by Nancy Moser
How could she argue with that? She took the phone and dialed.
* * *
While Margery wiped off a table at the shelter to make it ready for the next meal, she couldn’t help but notice the wonderful camaraderie between Angie, Sarah, and the administrator, Josh, as they served the last of the food. They were laughing as if they’d known each other for years, and Sarah had even gotten them singing “Java Jive.” Angie’s voice wasn’t good at all, but Sarah’s was a rich alto that complemented Josh’s bass. Besides making each other smile, they were making the people at the shelter happy.
One of the homeless men pointed at them with his fork, “You guys know ‘Operator’?”
The trio looked at each other, then Sarah broke out with “‘Operator, give me in-for-ma-shun . . .’”
The other two joined in, pretending the serving spoons were microphones. The food line stopped, but no one seemed to mind. How did a teenager like Sarah know old Manhattan Transfer songs?
What did it matter? It was a great day. Margery couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such fun. It was a release from the recent tension and the latest crises with Mick. She was glad she wasn’t working at Neighbor’s until Monday, but she had no idea what she’d do if he showed up there. As long as she kept people around her, as long as she didn’t go anywhere by herself . . .
Maybe Mick was bluffing. Maybe he’d been in a mood last night at Gladys’s. Or maybe he’d been high and had scared her because he could. He’d never been a real loving guy, but in the past year he’d become even less so. Although she hadn’t realized he was into the drug scene, it did explain the change in him. The gruffness. The impatience. The frenzy. The mood changes. The pulling away.
The meal complete, she overheard Angie exchange a few words with Josh. “I nearly forgot! Sarah brought a bunch of clothes and books. They’re in the car.”
“Super,” Josh said. “I’ll get—”
“I’ll go,” Sarah said, heading toward the alley behind the shelter. She went through the kitchen.
Margery took her bucket of sudsy water into the back, then suddenly stopped. And shivered.
What brought that on?
She looked toward the back door Sarah had used moments before. The first time they’d come to serve a meal, Angie mentioned how Josh had suggested she park in the alley to get her fancy SUV out of sight. At the time Margery had even considered offering to driver her clunker, but had forgotten about it when this week’s carpooling had been discussed.
A fancy SUV that oozed money. A teenage girl alone.
The shiver returned and Margery bolted for the door.
Margery pulled up short when she saw Sarah standing beneath the opened hatch of the SUV, talking to Mick.
He looked up and smiled. “Hiya, Marg.”
Sarah’s body was tense, the back of her legs pressed against the bumper of the SUV. She held a box of books as a barrier. Her eyes screamed for help.
“Sarah, go inside and—”
Mick yanked Sarah away from the canopy of the car’s hatch. He held her arm with one hand and draped another around her shoulder, pulling her close. She stumbled and nearly dropped the box.
He spoke directly into her ear. “You all right, sweet thing? We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
His grin made Margery cringe. Who was this man? Where was the Mick she married?
She tried to smile supportively to Sarah. Calm was the key. Keep it calm. “What can I do for you, Mick?”
He moved the arm he’d put on Sarah’s shoulder to the back of her neck, and used his other hand to dig into the pocket of his shirt. He pulled out a piece of paper. “This. My wish list. You didn’t take it last night.”
She didn’t want it but there was no way she could refuse without making him mad. She held out her hand, but didn’t move closer. If he had to move, maybe he’d let go of Sarah. . . .
“No,” he said, grinning. “Come get it.”
She looked at Sarah, whose eyes were black with fright. Margery suffered a rush of fear. She started to move toward Mick, then stood her ground. “First, let her go. She’s not in this.”
He laughed. “She is now.” He yanked her head close and kissed it. “Is that box getting heavy, sweet thing?”
“A little,” Sarah said softly.
“Then tell my wife to come get this list and I’ll let you go.”
Sarah started to cry. Margery wanted to die. “Mick! Let her go!”
“Not until you—”
The box started to slip.
Sarah tried to stop it.
Mick tightened his grip on the back of her neck.
Sarah yelped in pain.
He heaved her sideways toward the car.
Her head hit the edge of the hatchback.
She bounced off and sprawled to the ground. A gash spurted blood.
“Mick!”
He froze for the briefest moment, then ran. Twenty feet away, he called after her. “I’ll be back. You will do this, Margery. You will get me what I need. You owe me.”
Margery ran to the door of the shelter, flung it open, and screamed for help.
* * *
Gennifer and Douglas ran through the doors of the ER. Gennifer reached the reception desk first. “Our daughter. Sarah Mancowitz. Where is she?”
The woman pointed toward some double doors. “Room 4.”
Gennifer began to run again, but Douglas took her hand. “We’re here now. Calm down.”
She shook his hand away, but did slow to a walk. They found Sarah unconscious, her head bandaged, and her Old Navy sweatshirt covered with blood. Gennifer ran to her side and took her hand. “Oh, honey, honey . . .” She turned to Douglas, who was standing on the opposite side of the bed. “Where’s the doctor? They’ve just left her here. Alone.”
“I’m sure they’ll be back. She has the bandage . . .”
“I want them here! Now. Find someone!”
He left and Gennifer gazed down at her daughter’s immobile face. She looked at her arms and hands. There was no evidence of injuries other than her bandaged head. And the blood on her sweatshirt.
Where is that doctor?
Douglas returned. “They’ll be here in a minute. But while I was out, a woman named Angie came up to me and said—”
“Angie? Angie’s here?”
“She was with Sarah at the shelter and—”
“I know who she is!” With another glance to Sarah, Gennifer made a decision. “Come. Stand by her. I’ll be right back.”
“But the doctor will be here soon and—”
“I’ll be right back.”
Gennifer backtracked to the double doors leading to the ER’s entrance. In the adjoining waiting room she spotted Angie Schuster—and Margery from the drugstore.
“You!” Gennifer said.
Angie stood. She held a cup of coffee, as did Margery. “How is she doing?” Angie asked.
With a swipe of her hand Gennifer knocked the cup out of Angie’s hand sending coffee everywhere. She shoved a finger in her face. “You’re the cause of all this!”
No one moved. Then Margery stepped forward. “No, she isn’t. I am.”
The woman from the front desk came over. “What’s going on here?” she asked.
“None of your business,” Gennifer said.
“If you don’t behave, I’ll call security.”
Angie pressed her hands against the air. “It’s fine. We’ll clean up the mess. If you can get some towels . . .”
Angie’s calm incensed Gennifer, plus she had no intention of cleaning up anything. She turned to the hospital worker. “Maybe you’d better call security, because this woman is the reason my daughter’s in that room unconscious.”
Margery shook her head. “It’s not Angie’s fault. Mick hurt Sarah because of me.”
Mick?
The worker slipped away. Margery kept talking while she dabbed at a soggy magazine with a flimsy napkin. “Mick’s my husband and he f
ollowed me to the shelter. He wants me to do—” she cupped the soaked napkin in the palm of her hand—“Mick’s not himself. He’s gotten into drugs and Sarah got in the middle. He was there because of me. Angie’s not to blame.”
Suddenly Gennifer realized why the name Mick sounded familiar. “Is your husband Mick Lamborn?”
“You know him?”
“I was his lawyer.” Gennifer immediately wished she could take the words back.
“You’re the one who got him off?” Margery said.
Gennifer looked toward the double doors. “I have to get back.”
“Just know how sorry we are,” Angie said. “We’re praying for her.”
Whatever.
* * *
They admitted Sarah into a room. Although they’d stitched the gash in her head, they were concerned about swelling around her brain.
Concerned? What an understatement.
Gennifer shivered at the very thought of anything being wrong with her daughter’s brain. Her only child. Her baby.
She sat beside Sarah’s bed, her head in her hands. How could this have happened? Although Gennifer had eased up on blaming Angie completely, the meddling woman still had to take some responsibility for Sarah’s injury.
Of course if you’d been a better mother, Sarah would never have gotten hooked up with a mentor.
Gennifer still didn’t understand the mentor thing. She and Douglas provided for all of Sarah’s needs. She wanted for nothing.
Apparently she needed something. . . .
Was it nothing that they’d given Sarah independence? The girl should have been grateful. Gennifer had been forced to learn independence the hard way. Sarah had it easy. Way easy. The suggestion that Sarah might not have wanted that much independence . . . Gennifer couldn’t fathom such a thing.
You’re to blame. You were the one who got Mick Lamborn off.
Gennifer hung her head low and grasped the back of her neck. She was only doing her job. Pleading out saved the taxpayers beaucoup bucks over the cost of a trial.
But you put a felon back on the streets—where he could hurt your daughter. Where he could have killed . . .
When her cell phone rang she grabbed her purse and moved into the hall. It was the office. Why would they be calling her on a Saturday? She considered not answering it, but needed to tell them about Sarah. She wouldn’t be in on Monday. Her daughter needed her.
“Gennifer, Matt Breezley here.”
Matt. She liked Matt. He’d pass on her news. “I’m glad you called—”
“Sorry to bother you on the weekend, but I’ve been working at the office and picked up the phone here. A dumb thing to do, but it turns out a client of yours has been arrested and—”
She had no patience for any of this. “Someone else needs to handle it. My daughter’s been assaulted. I’m in the hospital with her now.”
“Oh, Gennifer, I’m so sorry. Is she going to be okay?”
She has to be okay. “She’s still unconscious.”
“Don’t worry about a thing here, Gennifer. I’ll take care of it. You take care of your daughter.”
Gennifer hung up and returned to the room, but being still was not an option. Her previous guilt was infused with rising anger at Mick, at herself, and at the system that made it possible for cretins like Lamborn to get off. Ever. Throw away the key. Strap him down for a lethal injection. Do anything to ensure he burn in—
“Gennifer?”
She saw Dr. Brandon in the doorway. He was her kidney doctor. Pleasantries. She knew she was expected to exchange pleasantries like hello.
It was not possible. With surprise she realized she had a tear on her cheek and swiped it away.
He saw it and came close. “Are you okay?”
No. Yes. She managed a nod.
“When I saw the name Mancowitz . . .” He looked at Sarah. “Your daughter?”
Gennifer nodded again and moved to Sarah’s bedside.
Dr. Brandon joined her on the other side. His eyes showed his usual compassion. “A mugging?” he asked.
She didn’t want to get into anything where she might have to admit her culpability. “It’s more complicated than that, but generally, yes.”
He patted Sarah’s unmoving hand, then looked at Gennifer. “Stress isn’t good for you, you know.”
“I know.”
“Last week your numbers weren’t what we’d like them to be, so if you start to feel bad, come in.”
“I will.” Gennifer looked past him to the door. Douglas came in carrying two cups of coffee. Gennifer’s stomach found a new reason to tighten. Since her husband didn’t know about her kidney problems, he’d never met Dr. Brandon and—
Dr. Brandon looked over his shoulder, then met Douglas halfway. “You must be Gennifer’s husband.”
“I’m Douglas.”
They shook hands. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Brandon.”
“Are you taking care of Sarah now?” Douglas asked.
“No, no, I’m your wife’s nephrologist.” He smiled toward Gennifer. “We’re hoping for a transplant real soon.” He crossed fingers on both hands. “But you can help me help her now by easing her stress as much as possible.” He glanced at Sarah. “Not always easy, but we want Gennifer to be in good condition when a kidney becomes avail—”
Gennifer stepped between the two men, leading Dr. Brandon toward the door. “Thanks so much for stopping in.”
“No problem.” He paused in the hall. “Remember to come see me if you start feeling poorly.”
Yes, yes. Her health was the least of her concerns right now.
Looking from the hall back into the hospital room, Gennifer had the urge to run down the long corridors. Move to Brazil if necessary. Anything to avoid Douglas’s glare.
“Gennifer? What is he talking about?”
There was no way out. She was trapped. Everything that had defined her identity was being attacked.
So be it. She had no more defenses.
A defense lawyer with no defense.
How ironic.
* * *
Window-shopping was not the most obvious choice of setting or activity when one was being forced to spill their secrets—secrets that had the capacity to completely change lives. But it was better than doing it in a hospital waiting room, a stairwell, a car, or the worst choice—back home.
Window-shopping in a mall near the hospital provided Gennifer two things she desperately needed: movement and company. There was no way she could tell Douglas all the truths she had to tell him while seated or while they were alone. Public spaces were good. Public spaces were safe. Public spaces were the coward’s way out.
So be it. After facing the crisis of Sarah’s injuries Gennifer had completely lost the ability to fight the good fight, present a stiff upper lip, or win one for the Gipper. The jig was up and all bets were on the table.
Or soon would be.
She was thankful Douglas had not given her a hard time about her request to walk in the mall. “If it’ll get the truth out of you . . .”
Once they entered the happy land of shopping heaven, Gennifer felt a bit surreal. How could she talk of life-and-death matters to the sound of canned music, the sight of smartly dressed mannequins, Day-Glo SALE! signs, and the smells of freshly baked cookies and sesame chicken?
You asked for it; you got it.
She had no choice. Her time was up. And she was glad.
They turned right onto the main drag. The pennants and jerseys of college teams cheered her on from a sports store. You can do it! Go team! She was at the goal line. It was fourth down with inches to go . . . should she try for three points or six?
She decided on the whole shebang. “My kidneys are failing. I need a transplant. I’ve been on dialysis for a year.” There. The basics were out.
Douglas stopped walking and faced her. “I heard the doctor mention a transplant. But that’s not possible. For you to be sick . . . I would have known.”
“
Want proof?” She pulled up her left sleeve to reveal the dialysis portal in her forearm. “This is where it all happens. They created this fistula that provides a straight-shot hookup to the veins that lead to my heart. They hook me up to the machine, clean me out, and send me on my way. Three times a week.”
His fingers moved to touch it, but stopped short. “Does it hurt?”
She put her sleeve down, covering it. “It can get uncomfortable. But I have to do it. I don’t have a choice.”
“You could’ve told me. You should’ve told me. Why didn’t you—?”
“I’ll admit to the should’ve part. Whether I could’ve told you is another question.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor as he walked. “I don’t understand why you didn’t feel you could trust me.”
Trust was not a good word choice at the moment because it conjured up thoughts of his infidelity. Douglas must have figured that out too because he quickly added, “On this. You could have trusted me on this.”
Gennifer didn’t push the point. They’d move to talk of his mistress soon enough. She zeroed in on the real reason she’d kept the secret, the reason that was dogging her like a lurking shadow. “I am a prideful woman. I didn’t want to be thought of as weak or needy. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can—and apparently you have. That’s not the point. I want to know why you felt you couldn’t let Sarah and me in. If only you’d done that, I—”
She finished his sentence for him. “You wouldn’t have had an affair?”
Unfortunately, it was at that moment they passed a lingerie store with its windows full of frilly, skimpy things. She kept her eyes straight ahead. When Douglas looked in her direction, she saw his eyes skim past her to the pretties in the window. But to his credit, he also looked away.
“A person needs to feel needed, Gen.”
“So you’d prefer me weak and inept?”
He stopped, forcing her to backtrack to face him. “Do you really think needing someone makes you weak and stupid?” he asked.
Gennifer smiled at an elderly woman walking past. It was obvious by the distaste on her face that she’d heard his last three words. Gennifer took her husband’s arm and started them walking again. “How about this? I don’t like feeling needy. It’s not a condemnation of others who need.”