by Ann Warner
Dillingham got into my car, and we drove to Hopesprings.
“I’m here to visit Josephine Bartlett,” I told the woman at the reception desk. While I knew they wouldn’t tell me if Josephine was there, they would respond with room information if asked about a specific person.
She tapped on her keyboard, then looked up. “I’m sorry. Mrs. Bartlett is not receiving visitors. Are you family?”
“Grandson,” I said, knowing I might look too old for the role if I were standing next to Josephine, but since I wasn’t, I should be able to get away with it.
“I’m afraid you’re not on the list of approved visitors.”
“I bet that’s a short list, am I right?” Must be, since she didn’t ask my name.
“Only Mrs. Bartlett’s son,” she said with a sweet smile.
“Of course. Dad. He didn’t know I was coming.”
“I’ll have to clear a visit with him,” she said.
“Could you do that?”
While the woman and I talked, Dillingham had sidled around until he had the correct angle to look at her computer screen. She picked up the phone, and Dillingham nodded to let me know he had the room number. Meanwhile, the woman finished speaking and hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Bartlett. Your grandmother has received medication and is sleeping.”
“Okay. Guess I’ll come back later. Thanks for your help. Could you direct me to the cafeteria?”
“Certainly.”
As we walked away from the desk, Dillingham said, “They’ve got her in a locked wing.”
I trusted Dillingham to know that since he’s accompanied more than one agitated Montgomery resident here instead of jail.
“Not sure how we’re going to get at her. Pull a fire alarm, maybe?”
“We need to figure out a way. And fast. Medicated, locked wing? Doesn’t compute. I’ve met few people as sane and sensible as Josephine.” Then I had an idea. Not pulling a fire alarm, but close.
I made a call, and then Dillingham and I returned to the front lobby to wait. Within minutes, the EMT unit I requested was there, and after their explanation they’d been called for a medical emergency, they rushed down the hall toward the locked wing. In the confusion, Dillingham and I moved in behind them.
A nurse opened the door to the unit and tried to stop all of us from entering, claiming she had no idea who could have called. That there was no emergency.
“A Mr. Bartlett called, ma’am. Said his mother wasn’t breathing.”
While they talked, Dillingham and I slipped by the nurse and located Josephine’s room. She was lying in bed, and the information that she’d been medicated was correct.
Dillingham signaled the EMTs, who came and quickly transferred Josephine to their stretcher. Then we all rushed back out, and Josephine was loaded into the ambulance, which took off with Dillingham and me right behind it.
Feeling caught up in a Groundhog Day loop, I followed the ambulance to the same hospital where Devi was a patient, and parked in the emergency lot. Then Dillingham and I went inside. The woman at the reception desk recognized us and hit the door release. We didn’t even need to break stride. Inside the unit, we found Josephine had been wheeled into a cubicle, and there were three people hooking her up to monitors and checking her over.
The one with the stethoscope looked up. “Do you know this patient?” She removed the stethoscope from her ears and draped it around her neck.
“Yes. We broke her out of Hopesprings. They obviously sedated her.”
“Do you know what drug they used?”
“No idea.”
“Okay. Well, her blood pressure and oxygenation are good so we’ll just keep an eye on her until she sleeps it off.”
A registrar wheeled her computer over and took what information I could give her about Josephine.
“Be sure to note she’s not allowed any visitors I don’t personally approve, and that includes her son.”
It was a stretch, my assuming control like that, but over the last several days I’d become well-known to hospital personnel, and the registrar didn’t question my right to restrict Josephine’s visitors.
Dillingham said he’d arrange for someone to give him a lift back to his car at Brookside, and I gave Josephine’s nurse my cell number and told her where I’d be. Then I returned to Devi’s bedside, where I found Lillian had arrived and taken my place.
“Did you find Josephine?” Lillian asked as soon as I stuck my head into Devi’s cubicle.
“We did. Her son had her admitted to Hopesprings, and they sedated her, so I haven’t been able to talk to her yet.”
“I don’t think you should leave her there, Mac,” Lillian said.
“We didn’t. She’s here. In the ER, being treated.”
“It’s her money, isn’t it,” Lillian said. “That’s why he did this. Oh my, what a terrible thing.”
I walked past Lillian up to Devi’s bed. She was already less pale than the last time I saw her merely an hour ago.
“She’s really all right?” Devi said.
“Yes. Or will be once she clears the drug. And you know what’s weird? Edna Prisant was the one who told us where to find her.”
Chapter Fifty
Josephine
I awakened feeling muzzy and disoriented to discover I’d been drugged. Again. Only this time, I was in a hospital.
“How did I get here?” I asked the nurse who was checking on me. The last thing I could remember clearly was Jeff wheeling me into Hopesprings.
“EMTs brought you in. And then that cute detective told us who you are.”
“You mean Detective McElroy?” I would never use the word cute to describe Mac. He’s much too solid for such a frivolous word, but he had to be who she was talking about.
“Yeah. The one who’s been at the bedside of the woman who got shot?”
“Yes. Mac. And what about my son?”
“Sorry, but Mac’s left orders he can’t see you. You must have some story to tell.”
I smiled at the woman but didn’t offer her any explanation, and after a bit more fussing with my IV, she left me in peace.
Since there was nothing to do, I dozed. I awakened to find Mac sitting in a chair next to the bed.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“Really well rested.”
He smiled at my little joke, but it was a tired smile.
“What about Devi?” I asked him. “Don’t you need to be with her?”
“Lillian’s with her. They sent me to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m disappointed. Sad. But otherwise, I’m fine.”
“Good that you’re okay.” He got up to go, but there was more I needed to say to him. Things I might not manage to say later.
“Mac?”
He turned to face me. “What is it, Josephine?”
“Thank you for rescuing me.” I raised a hand to stop him before he could object. “Please. You know you saved me from all sorts of . . . difficulties. But there’s something else I need to say. Please don’t wait too long to tell Devi you love her.”
“What?” Abruptly he paced toward the doorway.
I thought he was leaving, but instead he swung around to look at me, rubbing his head.
I spoke quickly. “You know when all this mess with the Garrisons is cleared up, there will be no reason Devi can’t return to Chicago, to her old life and her job at that art institute. I’m being selfish here. I want you to make sure she doesn’t leave us. I would miss her terribly.”
“If that job in Chicago is her dream, I won’t ask her to give it up. I took a job that my wife wanted for me. And look how that turned out.”
With that, he flung himself through the door.
~ ~ ~
I think I slept for another while after Mac left. Then an orderly showed up and told me I was being admitted for observation, and he was taking me to my room.
Shortly after that, another bed was wheeled into the room and
parked beside me. I looked over to discover my roommate was Devi, and then Lill and Mac walked in.
“Well,” I said. “I did plan on visiting, Devi, not on being hospitalized with you.”
She smiled at me. She was still pale, but her eyes looked alert and focused, and I was so relieved by that, I wanted to climb out of bed and give her a hug. But I had tubing attached to my arm, and I was wearing one of those gowns that gaps everywhere. Besides, I’m really not much of a hugger.
Lill came over and squeezed my hand. “Oh my, Josephine. I was so worried about you.”
“And rightly so. I have a few blanks, I’m afraid.”
I’d put together bits and pieces from things people had said as they treated me, although the Hopesprings bits were in grays with accompanying voices that sounded muffled and far away.
“Maybe I can fill those in,” Mac said.
As he told the story, and I added in what I remembered, Lill looked appalled. And I had to agree. The whole thing was appalling and surprising—a son valuing a painting and money over his mother, a woman who wasn’t a friend saving me by telling Mac where to find me.
Eventually, the nurse came in and chased everyone out. That gave Devi and me the first chance since she was shot to talk privately.
“Has Mac told you he loves you yet?” After all that’s happened, I’m done with beating around bushes.
Devi gasped and then winced.
“Sorry. That hurt, didn’t it?”
“Just a bit.”
“He does, you know?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t know why you’re saying it.”
“Because it’s true. See, I’ve figured Mac out. He’s a man who’s great at showing how he feels, but dreadful at putting it into words.”
“What’s so difficult about ‘I’m not married, Devi, and I’d like to take you to dinner’?”
“Do you know he didn’t leave your bedside from Saturday until your parents arrived on Monday? One nurse told me he held your hand the whole time. And once your parents left, he was back with you until he had to leave to rescue me.”
She swallowed and turned her head to look at me.
“If you care for him, dear, you’re going to have to be the one to do the talking. So do it. Don’t make the mistake I made.”
“What do you mean?”
“You asked me once if I’d tell you the story behind the painting.”
“What does that have to do with Mac?”
“Just about everything.” I was happy to see she had her teeth into the subject of Mac. “I’ve never told it to anyone before. But I’d like to tell you.”
“Okay. Sure. I’d love to hear the story.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t have a happy ending.”
“I’d still like to hear it.”
I took a breath before I began, but once I started speaking, I found the words coming more easily than I expected. “My husband used to go on extended business trips and on golf outings with a group of friends. I was never invited, and although it was a relief to have him away, it left me . . .” Swallowing, I tried to push away the visceral memory of how useless Thomas had always made me feel.
“Because I was desperate for something . . . exciting, or even just different, one year while he was away, I went to New York.”
I stopped to take a breath. Devi didn’t speak, nor did she move. Her eyes were closed, so she might even be asleep, but I’d started my story, and now I wanted to finish it.
“I checked into my hotel and went for a walk. The sidewalks were packed with people rushing about without looking at me, or each other for that matter. It made me feel more alone than I’d felt at home, and I was sorry I’d come. Then someone crashed into me. It was his fault, but he swore at me and gave me such a fierce, angry look, it gave me the shakes.
“I pushed my way on to a side street and leaned against a building. When I looked around, I saw I was across from an art gallery. It was chilly, barely spring, and the street where I was standing served as a funnel for a cold wind that swirled around me. I walked across the street and pulled on the gallery’s door. It was locked, but then a lock release sounded, and I stepped inside.
“A man came walking toward me, smiling. And I had the absurd feeling that I knew him, although I also knew that wasn’t possible. I now think that sometimes, when we first meet someone who’s going to be important to us, we’re given a glimpse . . .” My words trailed off, and it was a minute or so before I could continue.
“You know, I felt the same way, the first time I met you.” Turning my head, I looked at Devi. She opened her eyes and looked back at me, and we smiled at each other.
“The man, his name was Daniel, asked if I were looking for anything in particular. I said what I was seeking, I was unlikely to find. He smiled and said I might surprise myself, and then he gestured toward the painting on the wall in front of us. For a time, the two of us looked at the painting without speaking. It was Sea Watchers, of course. When Daniel spoke, it was to say he thought Hopper’s genius was that he so perfectly captured the feeling of solitude embedded in each of us, even when we’re with others.”
It occurred to me that Devi and I at this moment were worthy Edward Hopper subjects, with the two of us lying in separate beds and tinted with shadows cast by the bars on the sides of our beds and the IV poles.
For a moment, I wondered if I was going to be able to tell Devi the rest. But it was really the next bit that was the point, after all.
“I bought the painting. And Daniel and I . . .” No, I couldn’t say it. But maybe I didn’t need to.
“After that, I visited New York whenever I could, although I didn’t manage it as often as I wanted to. One time, Daniel and I were in Central Park, watching a group of children playing with boats in the reflecting pool. I turned to look at him and discovered he had tears in his eyes. I asked him what was wrong. He shook his head and said, ‘Nothing, except you’re going home tomorrow.’ I think that was the closest he ever came to telling me he loved me and wanted more. But he showed me, in so many ways, if only I’d been willing to see.”
Again, I stopped to gather my thoughts. A tear slid down my cheek. I ignored it, letting it soak into the pillow.
“Do you still meet Daniel?”
“He died. Fifteen years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I did warn you it wasn’t a happy story.”
“Did you want more?”
“Oh yes. But Daniel never asked for more, and so I thought what we had was enough for him. And I was so afraid to lose that. I lived for the time we were able to spend with each other. They were my birthday, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all rolled into one. It seems so silly now, but back then, the man was supposed to make the first move. The friend who called to tell me Daniel had died said that Daniel didn’t want me to feel pressured to leave my marriage. He thought if I’d been willing to do that, I would have said so. It was so incredibly stupid, the two of us letting happiness slip away without making a grab for it.”
Telling Devi about Daniel hurt more than I expected, and it left my head aching from trying to hold back tears. A nurse came in to do her checks and gave Devi a pain shot, something I could have used as well.
As I lay there after Devi and I said good night to each other, both my head and my heart ached. But although it had been difficult and painful to talk about Daniel, I wasn’t sorry I’d told Devi the story. Now, all I could do was hope it would do some good.
Chapter Fifty-One
Devi
The day Mac drove me home from the hospital, I’d had five days to think about Josephine’s story, and I’d decided to take her advice and end the stupid (Josephine’s word) impasse between Mac and me. I’d just been shown how tenuous life could be, and I didn’t intend to waste another minute.
Mac still looked tired, although he’d had a few days to catch up on the sleep he missed while he held on to me. I remember a feeling during that time, like sli
ding into space and then floating. There was no bright light, but I wasn’t afraid, and I quite liked the floaty sensation. Then I heard Mac’s voice and there was a jerk, and I was no longer airborne but solidly back inside myself. And there was pain. Blotting out everything until it all went mercifully black.
When I finally came to, my hand was in Mac’s, and I knew. Knew he’d been there all along. That I’d been aware of his touch, although I hadn’t known what it was.
In some cultures, if you save a life, you become responsible for that life. I didn’t want to lay a burden like that on Mac, but I did want him to share the life he’d saved.
A life I was now free to live without fear of my past. While I was still in the hospital, word came that the Chicago police had completed their inquiries a month ago, and William’s death had been labeled accidental. In his plea deal, Harry admitted that was what pushed him to come after me. Up to then, he’d expected me to pay for his brother’s death by being charged with at least manslaughter.
Mac brought me the news, and I’d known, without him saying it, that he was expecting me to return to Chicago to pick up the life I had there. But the past can’t be picked up like a piece of knitting. And even if it could, I can’t ignore the stitches added in the past year.
The truth is, I don’t want to go back. If I did that, I might end up like Josephine, living with regrets. That’s why Josephine told me the story, of course. And I know that if I don’t let Mac know how I feel about him, it will be my biggest regret.
Mac won’t ask me to stay, just like Daniel never asked Josephine. But there’s nothing preventing me from saying something. This is the twenty-first century, after all.
Mac pulled into the parking lot of my apartment building and came to open my door. I was still moving carefully, although everything is healing well. Sometimes, instead of hurting, I itch so badly it makes me gasp. The doctor told me that’s a sign my nerves are reconnecting. I’ll be very glad once they’ve managed it.
I stepped out of the vehicle and then nearly doubled over as one of those not-quite-reconnected nerves sent a bolt of pain through my midsection.