by Herta Feely
She raised her hands and studied her nails. They were a mess, yet she couldn’t care less, all she wanted was to lie here with Phoebe beside her. How often the two had lain on this bed, Isabel reading to her before going to sleep – all the classic fairy tales, Harry Potter, the Lemony Snickett series, countless others.
That’s it, she thought. Like Noah, I’ll read to her. It will help pass the time and perhaps the familiar words will reach my sweet girl, wherever she is. In a moment she would get up, but now she just wanted to lie here a bit longer, the cat’s fur warming her. She drank in Phoebe’s spirit, suffused as it was in all the things around her. In the furniture, in the lime green and purple bedspread and curtains, the dozens of stuffed animals, the little girl saddle and riding gear, the doll house, the clothes and shoes in her closet, the school pennants and knickknacks, and even in that pile of used clothes in the corner.
Her eyes settled there. And guilt engulfed her. She closed her eyes and recalled the stupid arguments they’d had over Phoebe’s secondhand clothing fetish, over her friendship with Jessie and Emma, and over her own desire to protect Phoebe and, perhaps, direct too much of her life. But, I love her, she thought. I only wanted the best for her. Breathing deeply, she steepled her hands in prayer, her fingertips touching her lips.
Please, God, forgive me for all the things I did wrong as a mother. But, you know that I love her. With all my heart. You must know that. She squeezed her eyes together more tightly. Just please let her be okay. Take me if you have to take a life, but let her live. She’s just a young girl. Please, I’ll do anything. She thought a moment about what else to add. And thank you for hearing my prayer. She hadn’t prayed this much since she’d wanted her own pony. Though Lucky had materialized on her tenth birthday, she wasn’t at all sure that God meddled in human affairs, but if by any chance He or She or It did, then she was submitting the most earnest, most genuine plea of her life.
She glanced at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. In a few minutes she’d head downstairs and defrost one of the many meals that friends and neighbors had left for them. Perusing Phoebe’s bookshelves, her fingers hesitated on one of the Twilight paperbacks, but she wasn’t wild about them and decided to take her daughter’s favorite Harry Potter book instead. She’d choose one other volume after dinner.
Maybe she’d ask Jackson for his choice, or perhaps Ron would want to contribute an idea, which reminded her that he’d said he was going to stop by the hospital mid-afternoon, but he hadn’t. Maybe he was angry with her; she knew that over the past few days they’d taken their frustration and fears out on each other. She’d do better. They were a team. This was a time to stick together. What would she do without him?
As she headed downstairs she wondered where he was; perhaps he’d gotten stuck with a last minute deadline. These things happened routinely. Maybe traffic had been bad.
Ron had found himself feeling particularly unsettled after his riverside tryst with Sandy. He really hadn’t expected things to go that far. To distract himself, he’d returned to the Post and fiddled around at the computer for a while, then for the purposes of the social networking article and to assuage his guilt, he’d looked up Shane’s Facebook page, only to find that it was no longer there. He frowned at the screen, certain the guy had folded up shop, hoping to disappear.
He felt his reporter instincts kick in and began doing some research, going to a few sites on cyber-bullying. That’s when he ran across the Megan Meier case, the poor little thirteen-year-old who’d hung herself after Lori Drew – a mother! – had pretended to be a fifteen-year-old boy on MySpace, gotten her to like him, then turned against her! What a horrible thing. So horrible, he couldn’t bear to read more than one article.
Over the next couple of hours, he kept thinking he’d go over to the hospital, but repeatedly he delayed facing Isabel, hoping to regain a semblance of calm and composure.
As night painted his windows black, he knew he’d have to go home sooner or later. But the thing that kept him glued to his chair was the look Sandy had given him before she’d left. At five o’clock, he was still trying to interpret that last moment with her. Why had he asked that stupid question? You’ll keep this quiet, right? For reassurance, he told himself, though she hadn’t given him any, had she? With that doe-eyed look was she saying, of course I will, why are you even asking? Or would she get angry with him and out of revenge tell someone? There were women like that, though on this front he’d been lucky in the past.
On the drive home, he wasn’t exactly filled with remorse, but something like it. Regret? In any case, he wouldn’t do it again. And that gave him some courage, plus a moment in which to relish the memory. She was a good fuck, he had to admit. And tomorrow he’d call her. Flirt with her a little. Just enough to keep her quiet.
“Where have you been?” Isabel asked when Ron walked into the kitchen.
“Where do you think I’ve been?” he shot back, a little surprised by the vehemence of his response. He slipped off his coat and dropped his briefcase onto a chair.
About to give Ron’s testiness a nasty retort, Isabel caught herself. Don’t argue, she told herself. “I just thought you were coming to the hospital? I was surprised not to hear from you.”
“I’m trying to make a living, Iz. I just got hired and now I have to at least show up.”
“Okay, sure. But didn’t you say they told you to take off as much time as you needed?” She stopped and studied him. He was uptight, no denying that. “Never mind. I know you’re doing what you have to do.” She could hear him suck in a deep breath.
“Look,” she went on, “I’ve heated up some dinner, so why don’t you stay home tonight and relax with Jackson while I go back to the hospital?”
“I thought I should go,” he said, though without much enthusiasm.
“You look beat. Go tomorrow? Anyway, I was almost out the door. I—” she hesitated, “—I’m going to read Harry Potter to Feebs.” She peered at him sadly.
“How is she?”
Isabel swallowed. “The same.” A mournful sound bubbled up. “Oh, Ron.”
In two long strides he bridged the gap between them and held her. “She’ll be all right. You’ll see.”
Her eyes brimming with tears, she said, “She will?”
She could see that his eyes were uncertain, but nevertheless he nodded, and she was grateful for that. It was then that he mentioned the disappearance of Shane’s Facebook page.
At the hospital she encountered Emma and Noah sitting outside the ICU having what appeared to be an intense conversation. Their countenances lightened at the sight of her. Both jumped to their feet, and Emma shook her hand. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Winthrop, I truly am. I can’t imagine how you must feel. This is so, so awful.”
In an instant, Isabel could tell the sincerity and maturity of this girl with all the piercings. How much she cared about Phoebe. Why hadn’t she realized this before? “Thank you, Emma, thank you for being Phoebe’s friend.” When she’d read the stream of horrible things people had written on Facebook, Isabel had noted names, and Emma’s had been absent. For that matter so had Jessie’s.
“Phoebe’s easy to love,” Emma went on. “I don’t know why all those kids said that stuff. It’s really depressing. But there are lots more who are really worried about her. We made her a card.” She held out a huge piece of cardboard with a collage of her classmates’ images crisscrossed with their words of concern and love. The card was titled: In the Moon of the Falling Leaves, which Emma explained was a Native American reference to fall. “Would it be okay if I went in to see her?”
As Emma awaited her answer, Isabel thought she noticed Noah cast a meaningful glance in Emma’s direction.
“Yes, I’m sure Phoebe would love to hear your voice.” She explained the theory of how hearing was the last to go and first to come back. “Let’s go in.”
As she began to walk toward the ICU doors, Noah called out, “Do you think I could talk to you a minu
te while Emma’s with Phoebe?”
She looked at him curiously, then said, “Sure, let me just escort Emma inside.” Isabel’s heart rate sped up. Had he discovered something about Shane? Did she really want to know? Of course, I do, she thought.
Noah’s palms felt sweaty, even the area where he’d someday have a mustache had grown moist. He’d rehearsed his lines, but at the sight of Phoebe’s mom returning from the ICU, he grew even more nervous than before.
She sat down on the adjacent chair and looked at him expectantly.
“Well, earlier today I, I … someone…uh,” he stammered.
“Yes?” she said.
He took a breath and continued, “I got some information today about this Shane guy, but I think I’d better check it out first. You know, make sure it’s true.”
“What have you found out, Noah?”
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to say, I don’t know that I should tell you until someone can confirm it. Like my friend, the one who’s really good with computers. You know?” He could see that she wanted to know what he’d discovered, but he was afraid to tell her. What if it wasn’t true? That would be huge.
“If you weren’t going to tell me, why—” she said, leaving the rest unsaid.
“I’m sorry, but I thought it would be helpful to know that I might be close to finding out.”
“I think I can handle it, even if the information turns out to be inaccurate. Why don’t you just tell me?”
Sitting beside her, he realized just how rash he’d been to come here. In his eagerness to reassure her, he was actually making her more anxious. She was staring at him, waiting. “Where did you get this information, maybe we could start there?”
She wasn’t going to let go of this, he could tell. Shit, shit, shit. Her eyes were piercing. Emma had encouraged him to tell.
“It came from Jessie,” he finally blurted out.
“Jessie Littleton?” she said.
He nodded.
“I see,” she said.
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Yeah, that’s why I thought I should double-check. ‘Cuz it could get really messy if she’s wrong. Do you know what I mean, Mrs. Murrow?”
She took a moment to think, then she said, “I do. Thanks for telling me.” Pause. “And let me know as soon as you find out anything more. Okay?” She smiled and gave him an understanding look, which he didn’t understand at all.
Chapter Five
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Sandy was afraid to open her eyes. Each time she did, there in the mirror, staring at her, was Phoebe. She closed her eyes again, and then she heard Phoebe speak. “Why’d you do it? I’m telling. I’m telling everyone what you did.” Then she disappeared and Sandy woke up, shaking, gasping for breath.
A few hours later, she sat at the kitchen table clutching her cup of coffee studying the dark brew. Yesterday, after her “date” with Ron, she thought she’d put an end to this nightmare, but the image of Phoebe in the mirror hovered in her mind like an apparition. She started at every noise. Several times, goose bumps rose on her arms. Get a grip, she told herself. She thought of calling Bill, but what could he say that would be helpful?
It wasn’t until her third cup of coffee that an idea finally occurred to her.
She picked up her cell phone and tapped in Ron’s new work number. He didn’t pick up, and after briefly hesitating, she said, “Hi, Ron. This is Sandy. Just wanted to check on you.” She paused. “I’d like to bring your family dinner, would that be okay? Loved seeing you, call me.” She left her number and hung up.
Clutching the mug in both hands, she took another long sip of coffee. It made her feel better to have done that, to be doing something, anything to shake the image of Phoebe out of her head. That little idiot! Why’d she go and try to kill herself? For the life of her, Sandy couldn’t fathom such a thing. “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you,” she muttered under her breath.
She was feeling pretty rotten about what had happened, but her mind trotted out any number of excuses: She’d been cutting herself long before last Monday. The reason for that must have something to do with Isabel. Living with her! For that she actually felt sorry for Phoebe. Poor thing. And for Ron.
In that regard, she wished circumstances were different. Ron was good in the sack, but she knew their times together were numbered. It actually made her sad, except for that dumb question he’d asked. That hurt. Well, today was his lucky day; she’d cut him a break and reassure him when he called. Of course, I promise not to tell. And maybe, just maybe she’d turn him on again for good measure.
On Ron’s way into the office – he’d just dropped off Jackson – traffic slowed to a crawl. A woman in the car next to his reminded him of Isabel. The way she held herself so upright when driving, the way she wore her long dark hair, and even her profile was stunningly similar. One big difference, however. This woman wore a smile. Of course, neither he nor Isabel had much to smile about, but it shouldn’t be forbidden, should it?
Just before taking off this morning, Isabel told him what Noah had revealed the previous night. “I’m going to call Jessie and find out what she knows,” she concluded.
“Shouldn’t you wait, like he said? What if it’s nothing?” He wondered if this could be his excuse to call Sandy. And ask her what she knew.
Isabel began to respond, but then Jackson had walked in. To disengage from the conversation, Ron cracked a joke, and Isabel shot him a look. Poor kid, Ron thought. He was trying to keep things halfway normal. What was the point of such a morbid atmosphere? After all Phoebe was alive. With any luck, she would regain consciousness. She’d be okay.
Observing the woman’s smile made Ron want to jump into her car and trade a few war stories. He felt weary of Isabel’s attitude, and her need for “justice.” Why couldn’t she spend more time bolstering his feelings of hopelessness instead of constantly attacking him? And this notion that Jessie knew something, well, maybe he should contact Noah.
He lifted his cell phone half-heartedly to check for voice mails at work. He clicked through the calls, saving or deleting them, when he heard the sound of Sandy’s kittenish voice. Her offer to bring dinner. Relief flooded through him. All that worrying. For nothing. He couldn’t help shaking his head and smiling to himself. She was something else. Then another call, a number he should write down.
He rifled through his jacket pocket for a slip of paper. He felt one and fished it out. The words “call me” were scrawled on it. Squinting at it, he could tell it wasn’t his own handwriting. When he flipped it over he saw that it was Sandy’s business card, the word Slenderella typed in an attractive cursive font. How the hell had that gotten there, he wondered.
Scrolling through his mind, he finally recalled last wearing this jacket on the night of the parents’ party, and then he remembered Sandy curled up at his side flirting with him, and Isabel’s angry, jealous reproach. Now she was offering to bring dinner. Pretty nice of her, he thought, considering how much Isabel detested her. Gutsy too, though, in light of yesterday. He had half a mind to accept the offer, only thing was Isabel couldn’t know.
He jotted down the number he needed, still shaking his head at the strange coincidence of finding Sandy’s card. A few moments later, believing that the universe was conspiring in his favor, he punched Sandy’s number into his iPhone. His finger remained poised above the green “call” button and hovered there for several seconds before descending.
“Yes, there is brain activity, but not much has changed since we spoke on Saturday,” Dr. Bailey explained to Ron and Isabel in her straightforward manner. “That doesn’t mean things won’t change. You never know. Hopefully her brain is just taking a rest and repairing itself. But we can’t be certain.” She took a breath and galloped on as several hyper-attentive interns listened nearby. “What we do know is her blood pressure and oxygenation are currently stable. Her kidneys appear to be working, she’s
producing urine, and her electrolytes are within normal limits; in other words, her fluid is essentially in balance.”
The doctor had been half an hour late and now it was two o’clock. Her words weren’t as reassuring as they’d hoped, and Ron felt Izzy tensing up beside him.
“If I didn’t know better, Dr. Bailey, I’d think you were trying to confuse us with all that medical talk.” Isabel managed a wry smile. The doctor responded with a slight apologetic shrug. “Can you give us some idea…I mean, how much longer do you think—” Isabel stopped, unable to finish her question.
“It’s hard to tell when she’ll come out of the coma. Everyone responds differently.”
“What I think Iz was trying to say,” Ron intervened, “is what happens if there’s no improvement? How long should we keep her on life support?” He glanced searchingly at Isabel, who averted her gaze. Still, he knew that’s what she’d meant. It was on his mind too.
Dr. Bailey’s deep brown eyes probed Ron’s, then Isabel’s. “It’s really premature to think about that. She is oxygenating, she is no longer bleeding, her fluid and pH are in balance. She still has a chance.”
Ron felt Isabel’s hand squeeze his own. “A chance?” she said and turned away momentarily to hide her tears.
“Yes, absolutely.” Then Dr. Bailey added, “Perhaps it would help you to consult our chaplain or one of our social workers?”
These words shook Isabel. In the fashion of a litigator who intends to uncover the truth, no matter the cost, she turned back to the doctor and asked, “What happens when you remove someone from—from all this?” Isabel aimed at the tubes that slithered down Phoebe’s neck, over her chest and along her arms.
The doctor explained in a low voice: “First, we would extubate her; that is, the breathing apparatus will go. Then, if she continues to breathe on her own, we have the option of inserting a feeding tube or waiting to see if she comes out of the coma.”