The Night Visitor

by Dianne Emley

  She closely peered at the portrait. Some of the paint was worn away. Danny must have sat here touching it over and over. Wore it clean away.

  Danny’s bicycle wasn’t there. She hadn’t seen him leave the house yesterday, but he’d probably ridden his bike like he usually did. Did he ride it to the party at the Tates’ house? She hoped it hadn’t been stolen by now. One of her kids could use that bike. She should put in a call to the police. She should go see if she could find it. She should do a million things.

  She didn’t move. Her legs felt leaden.

  Detective Auburn had asked her about the things the police had found in the garage. He’d showed her a partially empty box of bullets. She’d shrugged. She didn’t know anything about Danny having a gun or bullets. Other items were even more mystifying. Auburn had showed her a nearly empty jumbo bottle of store-brand ibuprofen. There were prescription bottles of antibiotics, well past their expiration dates. Some had been prescribed for other members of the family for different maladies. They hadn’t finished all the pills, and Sylvia had kept them in the back of the medicine cabinet. There was an almost-full bottle prescribed for someone Sylvia didn’t know. There were several empty tubes and a nearly full one of antiseptic cream, a roll of adhesive tape, empty tape containers in the trash, boxes of large gauze squares, and a Baggie with Vicodin tablets. In a wastebasket, the police had found blood-soaked gauze pads with strips of adhesive attached.

  Auburn had asked her, “Was Danny injured?”

  She’d blinked at the gory bandages and again shrugged, unable to say a thing. She wasn’t about to tell the police how crazy her brother had become, that he’d said he had some kind of connection to his comatose brother, Junior, that they communicated in some weird way. That Junior showed him images, like strange movies Danny had to interpret, and that Junior conveyed emotions too. That Junior reached out because he was dying and wanted Danny to help him prove that he didn’t murder Anya Langtry and shoot himself. That Junior relived that night in Five Points over and over, that it was Junior’s nightmare, and it had become Danny’s nightmare. Sylvia didn’t believe it. Danny had lost his mind and that was that.

  She haltingly made her way to a cabinet. The door was ajar. She pulled it open and shined the flashlight beam inside. The shelves were bare except for another large bottle of ibuprofen shoved into a corner. She reached to move it to the front. She was about to close the cabinet door but instead, with a swoop of her arm and an angry shout, she batted the bottle of pills. The loose cap popped off, and the tablets pinged off the concrete floor and bounced against the unfinished tar-paper-and-plank walls.

  Chiclets leaped from the bed and ran into a corner, where he eyed Sylvia, his tail tucked between his legs.

  Sylvia looked at the pills strewn across the floor. “Damn you, Danny. Damn you to hell.”

  21

  Rory writhed in the hospital bed, tugging at the restraints that bound her wrists. Her eyes were half open and shifted restlessly.

  “Sun…”

  Tom was asleep in a chair. Rory’s stirrings didn’t wake him.

  “Angel…”

  She closed her eyes and let out a long sigh, the edges of her lips turning up. Her body quieted as she was drawn deeper into the images in her mind.

  Cyan.

  Pearl.

  Marigold.

  Blue.

  Angel.

  Tom awakened with a start, jolting forward in the Naugahyde recliner, sending the brief he’d been reading scuttling to the floor. He didn’t know where he was, but a quick, horrible glance around brought everything back.

  A burly man wearing shoes with cushioned soles and a light blue uniform moved silently as he attended to Rory.

  Tom rubbed his face, bristly with a fresh beard, and swallowed dryly.

  “Good morning. I’m Brad, Rory’s day nurse.” He had a round, friendly face.

  “Good morning.” Tom’s voice was thick. He cleared his throat. “I’m Tom. Rory’s fiancé.”

  “Looks like you got a little rest.”

  “It’s after ten?” Tom looked at the wall clock.

  “Sure is.”

  Tom had changed from his tuxedo and put on khakis and a golf shirt from a bag in his car trunk, which he’d packed to spend the night at Rory’s after the ball. They would have been walking from her Manhattan Beach condo to the omelet shop about now, joining the line that would have already formed down the sidewalk, holding hands in the morning fog. There would have been people in line they knew—there always were—and they would have both been hoping, without saying it, that they’d be able to duck invitations to join others at their tables. They would have been tired and talked out from the previous night and eager to sit quietly, just the two of them. They would have already discussed the ball when they’d arrived at her home in the wee hours of the morning. Too wound up to sleep, they would have roamed around her condo, windows and doors thrown open to let in the ocean breeze, holding mugs of Sleepytime tea, trying to power down.

  After breakfast, they would have gone down to the sand. She’d have her tablet to read the newspapers and blogs she kept up with. He’d have the thick biography of John Adams he was reading—no electronic books for him. They would just float, as she liked to say. Float to wherever the day took them.

  In the early afternoon, when Rory’s fair skin couldn’t take more sun, they would have retreated to the balcony of her condo, where there was the best glimpse of breaking waves. Her ocean peek, she called it. They’d have had a snack and after would have thrown a sheet over her bed coverings and made love that was flavored with sweat, suntan lotion, and salt water.

  That’s what they would have done.

  He and Rory both felt that this was a magic period in their lives. Few responsibilities. No children…yet. Their parents were in good health. Their careers were on the upswing. They both loved their jobs. Later, things would get more complicated in some ways and more fulfilling in others. But that was life. They knew that in the future they’d remember these days as simple, innocent, and carefree. They were embarking upon the adventure of their lives, together.

  A sense of abandonment and helplessness stabbed Tom’s heart. Tears unexpectedly sprang to his eyes. He blinked them back as he climbed from the chair, his aching muscles chasing the emotions away. He composed himself before going to Rory’s bedside.

  With a ripping sound, Brad pulled open the Velcro strap on one of the cloth restraints around Rory’s wrist. “She’s calmer now, but I still want someone to watch her to make sure she doesn’t pull out that IV. Will you be here?”

  “Yes. Me or her mom or her aunt, Donna.” Tom hadn’t been fully aware of the extent of the animosity between Evelyn and Donna, Evelyn’s only sibling. When Donna got word that Evelyn was planning on sending her servants to sit with Rory, Donna called Evelyn and told her that she’d take the overnight shift and that it wasn’t open to discussion. It was the first time the sisters had spoken to each other in years.

  Tom smoothed Rory’s hair, which was tangled on the pillow. It was still tacky with hairspray. He used to love to stroke Rory’s hair, especially when it was freshly washed and as smooth and cool as silk. He dropped his hand, the act of intimacy disturbing him. He hadn’t yet accepted that this was Rory. It was as if a poorly functioning changeling had taken her place.

  Brad said, “We have waterless shampoo.”

  “Her mother will be by. She’s good at things like that.” Tom held on to the bed rail and looked at Rory.

  “Th’angel,” she said. Her eyes were closed.

  “You might want to touch her and talk to her,” Brad said. “Let her know you’re here.”

  Tom took Rory’s hand. Her skin was cool. Her fingers closed around his.

  “I wonder if she knows it’s me.”

  “She very well may.”

  “Hey, Ro.” Tom’s voice was businesslike. “How are you?” He ran his thumb over hers.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him
with fear. She pulled her arm back. “No.”

  Tom released her hand and stood straight. She kept fearfully looking at him until her eyelids drifted closed.

  Brad had finished his work. “Keep trying. She’ll recognize you.”

  Tom wished he could believe it. He was still haunted by Rory’s strange behavior yesterday. It was as if she were being drawn away, lured even, to…where?

  After Brad left, Tom felt less inhibited. He leaned over the bed, held Rory’s hand, and stroked her cheek with his other hand. “Rory, it’s me. It’s Tom. I love you, Rory.”

  At first, she tried to pull away, but then she relaxed. Her eyes fluttered open to meet his then closed again.

  “This can’t be love because I feel so fine…” he sang the tune she’d sung to him the previous night.

  She smiled and hummed a few notes.

  “That’s right, baby.” Tears filled his eyes. “That’s right.”

  She frowned, her eyes still closed. “Doves loose.”

  Her words sent a shockwave through him, supplanting his burst of hopefulness with fear. Whatever it was still had a grip on her. He became desperate to pull her back. “Rory.” He clutched her hand more tightly as he leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Stay here with me.”

  She was still frowning.

  “Wake up, Rory. I love you.” His voice hitched. “I don’t know how I’d go on without you.”

  The furrows in her brow softened. Her lips parted and her expression became dreamy.

  He pressed her hand against his face and sighed with relief. “I love you, Rory.”

  Her eyes remained closed, and she smiled.

  His heart soared. He kissed her palm.

  She said, “Junior.”

  Tom slowly placed her hand on the bed and stepped away.

  22

  Sylvia Torres rounded the street corner as she walked from the hospital’s parking lot and almost turned back when she spotted a news crew. A fresh wave of fatigue settled over her. She couldn’t leave. Her mother was waiting for her in Junior’s room. It was the first time in months that Sylvia had visited Junior. Her mother visited her son every day without fail.

  Sylvia held her purse in front of her face and kept walking, but a reporter brightly approached, the crew following.

  “Sylvia…Sylvia Torres. Whitney Andres from KTTN. Can you comment on this new tragedy for your family?”

  Sylvia was partway through the hospital’s front door when the haze that had overtaken her since she’d first learned about Danny dissipated. Rage took its place.

  She stopped hiding her face and said, “I only want to say this. Danny was a good son and brother and uncle. I don’t know what was in his head last night, but I can tell you one thing. Richard Tate took the law into his own hands. He didn’t give the police a chance to peacefully resolve the situation. That’s how the Tate family takes advantage of people like us. They framed my brother Junior in the Five Points shootings. Rory is the one who murdered her sister and shot Junior. Because of Richard Tate and Rory Langtry, I don’t have any more brothers. That’s all I have to say.”

  Sylvia went into the hospital, ignoring the reporter’s nattering behind her. She signed in at the counter, slapped on her visitor’s badge beneath her shoulder, and pushed through the double doors.

  Televisions blared from patient rooms. Sylvia avoided looking in, not wanting to see sick people.

  The main corridor ended at a T. The wall there was decorated. Someone had taped up vinyl record albums, cardboard musical notes, and cutouts of girls in poodle skirts and ponytails. A banner announced: Rock and Roll Party Today. Food, Music, Fun!!

  The cheerful melody of “Rock Around the Clock” was coming from the subacute unit on the other side of the wall. The unit had an activities director who planned events for the patients, their families, and the staff. This had always struck Sylvia as perverse, but the subacute unit represented a perversion of life anyway, so maybe the bright parties with the staff in costumes, blaring music, and food the patients were incapable of eating made sense. Maybe the staff did it to keep themselves from going nuts.

  Sylvia had made a point of frequently visiting Junior during the first few months after the shootings, but as the months stretched into years, it seemed pointless. For her, Junior was as good as dead. Worse than dead. Still, the slender strand that connected her to her big brother tugged at her gut. When the unsettled feeling got bad enough, she paid an obligatory visit, dreading it, forcing herself to stay an hour, counting the minutes as soon as she set foot inside Junior’s room.

  The hospital’s odor especially got to her. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, but the molecules, the fetid by-products of illness and death, still reached her, as if they were gunning for her. She imagined them traveling down her nasal passages into her lungs and being absorbed into her blood.

  You think you can dismiss us? the subacute patients seemed to be saying. We’re part of you, whether you like it or not.

  Sylvia pressed her hand over her nose and mouth as she walked around the partition and entered the U-shaped unit. It was devoid of the hustle and bustle of normal hospital floors. These patients required little and voiced no demands.

  Sylvia signed in at the nurses station, which had its own visitors log. She turned as a nurse came up. “Hi, Corliss.”

  “How are you, sweets?” Corliss opened her arms and gave Sylvia a long hug.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I couldn’t believe it when I saw the news.” Corliss held Sylvia at arm’s length and looked deeply into her eyes. “If there’s anything—”

  Sylvia knew that Corliss was genuinely concerned, but she’d been the object of that look enough to last her a lifetime. She stepped out of her grasp. “I will. Thanks.”

  She took in Corliss’s poodle skirt, tight sweater with a felt C sewn beneath the shoulder, and hair done with bows and pin curls. “Cute.”

  “It’s for the rock-and-roll party. Come down and have some food. Your mom brought that killer salad she makes with the papaya and avocado.”

  “Thanks. I will. How’s Junior?”

  “Not good. The pneumonia isn’t responding to antibiotics. It’s putting a strain on Junior’s kidneys and his heart’s weakening.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Maybe weeks. The doctor will talk to you and your mom about options. We can continue aggressively treating the pneumonia or suspend treatment and let nature take its course. We’ll keep the comfort measures in place, of course.”

  “Corliss, if it was up to me, I would have let nature take its course years ago. My mother won’t allow it. She thinks God’s keeping Junior alive for a purpose. I tell her God’s not keeping him alive. Science is. Maybe I can get a volume discount on funerals.” Sylvia was surprised the dark comment had flown from her mouth.

  “What in the world was Danny doing?”

  “He flipped out.”

  “I’m used to family members talking to their loved ones, but I’ve never seen anything like Danny with Junior,” Corliss said. “Danny would sit beside Junior, holding his hand and looking at him for hours. Danny told me that he and Junior were talking in their heads. I’d ask Danny ‘How’s Junior doing today?’ And Danny would say ‘He’s sad’ or ‘He’s showing me a beautiful place.’ It was sweet. Sad. I didn’t think it was real, of course. Whatever gives the family members peace.”

  “Peace,” Sylvia said. “Whatever that is.”

  23

  Sylvia went to room 1. A sheet of hot-pink laminated paper was tacked to the doorframe. A message on it said:

  QUARANTINED

  Please wear clean protective garments to prevent the spread of infectious bacteria.

  Discard garments in special receptacle when leaving.

  Another notice in blue laminated paper was tacked beside it:

  WELCOME TO MY HOME.

  Please let me know you are here by greeting me by name.

  Your touch is also a
ppreciated.

  I am trying hard to get well, so please bring only good

  thoughts and words for me. Thank you for coming by. I enjoy your visits.

  Sylvia heard her mother inside the room talking to Junior in the same tone one would use with an infant.

  “Hi, Mom. I’m here.”

  “Do you hear that, mijo? Sylvie’s here to see you. Sylvie’s here, baby.”

  Sylvia knew the drill. She opened the top drawer of a pressboard cart outside the room. From boxes in the drawer, she took out a mask and gown of yellow paper cloth. She slipped on the gown and reached behind to loop the ties together. She pulled open the crimped mask, fitted it over her nose and mouth, and circled the elastic bands around each ear. From another drawer, she grabbed a pair of latex gloves.

  She entered the room. “Hi, Bob,” she said to Mr. Patyk, an elderly man in the bed closest to the door. He held his right arm up high in the air for no apparent reason. He hadn’t been bedridden long enough for his limbs to have withered and retracted. His blue eyes were open but restless, focusing on nothing.

  On a wall beneath a TV were two bulletin boards, one across from each bed. Tacked to the top of each was a sign hand-lettered in black marker:

  Hello

  I’m Robert Patyk (Bob)

  and

  Hello

  I’m Guillermo Lara (Junior)

  Fastened with thumbtacks to the cork were photos of the patients in healthier days and mementos. The items on the boards seemed to proclaim, I once was standing, just like you.

  The wall space around Junior’s bed was covered with replicas of his artwork. His artist friends had reproduced many of Junior’s works so the family would have souvenirs. Junior’s art, painted by the alleged murderer of the supermodel Anya, brought top dollar at auction. The family had sold nearly all of it over the past five years to pay expenses, holding on to just a few pieces. Junior’s star had been rising at the time of the Five Points shootings. A critic had labeled his style “Barrio Renaissance” because of the way Junior melded the classics with the street art of East L.A., his hometown, in his work.