Hearing Jane’s wo
rds more clearly this time, her face lost all expression. Standing up, she said, “I suppose I should go make something hot for her to drink. Do you think you can help her into the house?”
“She’s unconscious,” said Jane. “I called 911. The ambulance just arrived.”
Looking dazed, Eleanor sat back down on the bed. “Oh my,” she whispered. “I need to call Iver. He should be here.” Glancing up, she asked, “Was she still … breathing?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “Do you have any idea how long she might have been out there?”
Eleanor’s eyes roamed the room. “I go to bed early. Usually by ten. I came up to read last night around eight, so I have no idea. She’s back to drinking again. She stopped for many years. I know this may sound cold, but … watching her kill herself with booze … it repulses me.” Folding her hands together in her lap, she said, “I’ll go down and talk to the paramedics. Are the police here, too?”
“Not yet.”
“I wonder … could you make a pot of coffee? Everyone will be chilled to the bone.”
“Of course.”
“Will this nightmare never end?” she asked, searching Jane’s face as if she might find an answer there. Slipping on her glasses, she hesitated for another moment, perhaps steeling herself for what was to come, then rose. She paused as she passed Jane. “Finding Lena couldn’t have been easy for you. If you want, I’ll gladly give you back the rent you paid for the week.”
“Go take care of your sister,” said Jane, squeezing Eleanor’s hand. “I’ll get that coffee going.”
After watching Eleanor disappear down stairs, Jane took a moment to survey the bedroom. Nothing stood out or seemed to indicate anything untoward. On the nightstand by the bed lay an open copy of Boswell’s The Life of Samuel Johnson. Next to that was an empty coffee mug. Everything looked neat. The curtains were pulled. Was it possible that Lena had fallen off the porch? Or was it an attempted suicide? After what Jane had heard pass between the two sisters about the bones in the garage, she would’ve been naïve to think that suicide was a foregone conclusion. Depending on what that truth was, Lena’s desire, or perhaps even her determination, to come clean to the police might have presented Eleanor with a difficult choice. Eleanor or Iver. Or even Frank. But Jane was getting ahead of herself. Hopefully, it was nothing more than a bad accident and Lena would recover.
On her way back downstairs to make the coffee, Jane decided to take a detour into Lena’s bedroom. Still wearing her leather gloves, she moved silently through the dining room and drew back the French doors to the sunroom. She used the flashlight app on her phone to illuminate the darkness.
The room was larger than she’d expected, with a twin bed in one corner, and a recliner next to a table with a lamp, some pills bottles, an ashtray, and an open package of cigarettes, as well as a bunch of dirty dishes. On the floor in front of the recliner was an empty bottle of Canadian Club resting on its side. Books and magazines were scattered here and there. A cheap stereo system with bookshelf speakers took up the entire top of an old dresser. The top drawer was open, revealing dozens and dozens of music CDs. Ancient rock band posters filled the walls. Across from the bed was a bookcase and a black Ikea wardrobe.
Jane was most interested in Lena’s laptop, which was propped against the recliner. Lifting it up onto the table, she opened the cover. Lena’s Facebook homepage popped up. Jane had already tried to view it from her own computer, but Lena didn’t allow just anyone to see her posts. Because Jane wanted to maintain her anonymity while staying at the house, she hadn’t sent a friend request.
Scrolling down the page, she saw that Lena’s posts were mostly about music, haunted houses, and politics, with an occasional “share” of something raunchy or snidely humorous. She appeared to be big on attitude, but short on personal disclosures, anything that might indicate her state of mind.
Lena had 154 friends. No photos of herself, not even the profile picture. One woman in particular seemed to post more than anyone else. Karen Ritter. The photo was of a middle-aged woman with straight, dark shoulder-length hair and squarish dark-rimmed glasses. Jane snapped a photo of the page, then turned around and began to take pictures of the room. She was about to examine the contents of the closet when she heard the floor outside the sunroom give an ominous creak.
Quentin Henneberry stood in the doorway, watching her. “What are you doing?” he asked mildly.
Jane was flooded with panic. She had no good reason for taking pictures of Lena’s room. As she thrashed around in her mind for something to say, it struck her that it was odd that he was up and fully dressed as such an early hour.
“Didn’t you hear the siren?” she asked.
“What siren? I just came up from the basement.”
Outside, the sound of another siren approached the house. “You’re up awfully early,” she said.
“The hours before sunrise are always the most interesting, don’t you agree?” He turned as the siren grew louder. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Lena,” said Jane. “She’s outside in the snow, unconscious.”
He didn’t move or respond in any way.
“Look, Eleanor asked me to make coffee.” As she crossed the space between them, he stepped out of her way, but only at the last second.
Odd guy, she mused as she entered the kitchen and switched on the light. With so much already on her mind, she let the thought pass.
27
The TV across from the kitchen island droned on. Frank tuned it out as he sat staring into his cup of coffee. He had no interest in what passed for entertainment at such an early hour. If pressed on why he always kept the TV on when he was home, he would have refused to explain it. The truth, however, was simple. Silence oppressed him, even frightened him a little. He wasn’t stupid. He knew it was just a soulless box of electronics buzzing away, and yet without the company it provided, he would have felt profoundly alone. The TV distracted him from himself. It was a crutch and Frank was all for crutches.
He was so lost in thought that when Wendy came in, he didn’t hear her at first. Only when she stepped to the opposite side of the island and waved a hand in front of his face did he look up. “Oh. Um, hi.”
“Hi.”
“There’s a pot of fresh coffee.”
“I can see that.” She settled her elbows on the counter, rested her head in her hands, and continued to stare at him.
“What?”
“Where were you in the middle of the night?”
“Huh?”
“I woke up. You weren’t in bed.”
“I was probably in the bathroom.”
“Nope. I checked that. And I checked the garage. Your car was gone.”
Wendy’s wiry brown hair was matted and tangled from sleep. And she hadn’t brushed her teeth. Frank was disgusted by unbrushed teeth. “I needed some air.”
“Why not simply stand on the front steps and breathe deeply?”
“What is this? A CIA interrogation?”
“It just seems kind of weird for you to take off in the middle of the night. You’ve never done it before.”
“Are you trying to make me mad, Wendy? Do you want a repeat of the other night?”
She straightened up. “What’s wrong with you? What happened to the man I married?”
He shoved his coffee away. “He’s right here. I’m the same guy. You just know me better now.”
She poured herself a cup, never turning her back on him. She was right to be afraid. He wasn’t safe to be around.
“Honey, you’re scaring me,” she said.
“I’m sorry.”
She took a sip, studying him over the rim of the cup. After a few seconds, her eyes softened and she said, “I love you, Frank. You mean everything to me. Don’t you know you’re my hero?”
In one lightning-swift movement, he shot to his feet and hurled his stool across the room. “Don’t you ever say that word again, Wendy. I’m nobody’s hero. I hate that word,” he screamed, fe
eling his face flush.
She backed away, letting the mug crash to the floor, protecting her head with her forearms.
“Goddamnit,” he yelled. “Why do you always antagonize me? Is it your mission in life to piss me off?” He stood next to the island, clenching and unclenching his fists.
This time, she rushed to the bedroom and locked the door.
“Shit, shit shit,” he shouted. Grabbing his car keys and his coat, he headed out the kitchen door into the garage. If he stayed another second, he was afraid he’d do something he couldn’t take back.
* * *
Butch paused on the sidewalk and watched the paramedics work on Lena. He’d been asleep on the futon couch in his living room when the sound of a siren woke him. Strobe lights flashed through the picture window, throwing bursts of red and blue light against the walls. Novak was already outside when Butch approached him and nodded to the ambulance.
“Yo,” said Novak. “It’s Lena. Someone found her unconscious in the snow.”
“Jesus,” whispered Butch. “Is she—”
“She’s alive. I got a friend who works as a paramedic in Fargo.” He stamped his feet to keep them warm. “Nobody’s ever considered dead until they’re warm and dead.”
One of the police officers ambled toward them. “Morning, gentlemen.”
“Morning,” said Novak.
“You guys live around here?”
“Me, I live over there.” Novak pointed to his house across the street. “I’m the block captain. If I can do anything to assist, just let me know.”
“I live next door,” said Butch.
The officer took in the comments. “You know the lady?”
“We both do,” said Novak. “Not well, but … like good neighbors. I’ll say this much. She was a drinker. Always seemed kind of depressed to me.”