The Gemini Bridge (The York Street Series Book 1)

by Shea Meadows

  This letter was much shorter. George read it and handed it to Ricky. Certain words seemed to stand out on the page: “blunt force trauma”, “persistent vegetative state,” “renal failure,” “inability to endure the trauma needed in exploratory surgery to identify and correct remaining hemorrhage sites.” It was obvious that the two consultants agreed with Dr. Jenson. She handed the report to Beth Ann and turned to the doctor. “What’s your opinion of the best course of action? Would it benefit Tilda to go through additional surgery?”

  Dr. Jenson shook his head slowly. “Not that I can see in the present circumstances, but that’s up to you and your father. If you want surgery, we’ll get an OR lined up immediately.”

  Ricky looked at her father. George was holding Tilda’s living will in a shaking hand. His voice was weak and strained. “Putting aside the issue of how she knew about this accident a year ago, this letter makes it clear what Tilda wants.”

  Ricky turned to Beth Ann, who’d been closer to Tilda the last few years, than her family.

  Beth Ann smiled through her tears. “Please, Ricky. Review the chart. Moon wanted you to.”

  Dr. Jenson asked, “Where would you like to look at it?”

  “In her room. I haven’t seen her yet.” A shudder ran through Ricky’s body as she spoke.

  “Mr. Townsend is with her. I’ll have him leave.”

  Beth Ann stayed in the waiting room, head resting in her hands, as George and Ricky followed the doctor to 604.

  As the door opened, Ricky avoided looking at the figure in the bed. She looked at the sunset visible through the window. She admired the small shelf filled with flowers. She could smell a faint aroma of roses, which was overwhelmed by the medicinal odor coming from the utility table, stacked with dressing packets, catheters, IV tubing, and assorted supplies.

  And finally, she allowed her eyes to travel to the black-bearded man with a receding hairline sitting by her sister’s bedside, holding Tilda’s limp hand. She barely remembered him. He was tall and lean, well muscled, with a hawk-like nose and wide-set dark eyes under thin eyebrows. The beard varied in length, inexpertly trimmed. His forehead was wrinkled into deep furrows as he peered down at her sister. He appeared consumed by grief.

  When Chester became aware of their presence, he stood up and attempted a smile, but all he managed was a grimace. “Hello, Ricky, glad you came so soon.”

  Ricky didn’t return the greeting. The shock of her sister’s mangled body held her attention. Tilda’s head was swathed in dressings, and EEG leads trailed out from under them. Her eyes appeared swollen shut and bruises and lacerations transformed her face into a grotesque parody of the face Ricky saw in the mirror every morning. A breathing tube, attached to a tracheotomy, and then to the respirator, was the principle device keeping her alive.

  The whish of the respirator was the only sound. The staff had turned off the audio on the monitors, but their displays indicated a crisis situation. Two IVs were in place, Ringer’s Lactate running into a central line at her chest, whole blood going into her right arm. An empty urinary catheter trailed from under a leg-cradle to an equally empty collection bag.

  I can’t feel Tilda. I always feel her when we’re in a room together. It’s like a tingle, a twin thing. Will I ever feel complete again if I lose her?

  Dr. Jenson handed Tilda the chart. He whispered in Chester’s ear, directing him firmly from the room.

  George took the chair which Chester vacated and held Tilda’s hand, tears streaming down his face. Ricky put her hand gently on Tilda’s stomach and at various points on her body, feeling for some sign of animation. Nothing at all was there, only a pulse, thready, weak and indistinct, reflected by the fifty beats- per-minute reported on the monitor. The blood pressure was sixty over forty. The machines barely sustained her life. Tilda’s body was just as bruised as her face. Blood pooled in her legs which had become blue-tinged from toes to thighs. Dr. Jenson and the others weren’t exaggerating the gravity of the situation.

  Ricky sat down with the chart and paged through it. Reading the description of Tilda in the emergency room made Ricky tremble. Try as she might, she couldn’t be clinically detached. She forced her way onward and reviewed the surgical description which was incomplete because so little time had elapsed since admission. She scanned the lab work, scribbled notes waiting for the official forms to be completed. Lastly, she looked at the all-important EEG graphs and CAT scans which were tucked inside the chart cover.

  As best she could, Ricky compared the EEGs and CAT scans taken in the emergency room with those taken within the last hour. Nothing had changed. Brain function was apparently gone on impact at the accident scene and never regained. Tilda’s ability to think had ended about ten p.m. the previous night, about the time Ricky experienced a terrible headache.

  She came in the dream last night. She already knew it was over. She was dressed in gossamer gold, telling me to stop my revenge. Telling me she needed me. I was so self-absorbed, I could only think about my soap-opera drama. I’ll never be able to laugh and talk with her again.

  Ricky had a million unanswered questions, but none of them for the doctor. What caused the accident? Where was Tilda going when it happened? Did Beth Ann know something she wasn’t telling? How did Chester get the living will? Had he predicted Tilda’s accident? She wanted answers but there was no time. Tilda was fading fast. Her father waited for input, and Ricky needed time alone with Tilda.

  She put her hands on her father’s shoulders and kneaded his tense muscles. “Dad, I agree with Dr. Jenson. I don’t think surgery would help. We have to honor her wishes. Do you want to be alone with her for a few minutes while I talk to Beth Ann and Chester?”

  George took in a shaky breath and looked up at Ricky. “Do we have to let them pull the plug tonight?”

  “Why wait? Tilda wouldn’t want this dragging on. We could wait until she silently bleeds to death, but it doesn’t make sense. Either way, I don’t think she’ll last much longer. I’m amazed that they waited until I arrived. Let me see if there are others who’d like to say goodbye.” Ricky stumbled out of the room, using the furniture and doorframe as support.

  Dr. Jenson was standing by the nurses’ station talking to an attractive man in a well-worn business suit. They were glancing back toward Chester who sat on a plastic chair next to the door.

  Chester jumped up when she came out of the room. His six-foot-four frame, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, towered over Ricky who was five foot six.

  “Chester, I need to talk to you about the living will, but not now. Now we have to say goodbye to Tilda. Who were the people closest to her? If they get here quickly, maybe they’ll see her one last time.”

  Chester shook his head. “She’ll never really be gone, see? She promised to work from the other side. It’ll be a lot easier for her without a body.”

  Ricky could feel anger building. “Believe whatever you wish, but you’re not answering my question. Who’ll want to say good bye?”

  Chester looked into Ricky’s eyes, and a small smile played over his lips. “You’ll figure it out soon, Ricky. You’ve lost the connection, but it’ll come back.”

  “If you won’t answer, I’ll ask Beth Ann.” She turned her back to him and walked to the waiting room. Beth Ann was curled up like a small child at the end of the couch, her legs tucked under her, as she fiddled with the ends of her black curls. She sat upright and leaned toward Ricky when she came in.

  “What do you think? Is it time?”

  Ricky sat down beside Beth Ann. “I agree with the doctor. There doesn’t appear to be any brain function left. She won’t last much longer with or without the respirator. Are there people who’d like to say goodbye before we give the doctor permission to turn off the machine?”

  Beth Ann shuddered. “Moon Angel has hundreds who love her. But there are only four of us who are really close to her. Only four who can look at her battered body and remember it isn’t really her. I’ll call Dylan and J
essica. They live in Uptown and can make it here quickly.”

  Beth Ann paused for a moment, her brows knotting in confusion, her nose twitching. “I don’t know what to do about Jeremy. They broke up a week ago, but he still cares for her. I’m not sure if she’d want him to see her like this. Then there’s Jeremy’s mother, Fran. Moon loved her more than she loved Jeremy. What should I do?”

  Ricky looked down at her hands, which she held so tightly together they’d become red from lack of circulation. “Call them, if they can get here quickly. It will help them face reality if they see her.”

  Beth Ann shook her head. “Death isn’t reality. If you’d been around Moon Angel for the last few years, you’d know that’s true.”

  Ricky sighed. “Now you sound like Chester. I have to go tell the doctor what we decided. Call those people. I don’t know how long she’ll last. The respirator won’t help much longer. Her heart is about to give out.”

  Chapter 3

  Ricky was finally alone with Tilda. First, Moon Angel’s inner circle said their farewells. Jessica, who was tall and Nordic with a thick blond braid and stunning green eyes, and Dylan, a slender, studious-looking Korean with spiked black hair, sat on either side of their teacher, overwhelmed with grief. They’d stayed away until then out of respect for Tilda’s family. Jessica whispered they’d been holding a prayer ritual at Moon’s home. She directed Ricky to the window, where out in a small yard at the back of the hospital, she could see a large group of Moon’s followers. A circle of candles flickered as they held vigil for their spiritual leader.

  Jeremy Fenster, and his mother, Fran seemed devastated with grief. Jeremy, sturdy looking with dark red hair and a boyish face, sat at Tilda’s bedside and mumbled to her. “I told you not to do it. I told you it was dangerous. Why did you? What was the purpose?”

  Ricky caught Fran’s eye. “What does he mean?” she asked softly.

  Fran, who looked enough like Jeremy to be his sister, shook her head with a perplexed frown, then looked back to Tilda with eyes filled with infinite sadness. After about five minutes, Fran led a confused-looking Jeremy from the room.

  Now, two hours after arriving at the hospital, the sisters were finally alone. The staff had already removed the respirator and the IVs. All that was left was a small cannula delivering oxygen through Tilda’s tracheotomy tube. Tilda was breathing shallow, labored breaths. It wouldn’t be long.

  Ricky held Tilda’s hand in both of hers, remembering how Tilda used to trace the paths of tears on Ricky’s face when they were kids. Tilda had always been the mother when they played house. She was always the queen and always the teacher. It came naturally to her.

  “Beta fredo alda. You’re my big sister. You were born five minutes before me, and you never forgot that.” Ricky smiled through her tears, remembering the good times with Tilda. Remembering when they really were best friends. “When did it stop? When did it stop being important for you to think exactly the same as me? I’d do anything to turn it around, to bring back our friendship, to have you back again. Anything.”

  There was rustling, an indistinct shift. For a moment, it seemed like Tilda was moving on her own, but she didn’t visibly move. Then a word, as if whispered, but without any sound: “Anything?”

  Without hesitating, without thinking who or what was asking, Ricky answered, “Yes anything. I’d do anything for you, Queen Tilda. Beta fredo alda.”

  That whisper once again. “Wida ar widoda bo?”

  Ricky felt a hysterical laugh moving up into her throat. I can’t tell anyone about this. They’d think I’m crazy. What is she saying? I should remember. Our secret language. “What does that mean, Tilda? It’s been so long. Give me a break and say it in English.”

  A whispered laugh, playful, childlike, but nothing more. No translation or explanation, just one more thing for Ricky to wonder about for the rest of her life. But it suddenly seemed inappropriate to be unhappy. The whisper sounded joyful. How can she be happy when she’s leaving us? Isn’t she frightened? Ricky held her sister’s hand, not knowing if she should laugh or cry.

  The door opened, and her dad came back into the room with Dr. Jenson who had a stocky nurse trailing behind him. The nurse checked Tilda and made notations in her chart. Tilda’s skin was getting cooler by the minute.

  Dr. Jenson looked to George and then to Ricky. “Is there anything we can do to support you? Would you like the chaplain to sit with you?”

  George shook his head. “Tilda didn’t think much of mainstream religion. She was spiritual but in a different way. Ricky, would the chaplain be a help to you?”

  Ricky shook her head. “I haven’t been to church in ages. Chester gave Tilda some sort of blessing earlier. He said it was to send her on her way.”

  The doctor shifted from one foot to the other. “We’ll be monitoring her vital signs from the desk. If there’s anything you’d like for her or yourselves, turn on the call light, and we’ll be in.”

  George took a chair to the left, Ricky to the right of Tilda. Ricky’s mind was spinning in multiple directions. Was Tilda trying to tell me something? I thought I killed off my imagination years ago, starved it with neglect, but that’s probably the explanation. How will I go on without her? Why did I push her away? How will I get through this? Will Dad expect me to stay in Minneapolis?

  Ricky laid her head on the edge of the bed. She reached over and put her hand on Tilda’s heart. “I love you, Tilda, you can leave when you’re ready” she whispered into her sister’s ear. Again, she felt movement. She looked to see if it was from her dad, but he sat very still, his hand on Tilda’s forehead, weeping silently. Tilda’s breath changed to the rhythm of dying, then with a gasp, her breathing stopped. Ricky felt a surge of energy moving away from Tilda’s heart and thought she heard a whish as it traveled to the top of Tilda’s head. George pulled back his hand in surprise.

  “She’s going, Ricky. Tilda’s leaving us.” His voice was faint but resigned.

  Ricky saw a cloudy form in the corner of the ceiling which soon dissipated. She moved to George’s side of the bed and took her father in her arms. They held each other, sobbing. It was over. At two in the morning, on June 20th, 2002, Ricky and Tilda’s birthday, Tilda breathed her last, as she’d predicted a year before.

  *

  An hour later, Ricky sat next to Beth Ann in her car, heading toward Tilda’s house. Ricky felt numb. It had been difficult signing the permission for the autopsy and the harvesting of organs. Tilda’s body would be sent to the Hennepin County Coroner’s office to help determine the cause of the accident. It seemed so final.

  Chester told me where to find the safety box and the key. I’d have never suspected where she hid them.” Beth Ann sounded like she was as foggy as Ricky.

  Ricky couldn’t answer; her exhaustion was so deep, she only nodded in response. A thick cloud of sweat and sour breath seemed to surround them, the smell of grief. It was even stronger than Beth Ann’s patchouli.

  I couldn’t find 552 York Street on my own. It’s been so long since I’ve driven in Minneapolis. I can’t remember ever being in Linwood Hills. Tilda asked again and again, and I was too busy. Now, I’ll see it without her.

  Beth Ann pulled into a paved alley, drove past three backyards, and then took out the garage door opener that Chester gave her at the hospital. The lights turned on as they drove in, revealing a neat assortment of gardening tools and supplies hanging from hooks and sitting on shelves.

  “Moon loves to work in the garden. Her yard is small but beautiful. Wait ‘til you see it.” Beth Ann gripped the steering well tightly and looked towards Ricky. “Moon won’t be able to finish her medicine-wheel garden. Can I do it for her?”

  Ricky nodded, not wanting to discuss it. Who knows what’ll happen to this property? The owner will be named in Tilda’s will.

  She grabbed her suitcase, duffel and carry-on from the back seat and followed Beth Ann to the back of the house. Dark shapes which appeared to be trellises and
retaining walls surrounded the plants near the flagstone pathway. A pine tree near the garage shared its woodsy tang. Ricky smelled petunias and roses.

  The back porch light had illuminated at the same time as the garage lights. Its welcoming glow gave them a good view of the wood porch of the 1920s home. Two flagstone steps lead to a screen door which covered a painted wood door on the three-season addition. Beth Ann pulled a key chain with a copper star out of her purse. It was Tilda’s. Ricky remembered seeing it when her sister visited in Chicago.

  The back door opened with a squeak and stuck a bit as Beth Ann pushed on it. “This door is stubborn. Moon says the house has a mind of its own. Things are fixed one week and need repair again the next.”

  Beth Ann grabbed Ricky’s suitcase, and they moved through the porch so quickly that Ricky only glimpsed its contents. “I’ll sleep on the porch. I love it there,” Beth Ann mumbled as they found their way into the kitchen. “Moon had major work done in here last year at the same time the porch was added. It’s pretty nice now.” She stopped and scanned the cabinets and appliances in the efficient little kitchen.

  “I’m sure the whole place is wonderful, but I’m too exhausted to appreciate it. Show me where the safe is so we can tell them where to send Tilda’s body. Both of us need to rest if we’re going to plan a memorial.” Ricky rested her hand on Beth Ann’s shoulder to soften her words.

  Beth Ann shuddered and nodded. They dragged Ricky’s things up a narrow carpeted stairway to the second of three floors. She led Ricky into the third room on the left. Ricky blinked as Beth Ann turned on the light.

  The room was unlike anything she’d seen before. Native American dream-catchers and drums adorned the walls, right along side a jade Buddha sitting in a recessed nook. A collection of diverse types of angels flocked at the ceiling, interspaced with stars. On a low, ivory-topped table, sat a representation of what looked like a Hindu goddess, flanked by a picture of Jesus on one side and a photo of a yellow-robed yogi on the other. Around these, there was an array of feathers in pots, intermingled with candles and vases of fresh flowers. Gemstone clusters of all sizes, shapes, colors and types paraded around the edges of the room. The door of the closet was slightly open, and Ricky glimpsed a shelf full of drums and other things she didn’t recognize. The room smelled of sandalwood, candle wax, sage and flowers.