by Randy Mason
And then she stopped breathing.
His eyed widened, the thready pulse still palpable under his fingers. And as if he’d done it a thousand times, he checked that her airway was clear before lifting her neck so her head tilted back. Pinching her nose shut and placing his mouth over hers, he breathed into her lungs, regretting that his own breath reeked of alcohol. And though an ambulance siren was growing louder from far off in the distance, it seemed like hours till the paramedics’ feet were trampling up the stairs.
“She stopped breathing, but she’s still got a pulse,” he said to the two men that ran in, pushing him aside. “And I’m almost positive now,” he added, “that she took some pills with the whiskey.”
The younger man with long, dark hair was applying the mask of a breathing bag while the short man, checking her pulse, asked, “Like?” Then he raised her eyelids and shined a small flashlight into each pupil.
Baker said, “Uh—Valium probably and—uh—I—I don’t know.” Now that someone else was there to take control, a huge, smothering wave was washing over him.
The short paramedic wrapped a blood-pressure cuff around her needle-tracked arm. “What about heroin?”
“I don’t think so, but I can’t say for sure.”
Using a walkie-talkie, the short man radioed information back to a doctor at the hospital. Snatches of it registered in Baker’s ears: “respiratory arrest … blood pressure sixty over palp … pupils dilated … requesting permission to administer a course of Narcan followed by saline IV …” While the men continued with their work and transferred her to a gurney, Baker heard himself asking, “Is she gonna be all right?”
“Hard to say,” the short one said. They began to move her out of the apartment. “Is that your car out there with the cherry on it?”
“Yeah,” Baker said.
“Then you can follow us to the hospital. We’re taking her to Old Queens County General.”
“Is she gonna be all right?” he heard himself ask again.
♦ ♦ ♦
THE RIDE TO THE hospital was a blur. A zombie on automatic pilot, Baker followed the wailing, flashing ambulance in front of him like a baby duck following its mother, realizing too late he should’ve exercised his option to remain by Micki’s side. What if she died on the way?
But once they reached the emergency room, he felt completely useless. Medical personnel were swarming around, cutting away clothes and yelling instructions to each other while they rolled her into one of the treatment cubicles. A nurse handed him a little paper cup. Inside, he found Micki’s cross. He opened his mouth to ask where the other necklace was, but then shut it without saying anything. And out of nowhere, some woman in a nurse’s uniform was asking him for Micki’s name and address, her most salient concern being the insurance information. He felt a sharp pang: Micki was probably covered under his own insurance as a dependent. His dependent. How could he have been so blind?
In between answers, Baker kept demanding to know about the doctors taking care of her. Were they qualified enough? They weren’t just house staff, were they? Where was an experienced doctor? What were they doing to her?
Overhearing the belligerent onslaught of questions, an attending physician came over and sent the woman away. “Hi, I’m Dr. Mikulewicz,” he said, extending his hand.
“Jim Baker.” And they shook. “I only want to be sure she’s getting the very best care.”
Just shy of six feet tall, Dr. Mikulewicz looked to be in his early forties. He had piercing blue eyes and a full head of thick, black hair. “I understand,” he said, “and I can assure you she’s in good hands.”
“But I don’t want someone learning on her; I want someone who knows what they’re doing.” As Baker continued to watch over the doctor’s shoulder, he saw fresh concern among the medical staff, heard anxious, clipped orders coming from a nurse. He asked, “What are they doing to her now?” He tried to step past the doctor, who deftly blocked his way. “I want to know what’s going on!” Baker demanded. “I have a right to know what’s happening to her!”
With a gentle touch, Mikulewicz put his hand on Baker’s arm. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside in the waiting room.”
Baker’s eyes flashed wide.
“Please,” the doctor said.
Baker attempted to glare the man down—until his entire demeanor changed and he stood very tall. “But I’m a cop.”
Mikulewicz looked surprised, then confused. “I was told you’re her guardian.”
“I am.”
“But—” And then a savvy, yet compassionate, expression came over the doctor’s face. He asked, “Are you here as a cop or as a family member?”
Baker closed his eyes and felt the ER chaos spinning around him. Smaller and smaller, he was getting further and further away … He opened his eyes and struggled with the words: “Family member.”
“Then you’ll have to wait outside.”
Baker swallowed hard.
“I’ll let you know how things are going,” Mikulewicz said. “I promise.” When Baker didn’t move, the doctor added, “Please don’t make me ask those uniformed officers to escort you out.”
Baker’s eyes darted over to the two young patrolmen standing three cubicles down. To pass the time, they were cracking crude jokes while the person in their custody was being treated. Baker took a deep, ragged breath. “That won’t be necessary.” Then he walked in the direction the doctor had pointed, his legs feeling like they belonged to someone else.
♦ ♦ ♦
FOR AN ER WAITING room, it was only moderately crowded. Baker sat down in an aqua-colored chair made of molded plastic. To his left was a young couple, the woman crying into the man’s shoulder while he did his best to comfort her. To his right was a tired-looking woman in a dark wool coat covering what appeared to be pajamas—her three preschoolers running, screeching, and giggling while she tried, unsuccessfully, to get them under control. A sullen-looking teenager in a hooded sweatshirt under a faded denim jacket was directly across from him, smoking, mindlessly tapping a pack of cigarettes on his thigh while eyeing him with suspicion.
Baker lit a cigarette himself. In between tense drags, his jaw worked, clenching and unclenching while his harsh, unwavering stare—though directed at no one—caused the youth to get up and move to a seat across the room. But Baker barely blinked. He shifted his gaze to focus on the little children, now sitting on the floor and coloring, fighting bitterly with each other over the crayons as though the world was going to end if they didn’t get the colors they wanted. Feeling a fresh surge of pain, he turned his eyes toward the windows and the bright light streaming in through the oversized panes of glass. But what he was seeing was Micki washing down the pills with his whiskey, hugging the pillow and waiting—all alone in that crummy, little apartment—to die.
Lit cigarette still between his fingers, he hung his head in his hands.
And cried.
♦ ♦ ♦
EVERY TWO MINUTES, BAKER checked his watch and glanced at the door in anticipation of the doctor’s return. He drank coffee and chain-smoked and periodically paced around the room while reflecting, disapprovingly, on the man he had become. He decided he must’ve been temporarily insane. A profound quiet now possessed him as if Micki’s suicide attempt had shaken him free of some evil spell. No wonder Cynthia hadn’t wanted to marry him. If he were her, he would’ve felt the same way.
Dr. Mikulewicz came through the door, and Baker sprang to his feet.
“She’s stable now, so she’s being transferred to the ICU,” the doctor said.
“Is she awake?”
“It may be a while, yet, till she regains consciousness.”
“But she’s gonna be okay, right?”
“When we pumped her stomach, no pill fragments remained, but we got
her blood pressure back up, so things are looking good for now.”
“Can I see her?”
“Just for a moment. Once she’s settled in upstairs, you can visit her there—briefly. She’s still intubated and on a ventilator.”
Baker nodded. Yet when he saw her, the tears welled up again. She looked so small and pale, smudges of charcoal on her face, like a little kid who’d gotten dirty going out to play. The orderlies were moving the gurney. He felt he couldn’t breathe.
“Is there any way this might’ve been an accident?” Dr. Mikulewicz asked. “It’s obvious she has a history of drug abuse.”
Baker shook his head no.
The doctor looked at him steadily. “Okay, then. I’m going to see if I can contact Dr. Lerner in our psych department. Micki will probably have to stay there for at least a couple of weeks. But if you could talk to Dr. Lerner today, it would be a big help. She’ll want to have as much background information as possible before she sees Micki for the first time.”
So Dr. Lerner was a woman. A female shrink. That was probably better for Micki. They started walking in the same direction the orderlies had gone.
The doctor said, “If you have a minute, I have a few questions I’d like to ask you myself.”
If I have a minute? Baker thought. Where the hell would I be going? But knowing the doctor’s cordiality was merely a prelude to something unpleasant, he turned to face Mikulewicz and said, “Shoot.”
“Micki has a lot of scars on her body. I need to know how she got them.”
“All of that happened before I became her guardian.”
“And how long has that been?”
“Since September.”
“And you’re related to her how?”
“I’m not.”
Mikulewicz nodded. “I see. Is there anyone who could verify the presence of those scars prior to September?”
Baker’s expression turned dark. “I don’t have to stand here and—” He caught his breath.
The doctor waited.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Baker said. “I know you’re just doing your job.” And it made him think about not only Dr. Orenstein’s cursory inquiry when he’d examined Micki, but also all the teachers who’d ever seen her bruised face—in those instances, by his own hand—but had never brought it to anyone’s attention.
Baker provided the doctor with a brief sketch of what he knew, pointing out that whatever scars Micki had had before Heyden would’ve been documented in both her post-arrest hospital records and her juvenile police records. The remainder—those inflicted while she’d been incarcerated—would most likely not be documented at all. To protect the guilty. But the only person, besides Micki, who could corroborate his own statement would be Warner, who’d witnessed the incident when Baker had first seen the scars himself. The doctor took Warner’s phone numbers, and they moved on.
When they had arrived at the elevator bank, Mikulewicz said, “Let me page Dr. Lerner now and see what we can arrange today. Meanwhile, the ICU is on the third floor; just follow the signs.” As he turned to go, he added, “I’ll be in touch.”
♦ ♦ ♦
BUT THE PSYCHIATRIST WAS available to talk with Baker immediately. So before he had a chance to see Micki again, he left the ICU and took the elevator up two more floors. One of the nurses unlocked the door to the ward and led him down a short hallway. At first it seemed like any other hospital wing, but as he passed the dayroom, his stomach started to turn. A young woman, sitting stiff as a board, was staring off into space while, in the corner, an old, disheveled man was slapping his face repeatedly. Baker turned his eyes away. He suspected that when he passed by on his way out, they’d both be doing the exact same things. He followed the nurse through another set of doors to a row of offices down a long, empty corridor.
She stopped and pointed. “Second-to-last door on the right.” And then she left.
Walking down the passageway alone, Baker felt a lump growing in his throat. The closer he got to Dr. Lerner’s office, the worse it became. Her door was slightly ajar, and he knocked.
“Come in,” said a woman’s voice.
He stepped inside. “I’m Detective Sergeant James Baker—Micki Reilly’s legal guardian. Dr. Mikulewicz sent me to see you.”
“Yes, of course. I’m Dr. Lerner.” Her smile warm, she stood up from behind her desk and extended her hand to shake his. “Won’t you sit down?” She motioned to a pair of old, upholstered chairs while she took her seat in a tall-backed, leather-looking one.
He tried to smile, but the pain in his heart grew worse, so he sat down and crossed his left ankle over his right knee. When Dr. Lerner didn’t say anything, he cleared his throat and tilted his head toward the couch against the wall. “Am I going to have to lie down on that?”
“Not unless you want to,” she said.
She exuded a subdued youthfulness that had caught him off guard. Dressed in a slate-blue tailored suit, the skirt hemmed just above the knee, she was slender, her brown hair framing her face in soft waves. He’d expected a greying, sixty-year-old woman—complete with bun, glasses, and a German accent. Placing his foot back on the floor, he took a pack of Camels from his pocket and removed one. Paused with the cigarette halfway to his lips, he looked at her.
She handed him an ashtray.
He put the thin metal dish—which was more like a shallow, fluted cup of aluminum foil—on the small table between the chairs. He put the cigarette in his mouth. With what appeared to be tremendous concentration, he tore a match from his matchbook and carefully closed the cover. But his chest felt very tight, and he did nothing more than breathe. Until the tears started streaming down his face.
“You’re very sad,” Dr. Lerner said softly.
Eyes clamped shut, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and simply nodded. In a voice strangled to the point of cracking, he whispered, “This is all my fault.”
♦ ♦ ♦
SINCE DR. LERNER HAD squeezed Baker in—in between appointments—they talked for only ten minutes so as not to make her next patient wait. With all there was to tell, it was barely enough time to give her more than a few sketchy details about Micki’s life and the events immediately leading up to the suicide attempt.
Lerner said, “I’d like to have sessions with you and Micki separately as well as together.”
Mouth so dry it was difficult to speak, he said, “You want to talk to me about Micki, though—right?”
“I’d also like to talk about you.”
He looked down at the floor, then nodded.
Standing up to signal their time was over, she said, “I’ll arrange my fees in such a way that this won’t be a financial hardship.” He was putting his cigarettes back in his pocket when she added, “Micki’s an interesting case.”
♦ ♦ ♦
HAVING FOUND HIS WAY back to the ICU, Baker sat by Micki’s bed and smoothed her hair while the unceasing noise—whispered chatter, medical monitors, and ventilators—pushed his stress level up another notch. Technically, he was allowed to visit only ten minutes every hour, but his good looks usually bought at least five more, the nurses pretending not to realize how long he’d been there. Overly cautious, as if she might break, he touched her cheek very lightly, the cool skin fine and soft. Until his fingers traveled over the scars. Tears welled up again, and he closed his eyes.
An interesting case.
♦ ♦ ♦
VISITING HOURS IN THE ICU ended at seven o’clock, but Baker hung around until ten, smoking cigarettes in the now-empty adjacent waiting room. Like mother hens, the young nurses fretted over him, telling him to go home and get some rest. He eventually agreed. But it was Micki’s place he went to since it was closer to the hospital. Once there, he realized his mistake: the payphone still wasn’t working. So he went to the corner a
nd placed a call to his answering service, hoping the hospital might’ve already tried to contact him. When the operator told him he had messages, he snapped to attention, only to crash when she added it was from the day before.
“Yesterday?” he repeated. But then it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked in since having dinner with Cynthia.
“Yes, sir. Actually there were two calls that came in. According to our records, one was at nine forty in the evening, but the caller left no name or number. Then there was another at ten-o-two from a Mickey—no last name—stating he—oh, I’m so sorry: she—was on her way to your apartment. Oh, I guess that message isn’t very useful anymore.”
Baker’s throat constricted, and there was a burning sensation in his chest. When he’d gone to the restaurant, he’d completely forgotten to leave a forwarding number. And Micki had called. Needing him. His voice came out weak. “I’ll be home within the hour. Until I check in again, please pick up any calls immediately.”
♦ ♦ ♦
THE WALLS IN MICKI’S apartment closed in around him. It felt like a million eyes were watching. He picked up her jacket, ripped the inner lining out completely, then did the same to her vest, taking them with him for his tailor to fix. Pretty creative, her little hiding place; he’d never suspected a thing. She must’ve lifted the pills from his medicine cabinet the very first day she came to clean, then carried them around for months, never using them. Even when she was going through withdrawal.
He got in his car, turned over the engine, and pulled away from the curb.
He hadn’t given her nearly enough credit.
♦ ♦ ♦
WHEN HE REACHED HIS apartment, there was still no message from the hospital. Without even taking off his jacket, he headed over to the liquor cabinet. Out of his own brand, he grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels—Martini’s favorite—then paused. He unscrewed the cap, only to close it again. For almost a minute, he simply stood there. Then he put the bottle back and locked it away.
That morning he’d had his very last drink.
♦ ♦ ♦