At the desk, I show my star and ask for St. Claire. The nurse must be new because she’s totally flummoxed by whatever she’s looking at on her computer and none of the buttons she pushes seems to help. She says, “I’m sorry. The system is running really slow.”
While I wait, I check my phone. There’s no alert.
I’m scrolling through Marble’s records again when I hear the distinct ca-lick ca-lick of a woman who knows how to walk in heels. I look up from my screen and see Sloane Pearson. She’s a Sex Crimes cop and she’s a shit disturber and she’s no fan of mine, mostly because her ex-boyfriend Eddie Nowicki was.
She must be here for St. Claire.
She can’t know that’s why I’m here. I tuck my star.
“Pearson,” I say and then I approach her, because I don’t want the desk nurse’s system to hit stride and jam me up.
“Simonetti.” Pearson is beautiful. Sleek-jawed, almond-eyed, bitch-perfect beautiful.
“They’ve admitted my aunt,” I say. “Pancreatitis.”
“That’s too bad.” She looks like she wants to keep walking.
“You working?”
“Always.” And then she does keep walking.
“Detective?” the nurse says.
Pearson stops. Because I’m supposed to be here for my aunt.
“Okay, you got me,” I say to both of them. “I was pulling weight.”
“Amateur,” Pearson says and she’s still shaking her head after she turns and goes.
I slide my finger across my throat at the nurse and call after Pearson: “She’s my favorite aunt.”
Once Pearson’s gone I tell the nurse, “I’m undercover.”
The nurse whispers, “Room 216.”
* * *
St. Claire is asleep, the TV news blathering on above the bed. Except for the shackles I recognize underneath the sheets, she looks well enough—better than last time I saw her. Her eye is healing, and her hair has been curled. And she’d been made-up: lipstick has seeped into the wrinkles around her lips, and her eyebrows, now smudged, were drawn in brown arcs.
I step inside and close the door. “Mrs. St. Claire?”
She doesn’t stir. I approach the bed, pull her chart. The diagnosis box says she’s here because of a trimalleolar ankle fracture. I lift the bed sheet, untucked at the bottom. She isn’t in shackles—she’s in a cast.
There’s a knock as someone pushes the door open so I drop the sheet. It’s Dr. Kitasaki, who doesn’t look at all interested in seeing me.
“Gina, is it?” he asks, coming around the bed. He offers a hand. I’m hesitant to take it, on account of the rash, but I don’t want to offend him.
I shake and say, “Gina it is.”
“It’s nice to see you up and around. Are you back to work already?”
The way he’s still holding on to my hand makes me think he wants to escort me out of the building, so I assure him, “Detective Pearson has taken over the case. This is just a personal visit.”
“That’s very kind,” he says.
I finally pull my hand away and look at St. Claire. I ask, “What happened to her?”
“HIPAA laws prevent me from discussing that with you. She hasn’t yet given authorization to share her personal health information. In criminal situations, as you know, victims are protected—”
“I do know. But what’s your opinion? You can discuss that.”
He feels too close when he looks at me. Or maybe at the acne on my chin. He says, “Her wounds tell us a story, and her caregiver told the same story. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Will St. Claire press charges, now?”
“That’s not my business. I believe I told you before that my first priority is her health. I am trying to keep her comfortable—”
“But do you know, did Robin—the caregiver—did she say who did this?”
He steps back, removes his gloves. “That sounds like an investigator’s question.”
“Maybe. But if you believe St. Claire is in danger, you can take measures to protect her.”
“She is safe here.”
“But what about when she’s released? She’s headed straight back to the scene of the crime.”
“Hospital policy precludes my doing anything more than treating her.”
“Yes, but you can help me help her. You can use professional discretion.”
“I am.”
“I see,” and what I see is that he isn’t going to budge. “I guess I’ll send flowers.”
“That’s very kind,” he says again.
When I look at Kay, I feel a surge of anger. Flowers don’t help anything. I’ve never sent flowers in my life.
“What about you?” Kitasaki asks. “Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.” That’s my professional discretion.
“I have to say I’m amazed you’re here at all, given your condition.”
I can’t tell if he’s being honest or condescending; if he’s talking about the TBI or MS. Doesn’t matter; he’s got me either way. I feel myself shrink. I say, “HIPAA laws prevent me from discussing that with you.”
He humors me, a nice smile.
I take Kay’s hand, to make it a different kind of personal. I say, “I just wanted to see her. To let her know she’s not alone.”
“I can assure you, she is not alone.” Kitasaki pulls Kay’s chart, makes a note, and says, “I’ve got other patients waiting.”
“Thank you,” I say, though I don’t know why.
“Be well,” he says on his way out the door.
I look at Kay. The heart monitor blinks steadily, pledging her stability. Otherwise, she’s lifeless. Drug suspended. Safe, according to Kitasaki. Comfortable.
This is not my idea of safe.
This is not comfortable.
This? It’s bullshit.
12
I get back to Eleven just in time for a wall of calls started by a local grocery chain’s announcement of a security breach that includes customers’ credit card data. The press release says potential victims should contact local law enforcement.
Walter and Delgado and me: we are local law enforcement.
As I fumble my way through my first call, Walter graciously writes me an identity-theft cheat sheet. It says to tell callers it’s best to file a report in person. It also says to offer local police station addresses and the FTC’s Web address and the grocery’s customer service number. As the afternoon rolls on, I give out that information, though callers become increasingly dissatisfied. They want breach specifics. Dates and locations and details. I tell them I don’t know. I get yelled at. A lot.
When I realize I’m being used like a search engine, I get impatient. I actually tell a few callers they’ve got the wrong number. A couple times, I hang up.
I also decline a call on my own phone from Elaine Brille and another from Andy. And I decide the real reason I’m impatient is because I’m waiting on a Ventra alert. For that, I’d blow this joint. It doesn’t come.
I quit at quitting time, and my ears ring on my way to pick up Isabel.
* * *
“Mama!”
Today when I get her, she wipes her runny nose and then gently touches my face with the same hand—clues she’s picked up some other kid’s bug and I’m probably next in line for it.
“Oh, Spaghet,” I say, because she feels heavier; either she grew, or I lost strength, or both. I wish I could stop time.
Before we get in the car I ask, “Do you have to go potty?”
“No.”
I get her in the car seat and on the way home, I think about how I never thought I would say the word potty. It’s a ridiculous word. I say it all the time.
Predictably, by the time we arrive home, she’s filled her pants. At her last doctor’s appointment the pediatrician said Isabel was old enough to potty-train. She suggested a three-day crash course. I said we would; we haven’t. Truth be told, I’m not ready. I don’t want her to need me less.
When we’re home we’ve got a half hour before Lidia arrives, so I pick up the mail, carry Isabel into the bathroom, strip her down, and throw her in the tub.
I sit on the toilet lid and look through the mail while Isabel plays, bath crayons tonight’s toys of choice. When I’m through I use the blue crayon to draw some clouds because I’m bummed the mail is all mine, now, and I have made the marketing lists for lower insurance, a new MS drug, and a chairlift. It’s depressing; even the postman probably feels sorry for me.
I check my phone for the 800th time—no alert—and I’m annoyed when Isabel splashes me. I’m about to scold her, but then I remember me there, in the tub, five years old, my grandma where I am, reading a Catholic missal, smoking a True 100.
She was ignoring me. I splashed her. Ruined her cigarette.
She threw the butt in the tub and left me there.
My grandma was a grown-up with grown-up things to do.
I may be, too, but I put the phone aside, get my feet in the tub, and splash Isabel right back.
Once we’re both drenched, we leave the tub looking like a crime scene, the red crayon—her favorite—drawn in heavy, jagged lines over my clouds.
I dry myself off and wrap her up like a burrito and carry her to her bedroom. She is silly and delighted as she sings almost half the alphabet. I let her choose an outfit—the same silky nightgown she picks out every time—and I’ve got her jammied and ready for prime-cartoon-time.
We’re watching yet another Disney mom bite the dust—this one killed by a barracuda—when Lidia rings the bell.
I hug Isabel—yep, the cartoon got me—and say, “I love you.”
Isabel looks up—actually looks away from the screen—and says, “I yayou.” Yes, she’s parroting, but she’s never parroted this before.
I stay where I am and hug her some more.
The third time the bell rings, I get up and dash to the front door. Except my claw foot catches the mat in the hall. I faceplant.
“Are you all right?” Lidia asks, when I open the door.
I’m stupid, but, “I’m fine.”
I sit and rub my foot while she prepares the IV.
She says, “I know what you’re dealing with, and I know you’d like to deny it. But your symptoms—the balance issues, the stiff leg, the discomfort—they’re no secret.”
“Not feeling like talking to you about them doesn’t make them secrets.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it? The disease is unpredictable. The symptoms make you feel terrible and the drugs make you feel worse. Doctor says you should take them to delay the disease, so you don’t feel even worse tomorrow. Or next year. Or in ten years. But the doctor doesn’t know. And you don’t know. All you know is that you’re afraid. What if this is as good as you’ll ever feel? Can you even remember what good feels like? You’re fear-tricked, so you go on faith. Or you go to the pharmacy.” She takes my arm. “Or, you fight. You know what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t know what you’re getting at, though.”
She inserts the needle. “I had one patient, I’ll tell you—confidentially? She was about your age. She had multiple sclerosis, and she believed her walking was compromised when she ate. Her fight was the food. Wasn’t long before she became so weak and so thin she broke both her legs, and then she surely couldn’t walk.”
“I don’t have a problem with food.” Obviously.
“What I’m saying is: don’t fight the wrong thing.”
I sit back. “How do you know what I’m fighting?”
“I don’t. But I’m a mom, too, so I know how directly your well-being impacts your child’s.”
“I want Isabel to be happy,” I say, despite the fact that every single parenting book I’ve read trumpets empowerment over expectation, action rather than emotion. “I can’t control everything,” I admit.
As if on cue, the doorbell rings. “For instance.”
I get up and take the IV bag with me to let George in.
“Hey, Georgie.” He’s carrying a duffel bag and a brown bag and he’s got Tom’s shirts on a hanger over his shoulder. The bags make me nervous, but I don’t say anything.
“Is it okay?” he asks, about his stuff. “I didn’t have, I mean, I just need somewhere to put this—”
“You can leave it all right there for now.” I mean next to the door. That’s as close to yes as I’ll get.
He hangs Tom’s clothes on the coatrack, leaves the duffel, and gives me a hug. I know by his breath that there’s a sixer minus-one giving weight to the brown bag. And I know that means he didn’t get the job. Still, I don’t say anything.
As he follows me into the kitchen he says, “Gina, I was wondering—”
I hold up my good hand. I know what he’s wondering. “You can sleep in the living room.” The basement unit isn’t finished, otherwise I’d make him a better deal—so long as his end came sans Soleil.
“Thank you, it will just be—”
“It’s temporary.” I turn away. “George, say hello to Lidia.”
“Hey, Lidia.”
“How you doing, George.”
I sit down again and look up at him. “You know Tom will kill me if he finds out I gave you anything more than an opportunity.”
“I know. And listen, you don’t have to worry, I’m taking you up on that—”
“I’m not worried. You can use that shirt and tie as many times as you like. You can be here when we are here. You can enjoy our company. And you can thank me when you’re on your way.”
He looks ashamed, but he’s the kind of guy who needs to be told what’s what, and I seem to be the only person who’ll tell him.
“Take the opportunity,” I say.
“I am,” he says, like I offered to kick him in the knee.
“I’m ordering pizza,” I say, to stop being a bitch. “You want anything?”
“I don’t have any cash.”
“Then I’m also giving you the opportunity to eat. Pepperoni okay?”
“Sausage is better.”
“Don’t press your luck. Go say hello to your daughter.”
George saunters off. I guess I was still being a bitch. I can’t help it; he sets me up for it.
And, he’s been drinking. I’m about to get up, take the IV in there, supervise them—but then my phone buzzes. It’s the alert:
Ventra Card activity notification
ID number M 7091442414
(RI) Tinley Park-80th Ave Metra northbound
5:36pm
Tinley Park. Marble never left Tinley Park.
What the fuck.
“I have to go.”
Lidia looks at the IV bag. “You’ve just got another three minutes or so.”
“I have to go now.” I reach for the catheter; I can remove it myself.
She reaches, to stop me—“Please—”
“Get this out of my arm. I have to go.” I call to the other room, “George!”
Lidia removes the catheter. She looks displeased; so what.
I dial Maricarmen.
“Buenas?” It’s Geraldo. I’m starting to wonder if he’s really her cousin; he’s there a lot lately and she doesn’t complain about it like she does with the rest of the family.
“Geraldo. It’s Gina—”
“Maricarmen comes from the mercado.”
“When she does, will you tell her I need her to come over? It’s a work emergency, and Isabel is here with George. You can come, too—”
“You can bring Isabel here?” he says, the broken question a solid offer.
But I can’t waste time getting everybody organized and out of here. Johnny Marble will be off the bus before I get Isabel to put her shoes on.
“Thank you,” I say, “but I’ve got to go right now.”
“Okay,” Geraldo says. “We will come.”
Lidia applies gauze and folds my arm and I get up and yell, “George!” as I head into the living room, where I find him wearing a blanket like a cowl. I don’t
see Isabel; I guess they’re in the middle of some game. And while I appreciate that, “George, I need you to be a grown-up now. I have a work emergency. Lidia is on her way out and Maricarmen is on her way over—”
“Mabicabi!” Isabel jumps out from underneath the blanket.
“—and she’ll stay until I get back.”
George pulls the blanket off his head. “When are you coming back?” There’s a distinct hint of possibility in his voice. It worries me. I shouldn’t go.
But then I see what was in the brown bag. Not beer. A bus. A plastic bus once full of little plastic people who are now lined up in a row on the coffee table, smiling, looking at me. They’re saying, Come on, Gina. He really is trying.
“I won’t be long.” I grab Isabel into a hug and she squirms; she wants to go back and play. “I love you,” I tell her. I tell George, “I’ll leave cash on the counter for the pizza.”
“No problem.”
“I would hope not.” See? He sets me up for it.
I go into the bedroom to change my shirt. The Metra station where Marble boarded is an hour from here, but my guess—my hope—is that he’s coming back to the city. I’ll head for a station closer in and if there’s no new alert, I’ll be waiting for him when he gets off the train.
When I get back to the kitchen, Lidia isn’t packed up. She’s got papers all over the place. “I’ve got the medication you take from here on out, and some forms for you to sign.”
I open my bag, get my pen.
She says, “You take these for five days to wean yourself from the intra—”
“I know how it works.”
“Okay, but if you don’t have time to listen, I still need to ask you to sign the form that says you understand the weaning process, and the doses, and the potential side effects—”
“Just tell me where to sign.”
She does. I do.
“These are your discharge—”
“Again,” I say. “Dotted line.”
Lidia looks offended as she quietly points to the Xs on three other pages.
I sign Xs. “Is that it?”
“That’s it.” She begins to carefully tear off carbon copies.
“Thanks,” I say. “You can leave the copies there and let yourself out.” I put forty bucks on the counter and start to bail when Lidia says—
The Lies We Tell Page 14