by Cathy Lamb
Chapter 4
My nightmare comes back that night. I see a bald man chasing me, laughing. I am running in place as fast as I can, panting. He catches up with me, puts an arm around my neck, and slits my throat. My blood spurts out until I dissolve and disappear.
* * *
To get me to wake up, my dad sings me a loud, booming song about a trucker and a barmaid and how they fell in love and got married and had half a dozen kids. His voice is deep and resonating, flowing through many rooms on this hospital floor, I’m sure.
I loved that song when I was a kid.
He then sings me “Kentucky Woman” by Neil Diamond. He loves Neil Diamond.
Next he sings a song about a mermaid who fell in love with a captain of a ship. The captain kept waving at her and leaving her, no matter how long she followed the ship. One day she jumped up, grabbed him, and drowned him. It was actually a funny song.
It would have been funnier if I could move.
* * *
Later I hear a nurse say to someone else, “Who was that man in here? The singer. Is he a professional?”
“He sort of looks like an older rock star . . . maybe he was in a band? He’s got that rebel quality to him. That yum.”
I laugh. My dad never thinks of himself as handsome. Ever. In fact, it’s hard to get him to remember to brush his hair.
* * *
My dad inherited his toughness, and his softness, from Grandma Dixie, who had him when she was eighteen. My dad’s father promptly ran off to “find freedom.” Dixie worked with her father in his auto repair shop in our hometown and became a mechanic. Dixie had people coming in from hundreds of miles away with their special cars for her to fix. They said she was magic with engines. “I swear the woman is a car witch,” one man muttered to me when I was helping out at her shop. “She could build an engine with her bare hands, blindfolded, slamming down straight shots.”
In our small town we would often have Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis locked up in my grandma’s shop. She’d told me that her favorite cars to work on were 1967 Chevys.
Grandma Dixie was almost attacked one night when she was working on a Ferrari.
Two men came in. Their intent was rape and they probably would have killed her, based upon the fact that they were wanted in California for these particular crimes. She heard them come in. She knew every inch of her garage and she knew where she hid the guns. When they smirked at her, said something about “being alone and having some fun with this slut,” and advanced, she pulled one out from under the old blue coffeepot. A .45.
One of them had a gun, but he was slow on the draw and he was up against Dixie Fox.
Both of them were shot through the thigh, blood gushing. She stood over them and told them if they moved she’d shoot ’em again.
“I did not shoot to kill,” she proudly told the policemen and the police chief, all friends of hers. She had known one of them, Norman, since kindergarten, and the other, Sherman, as a fellow baker. They enjoyed baking pies together with Sherman’s “friend” Santos. “I shot to maim so that for the rest of their lives they will remember me, Dixie Fox.”
The police chief and officers nodded respectfully.
“It was an inspired idea,” the chief, Howard MacIntosh, said to her.
Other people from town crowded into her shop, alerted by the police officers’ cars and swiveling lights. It’s a small town. People wanted in on the excitement. Everyone was impressed with my grandma’s marksmanship as the two men writhed on the ground. Yes, those two would remember Dixie Fox.
My grandma then swore at the criminals as if every swear word out of her mouth added another year to her life, I’m told.
Chief MacIntosh said, with fervent admiration, “Dixie Fox, I don’t know if I have ever fully expressed to you how impressed I am with your cursing. It’s like listening to a short story.”
“Thank you, Howard. I appreciate that. I’m teaching my son, too.”
“I can almost hear a poem,” her kindergarten friend, Norman, said to her. “I bet you learned it when you were studying poetry in fourth grade with Mrs. Kerns.”
“Mrs. Kerns knew how to make a poem come alive,” my grandma Dixie said in admiration. “Alive.”
The criminals moaned on the floor.
“I must also say that I am impressed with your shot, Dixie,” Chief MacIntosh went on, his hat in his hands. He had only arrived in town a year ago. “I have heard about your reputation as a deer hunter, but this raises your reputation yet another notch. Two men shot, not killed, deliberately saved, so they can suffer for their attempt on your virtue, your dignity, and your life.”
“Pride is a sin,” Grandma Dixie intoned. “A sin. But defending your life is not, and I am proud that I am still here. I have a responsibility to my son.”
The townspeople around them nodded sagely. She was a mother, after all! Not replaceable.
“They deserved it,” Sherman the pie maker said. “A man should suffer if he harms a woman.”
The criminals semi-screamed in pain and begged to go to the hospital.
“Don’t interrupt,” the chief told them. “If I can offer up a final compliment, your son, Scott, is a fine young man. I hear that he’s an excellent athlete and has perfect manners. You know my cousin, Charlene, is his English teacher at the high school.”
“Yes, I do. Tell Charlene hello. I appreciate her attention to the works of Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë.”
“Fine women,” the chief intoned. “As you are a fine woman.” He blushed.
“Chief, I have to have you over more often. I’m getting more compliments this evening than I’ve had in years.”
The criminals screeched in pain again. A bullet in the leg does that to a man.
“I’m free on Friday night,” the police chief said, his tone hopeful.
The pie-making pal grinned. The kindergarten friend’s face lit up. Why, these two would be perfect together! And they could say they were here when the love affair began! They could speak at the wedding, give a toast, tell the tale!
Grandma Dixie studied the chief. He was a few years older than her. He was widowed a few years back, she’d heard. Honest. Employed. Strong teeth. “Will you bring dinner? I have my momma’s cookbooks, but only because I loved her. They gather dust. I don’t cook well.”
“I sure will. Thank you, Dixie. I’m already looking forward to it.”
“I will make an apple pie.”
“I have also heard that your apple pies are the best in the county.”
“Oh, that is the truth.” Sherman nodded. There was no arguing with Sherman on this.
“I do my best,” my grandma Dixie said modestly. She smiled at the chief. I’m told he smiled right on back.
“I like the smell of your perfume,” he said.
“It’s pink roses. I’m a mechanic and a lady who enjoys a floral scent. I save all my perfume bottles. They’ll be antiques one day.”
The criminals begged again for the conversation to be done with so they could get to the hospital before they bled out.
The criminals were taken to jail after their operations. Research was done, phone calls were made. They were serial criminals; they went after women. They never got out of jail. My grandma received eight letters from victims and their family members who praised her for shooting those men and giving them “what they deserved, may they rot in a fiery hell, the devil prodding at them daily with his pitchfork.”
“Pride is arrogant and obnoxious,” she told me when I was older when I asked about this particular well-known event in our town. She raised a finger in the air. “But I have avenged their victims, and for that I am grateful that our holy Lord gave me a better than average shot.”
The chief wanted to marry my grandma, but she declined. She didn’t want to get married. Too conservative. Too restrictive. Plus, the chief had teenagers and she didn’t want to upset them. So they kept separate homes and the love affair commenced.
The chief died first, and Grandma organized a funeral for him. It was held in the school gymnasium because so many people wanted to come. My dad gave one of the eulogies, talking about how Howard had become a father to him, the father he never had, and his children, who had moved away, the siblings he had always wanted. The siblings nodded and blew him kisses.
I gave a eulogy, too. Grandpa Howard was my “real” grandpa in every sense. He was strong and courageous and welcoming. He would make up stories for me, off the fly, about magic and witches and goblins and lost cats. I told everyone one of his stories, and I saw people wiping their eyes.
My grandma had met the love of her life. Lucky her.
I thought of Zack. Lucky me.
* * *
I picture my grandma shoving me again, her rose perfume wafting by, a red 1967 Chevy right next to her. Crazy stuff goes on in a coma.
* * *
That night, late, I sense someone near me. I know it’s late because it’s quieter in the hospital as a whole and my family and friends are gone. Earlier I heard the nurses insisting that my dad and Zack leave. “We will take care of her, we promise. You both look like you’re going to collapse. Go sleep.”
I can’t see whoever is near, stuck in my unmoving corpse, but I smell him. He smells like beer and sweat and a slight bit of urine.
The nurses and staff here do not smell like beer and sweat and urine.
I hear a grunt. Heavy breathing. I feel him staring down at me.
I am instantly scared. Instinctually scared.
He laughs, dark and rumbling.
Who is it? Why is he here? Is he going to attack me? I’ve heard of sickos who attack people in hospitals. But how could someone bad be in here? I don’t know hospitals well, but I do know that there’s security here, especially in the ICU. You have to be buzzed through the double doors by an employee to even get in. You have to speak to someone at the reception area. Or you have to have a tag on you, as an employee of the hospital, that allows you to pass through.
The grunter puts something on the table beside me and giggles softly. At least, I think it’s a table. It may not be. It could be some medical apparatus thing, I have no idea. I haven’t seen the room. Something breakable, it sounds like a glass, falls and shatters. He swears and grunts again. His breathing is ragged, heavy. I want him out of my room.
I can feel my heart rate rising. My body can’t breathe well with him here. I feel like I’m struggling to bring air in. I hear a bell ringing by my bed. He swears again, his voice harsh, bitter, and I can hear his thunky footsteps. He’s leaving.
“Who are you?” I hear a nurse ask.
I hear him mumbling.
“I asked you a question. Who are you? Let me see your tag. Hey! That photo does not match your face. I asked you a question. Who are you? Where are you going? Stop running! Cassandra, get security. Now!”
The nurse runs in to check on me. I know her. Her name is Bettina. She’s from the south. She checks me, checks my vitals. She always talks to me when she walks in the room, says hello, says her name, tells me what she’s doing. Sometimes, when no one else is in the room, I hear her praying for me.
“Everything is okay, Mrs. Shelton. It’s me, Bettina.” I hear the worry in her voice, the anger. “We’re getting everything taken care of . . . I don’t know who that was, but we’ll make sure he doesn’t come back again. . . .” She pauses, then she yells, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God!”
I freeze up. Why is Bettina yelling, “Oh, my God”? What happened?
“I called security, Bettina, they’re after him.” Another nurse. This one is named Darrell. Deep voice. I like Darrell. When he’s in my room he tells me about his wife, his three boys.
“What is it, Bettina?” Darrell says. I hear him move toward her. “Oh, my heck, that is demented.”
I’m scared. I am really scared. What happened? What did they find? Who was that? What did he do?
“This is sick,” Bettina says.
My room is soon filled with people. They all have the same horrified reaction.
“Don’t touch it,” Bettina says. “There will be fingerprints.”
“Is that a Barbie doll?”
“Her head is on backward . . .”
“Those are cuts on her body . . .”
“I think the cuts were made by a knife . . .”
“There’s red ink for blood . . .”
“Look between her legs. There are stab marks . . .”
“There are two letters on her stomach.... Oh, this is awful. It’s NS.”
“It’s for the patient! Her name is Natalie Shelton.”
What?!
“Get the head of security on the phone,” someone says, her voice rigid. “Get Shea Zogg. Tell her to call the police. We need to look for this man. He may still be in the hospital.... She’ll take a look at the cameras, the tapes.... We need a guard outside this door twenty-four seven starting right now!”
“This is a crime scene,” someone else says. “Everybody out except for Bettina and Darrell, who will care for Mrs. Shelton. Out, out, out!”
Apparently, the man who was in my room, a supposedly secure room in the ICU, has left me a gift.
It’s a Barbie doll. Her head has been screwed on backward. She is naked. Someone has taken a knife to her, and she has cuts all down her body. He has used a red marker for blood. There is a lot of red on her vagina. My initials have been carved into her stomach.
I am more scared than I’ve been since the first days.
The grunter cut up a Barbie doll and put it in my hospital room.
Who is he? Why would he do that?
Why is he after me?
* * *
The police come. Security comes. I’m counting the voices, and there’s at least six of them in my room. One of them is a detective named Macy Zadora. A police officer was assigned to the hit-and-run, mine being one of zillions of hit-and-runs, but when it elevated to a hit-and-run plus an assaulted Barbie, we got a detective.
Detective Zadora has a low, authoritative, competent voice. I’d put her about fifty.
Detective Zadora and Shea Zogg are clearly the ones in charge. Dr. Tarasawa doesn’t usually work at night, but he had an emergency operation and is here, too. His job is to check me, which he does. He whispers, “Mrs. Shelton, I am sorry this happened. We’re going to protect you better than this. You’ll be safe, I promise. Hang in there.”
Zack and my dad arrive. I hear them running down the corridor. Zack kisses my cheeks and cups my face. My dad hugs me, panting.
“Everything’s okay, baby,” Zack says.
“My hummingbird,” my dad says, his voice wobbling. “We’re here.”
“We don’t know who was in Mrs. Shelton’s room yet,” Shea says to Zack and my dad, one on either side of me, holding my limp hands.
“We’ve determined that he stole a white coat and a doctor’s badge to get through the locked double doors here,” Shea says. “He was in blue scrubs. Could have gotten those anywhere. He was trying to impersonate a doctor, and he did it well. The cameras showed him confidently entering the hospital and the ICU, although his head was down. Now we know why.”
“But how did he know her room number?” my dad asks.
“It would have been easy for him to find out what room she’s in, as she was not made anonymous by our security staff when she arrived. People call every day, all day, and they need the room numbers of family and friends who are here. We give it to them unless that person, or the family, or law enforcement, has requested that we not for whatever reason.”
“What did he look like?” Zack’s voice is quiet now. Steel and control over anger.
“Tall. Big. White,” Shea says. “We’re getting a photo of him. It’ll be brought to the room so you can take a look at it.”
Geez. Sounds scary. Sounds like the man from my nightmare.
“He was wearing thick-rimmed glasses,” Shea says. “We think he was bald under the surgeon’s hat, because there
was no hair on the lower side of his head or neck. When the alarm sounded, he ran down the hall, headed into the stairwell, ran out a side door through the parking lot, and headed into the woods behind the hospital.”
I can feel Zack tightening beside me, his hand gripping mine. I can feel his tension . . . and the fear again, that white-hot fear.
“We thought Natalie,” Shea says, “was in a typical hit-and-run. We had no reason to believe she was in danger.”
I hear Zack swear softly beside me.
“What do you mean, in danger?” I hear my dad’s confusion, his fear. “I don’t understand. You called and told us there was an intruder in her room—”
“There’s more,” Detective Macy Zadora says.
“What do you mean, more?” Zack says.
“I was going in to check on Mrs. Shelton because her heart rate was up,” Bettina says. “That’s when I ran into him and saw the Barbie.”
“The what?” my dad and Zack say together loudly. Obviously, they had not been told about the Barbie when the hospital first called about the intruder.
Detective Zadora tells them about the Barbie, which the police already have in an evidence bag.
Zack’s hand freezes in mine. I think that man of mine is about ready to explode.
My dad asks, incredulous, “Are the Barbie and the hit-and-run related?”
“They could be,” Detective Zadora says.
“You’re telling me that someone is after my girl? That the car accident was deliberate? That the son of a gun did it on purpose? That the Barbie . . . Oh, my God . . .” His chair flies back. I know he’s standing, because my hand is in the air in his. “Who would do this? You find him, I’ll shoot him.”
Inside my Coma Coffin, I have to laugh, even though this whole thing is a cauldron of evil. That’s my dad. Threatening to kill someone in front of police officers.
“Please don’t, Mr. Fox,” Detective Zadora says. “If you even attempt it, I will have to arrest you.”
Zack is breathing heavily beside me, like a bull ready to charge.
They discuss the incident, the man, and the Barbie as I lie like a scared-to-death corpse. The Barbie thing, combined with the hit-and-run, has frightened me to my bones.