Zoë behaved as if she was the only one to ever experience such loss. He knew Blake was a huge influence on his daughter’s life, but how did pushing him away help anything?
“Excuse me,” came a voice and Jake looked up. Two well-dressed young men stood before him.
He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “How are you? I’m Jake. What can I do for you today?”
“We’d like to see about getting prequalified for a loan,” answered the taller of the men. “We just found a delightful Victorian and we want to make an offer.”
Jake motioned to the chairs. “Please sit down. I’m happy to assist you.”
* * *
The Muni pulled to the curb and hissed as the doors opened. Jake braced his legs to take the sudden stop in motion and gripped the overhead handle harder. This late in the evening there were no seats to be had.
He lifted the briefcase braced between his feet and waited for the other standing passengers to move toward the front of the bus, shuffling down the narrow aisle. He nodded at the bus driver as he turned to go down the stairs. Late spring sun shown over the tops of the buildings, bathing the sidewalk with warmth. He paused for a moment to absorb it, knowing it would soon disappear.
He’d worked later than usual, but when a customer wants to fill out loan papers five minutes before the bank closes, you stay. Two full loan applications and a number of checking accounts. It had been a good day.
He started walking toward the flat.
He majored in business at San Francisco State because his father had wanted him to do something more than he had himself. John Ryder had spent his life working in one factory after another, mind-numbing, back-breaking work. First the metal industry and then the auto industry. He’d only been retired for five years before he had his heart attack and died.
Jake didn’t care for business. He didn’t particularly like working at the bank, but it was what his father had dreamed for him. The money was good and that was enough, or so to John’s way of thinking. He didn’t want his children to have to scrape by every month, worrying that something might break when the paycheck only covered the necessities. Jake knew his father was proud of him, but that didn’t mean he was satisfied. Still, it also earned him Blake’s respect and he’d do just about anything for that.
He jogged up the steps to the flat and reached in his pocket for his keys, fitting one into the lock on the outer door. It swung open and he stepped inside. The row of mailboxes on the wall to the left glimmered in the dying sunlight.
Mrs. Parker and her Pomeranian, Prince, were standing before an open box. Prince immediately began to bark at Jake and kick his back legs. Mrs. Parker turned with a startled look that melted into a smile. Jake smiled back at her.
“How are you, Mrs. Parker?” he said, bending to scratch Prince behind the ears. The little dog quieted, cocking his head in pleasure at the attention.
“I’m just fine, Jake. How was work?”
Jake straightened. “Good. You and Prince just get back from your walk?”
“We did. He saw the cat down the street and tried to go after him. That’s why he’s so worked up.”
Jake smiled again. Prince was always worked up, that is until you confronted him. Then he dissolved into a puddle of canine affection.
Mrs. Parker locked her box, then turned toward the hallway. “Have a nice evening, Jake,” she said.
“You too,” Jake answered and watched her shuffle away, followed by the bouncing ball of hair who was her constant companion. He found the key for the mailbox and opened it, reaching in to take out the envelopes and catalogs stuffed inside. Zoë never got the mail. She said it depressed her to see bills and she didn’t like to be depressed.
Jake tucked the mail under his arm and closed the box, then took the stairs to their flat. He fumbled for the right key at the door, but finally got it in the lock. Pushing open the door with his shoulder, he dropped the keys into the dish on a table by the door and settled his briefcase beside it.
“Zoë?” he shouted as he shut the door again.
The sun had sunk behind the houses and the flat was dark. Jake frowned and dropped the mail into the dish. As soon as the natural light failed, Zoë turned on every light in the flat. They argued about it. Jake didn’t understand why they needed to waste so much energy, but Zoë said she needed the light.
“Zoë?” he called again. No answer.
She must be with her mother still. He reached for his phone and pulled it out. No text message, no voice message. That wasn’t like her. She was usually very diligent about keeping him informed.
He slipped the phone into his jacket pocket and walked toward the kitchen. The kitchen was dark, but he could see the glow of a Styrofoam box from a restaurant on the floor. He reached for the switch and flicked it on. The box had fallen and broken open. Some noodle dish in a red sauce leaked out. Jake frowned.
Zoë hated Styrofoam, said it was killing the environment, but if she went to lunch with her mother, Claire would make sure she brought any food home with her. Claire might have more money than she knew what to do with now, but she hadn’t always been wealthy. Before marrying Blake, Claire had scraped by, going heavily into debt to become a labor and delivery nurse. Meeting her doctor had changed her life, she always said.
He grabbed a handful of paper towel and reached for the container, but he stopped, looking toward the hallway. If Zoë had dropped this here, why hadn’t she cleaned it up? She must be home. She would never leave a mess on the floor like this.
Dropping the paper towel over the food, he moved toward the hallway. The door to the bedroom was open, but dark. Stepping into the doorway, he could see light spilling out of the half-opened bathroom door. For some reason, his heart kicked up speed as he crossed around the bed.
“Zoë!” Alarm made his voice sharp. He reached for the handle, pushing open the door. It bumped into something and he looked around.
Zoë lay crumpled on the floor. One shoe had fallen off and her eyes were closed. Jake pushed his way into the room and dropped beside her. “Zoë!” He touched her shoulder and she moaned. Blond hair spilled across the marble tiles and her breathing was labored.
He scrambled to pull the phone out of his pocket, dialing frantically. While he waited for the ringing to stop, he reached out and brushed the hair back from her face. Her skin was cold and clammy to his touch.
“Oh God,” he whispered, “Zoë, please don’t do this to me.”
The phone clicked and a woman’s voice filled the line. “911, what is your emergency?”
Jake gripped the phone tighter, grinding it against the side of his face, but he couldn’t find his voice.
“911, what is your emergency?”
He shook himself and took a deep breath. “My wife…” he said, his voice quivering. “My wife…please hurry. Please come. We need help.”
CHAPTER 2
Jake sat with his hands clasped before him, staring at his shoes. He needed to polish them. They looked scuffed around the toe. The cold plastic of the hospital chair wrapped around him and the brilliant overhead florescent lights beat down on his head. A headache was beginning in his temples and he had a nasty taste in his mouth.
He could still hear the scream of the sirens in his head, the frantic motion of the paramedics as they worked over Zoë’s body. If he closed his eyes, he could see the pulsation of the lights against his eyelids.
The hospital was cold. Across from him the television blared, some talk show where people shouted at each other from chairs. A young couple sat in the chairs before it, the girl resting her head on the boy’s shoulder. At the other end of the room, an old man coughed into a tissue, his breath wheezing, and a few seats down was a mother with a two year old who cried weakly and said she wanted to go home.
“Jake?”
Jake looked up. Claire bustled into the room. Her hair was perfectly styled in a blond bob, her make-up impeccable, her skirt and blouse out of place in this cold, austere room
with its plastic chairs and veneered end tables. He rose to his feet and she bussed a kiss across his cheek without really touching him.
“Where’s Zoë?” she demanded, clutching her green handbag in front of her as if it were a barrier. She shot a look around the room and her painted lips pursed in obvious disgust. “Did they have to bring her here?”
Jake frowned. “Here?”
“This…this place with these…people.”
“Where did you want them to bring her?” Claire had always baffled him. She was so different from Zoë and her father, so…he wasn’t sure.
She looked back at him and her expression softened. “I’m sorry. I just hate to think of her in this place. What has the doctor said?”
“Nothing. They won’t let me see her and I haven’t gotten any news.”
“Have you asked?”
“Repeatedly.” Jake knew it came out sharper than he intended, but Claire was the last person he wanted to see right now.
Claire’s head came up. “Well, then I’ll just have to ask, won’t I?”
Jake lifted a hand and let it fall. No use arguing with that.
Claire bustled over to the desk, slamming her purse on the counter. “Hello,” she said with false politeness. Jake followed at a distance. He felt so out of his depth, but if Claire could get any information, he wanted to hear it.
The weary nurse looked up through her glasses, then pushed them back on her nose. “Can I help you?”
“I am Claire Harper. My husband is Doctor Blake Harper.”
“Good for you,” said the nurse with a smirk.
Jake closed his eyes. This wasn’t going to get them anything.
“Stella, is that right? Your nametag says Stella.”
The nurse’s smile dried. “Yeah?”
“Stella, my daughter was brought in by ambulance an hour ago. I would like an update on her condition. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind leaving your chair and finding out for me, would you?” Claire tilted her head back so she looked down her nose at the nurse. Everything about her said confidence and aggression, but he could see the trembling of her hands on the handles of her bag. That surprised him.
Claire never lacked for confidence and she usually got her way because most people didn’t know how to deal with her aggressive personality.
The nurse studied her for a moment more, but Claire wasn’t backing down. With a sigh, the nurse heaved her considerable bulk out of the chair and leaned on the counter. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Claire flashed her a practiced smile. “Excellent. We’ll wait here.”
“You do that,” said the nurse icily as she turned away.
Claire pivoted on a high heel and lifted her purse, marching back to Jake. “That’s how you handle them,” she said, but Jake’s eyes were drawn to her hands. They still shook. He guessed she was more worried about Zoë than she let on.
He went back to his chair and she perched on the edge of the one beside him, settling the bag in her lap. She stared at the television for a moment, then shifted and stared at him. Jake had gone back to contemplating his shoes, hearing the blaring of the sirens once more, seeing the lifeless way Zoë lay on the gurney, watching the frantic motion of the two paramedics as they tried to start an IV.
“Tell me what happened again,” demanded Claire.
Jake looked up at her. Did he detect a hint of emotion in her voice, a slight tremble? “I came home and found her on the floor of the bathroom. I called 911 and they came. They didn’t tell me anything, just rushed us here. When I tried to go with her, they stopped me. I called you and this is where I’ve been for the last hour.”
“What did the medics say? What did they think happened to her?”
Jake shook his head. “They said nothing. The only thing I heard is that her blood pressure was too low. They had a hard time finding a pulse.”
Claire’s hands shook. “Didn’t they say anything else? Didn’t they have any idea what it could be?”
“No, they were a little busy trying to get an IV started.”
“And no one has come out since then? No one has said anything? What did the nurses say when you registered her? Did they ask you anything?”
“They asked me all the standard stuff – medications, her past illnesses. I couldn’t tell them anything. Zoë’s always been healthy.”
“But they didn’t have any idea what’s wrong? You didn’t pick up anything all this time you’ve been here?”
Jake felt his patience snap. “Claire, you know as much as I do. Why don’t you tell me what happened today? You were with her more than I was. How did she seem?”
Claire tightened her grip on the purse. “You don’t have to snap. I’m just worried about my daughter.”
“We both are. I found a Styrofoam box in the kitchen. Did she eat lunch?”
“A little bit. I couldn’t get her to eat much, so I made her bring it home. I was hoping she’d eat it later.”
“Did you go to see Blake?”
Claire nodded in a strange, tense way, her head jerking up and down very fast. “No change. I wish Zoë would stop going to see him. It always upsets her. I think that’s why she wouldn’t eat much.”
“Did she say she wasn’t feeling well?”
“No, she didn’t say anything like that. I told her I thought she looked tired, but she said she was fine. We got lunch and she took a few bites, then she said she wanted to go home. I asked her what was wrong, but she said it was nothing. I didn’t push it. We left the restaurant and got separate cabs. She seemed fine when I left her.”
Jake leaned back in the chair and rubbed his hands across his face. Pressing his knuckles into his throbbing temples, he closed his eyes.
“Do you have a headache?” asked Claire.
Jake fought for patience and nodded.
Claire snapped open her purse, rummaging around inside. Jake canted a look down at her. The bag was filled with brushes and compacts and lipstick canisters. Shoving her wallet aside, she reached into the bottom and pushed various medicine bottles out of the way, then came up with a small white bottle labeled aspirin. She glanced up at him. When she caught him looking, she snapped the bag closed, then pressed it against her stomach as she struggled to open the safety lid.
Shaking two white pills into her palm, she held them out. “No use being in pain.”
Jake frowned, but reached for the pills. Her actions were so matter of fact. Did she just not understand how serious this was? At 26, Zoë should be in the peak of health, not lying motionless on a gurney.
He pushed himself from the chair and walked over to the water fountain, popping the pills in his mouth. He turned the handle as he bent over the fountain, letting the cold water fill his mouth.
“Mr. Ryder?”
He swallowed and straightened quickly. The heavy-set nurse from the counter stood behind him.
“Yes?”
“Follow me.” She motioned to the door on the left of her counter.
Jake glanced at Claire, but she was already hurrying toward the door, her heels marking a sharp, staccato tattoo on the floor. He followed the nurse into a box-shaped room. A nurses’ station occupied the center and branching off like wagon-wheel spokes were other smaller rooms, separated by sliding glass doors. Jake could see a few sick people lying in beds behind the sliding glass doors. Visitors sat in chairs beside the beds and in a few, nurses checked vital signs or started IVs.
“Wait here,” said the nurse, pointing to a white wall.
Jake looked around again. Wasn’t there a consultation room or something they could go into? He felt exposed here. Claire started to say something to the nurse, but Jake shook his head. It didn’t matter. He wanted to know about Zoë and he couldn’t see her behind any of the sliding glass doors.
Another swinging door opened across the room and a doctor in blue hospital scrubs moved swiftly across the space toward them. He was tall, over six feet, and thin. He held a pair of latex gloves in one hand and
his feet were covered with paper shields.
“Mr. Ryder?” He held out his hand.
Jake took it automatically. It felt rough and cold in his grip. “Doctor?”
“Singh.” He glanced at Claire and raised a black brow. “And you are?”
Claire stuck out a manicured hand. “Claire Harper, Dr. Blake Harper’s wife. Surely you’ve heard of my husband?”
“Yes, of course,” said Dr. Singh, turning back to Jake.
“Zoë is my daughter,” continued Claire as if she didn’t notice the doctor had turned away. “I’d like to know what is being done to help her and exactly what is wrong.”
The doctor nodded. “Of course, that’s why I’m here.” He shifted toward Jake again. “I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but we’ve been trying to stabilize your wife.”
Jake’s mouth had gone dry. He wanted to ask about Zoë, but something in the way the doctor held himself made his thoughts scatter.
Dr. Singh let out a long sigh. “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”
Claire pushed up closer. “Out with it. What is going on with Zoë?”
Dr. Singh’s hand tightened around the glove. “We believe Zoë has a ruptured aneurysm.”
“A what?” Jake heard himself say.
“A ruptured aneurysm. Her blood pressure dropped so low because she’s been hemorrhaging. We’re having trouble getting her blood pressure to stabilize.”
“Where is this aneurysm?” asked Claire.
The doctor shifted weight. “We believe the rupture occurred in her brain. We’re taking her to have a CT scan right now. That should show us the extent of the damage and the exact location.”
“Then what?” said Jake.
“If we can get her stabilized, we’ll operate.” He glanced away, then back. “However, I have to warn you, should she be stable enough to endure surgery, there will likely be permanent damage.”
“Brain damage?”
Murder on Potrero Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 1) Page 2