by Amy M. Reade
When I got home, I found the front door unlocked. This was not unusual, since Seamus often painted in our living room “studio” during the day when he wasn’t visiting a museum or gallery, and Sylvie, having found temporary work as a receptionist at a private school nearby, sometimes came home for lunch.
But when I called out, no one answered. Their bedroom door was open so I peeked in, hoping I wouldn’t see anything which would embarrass them. But no one was in there.
I was stepping warily, remembering the day our flat had been ransacked. I would have to remind those two to be more responsible and make sure the door was locked every time they went out. I moved through the living room cautiously; there seemed to be nothing amiss.
Until I went into the kitchen.
CHAPTER 15
Sylvie lay motionless on the floor, face up, her eyes closed. A thin trickle of blood flowed from the back of her head into a small pool. Her neck was covered with fresh purple bruises, and there were bloody, angry scratches on her hands and arms. It was horrifying. Suppressing a scream, I whipped out my mobile phone. I called the police and told them what I had found. They promised to come quickly, then the dispatcher stayed on the phone while I checked for Sylvie’s pulse. My fingers sticky with her blood, I felt around her neck until I found a faint pulse. Letting out a cry of relief, I told the dispatcher she was still alive. She stayed on the phone with me, trying to soothe my nerves, until the police officers and an ambulance arrived just a few minutes later. If she hadn’t been on the phone, I think I would have fallen apart. All the nasty things I had said about Sylvie since my arrival in Edinburgh—indeed, all the nasty things I had ever said about her—rushed into my head in a flash flood. I silently begged forgiveness for all those times I had entertained unkind thoughts about her, promising God and myself that if she lived, I would never be anything but the model sister to her.
I stood a few feet away while the paramedics triaged her and evaluated her most immediate needs. While they worked, the police took turns asking me questions.
I could barely concentrate on what they were asking, preoccupied with trying to hear the paramedics. I watched as they put a head brace on her, slid a stretcher under her body, hoisted her up, and wheeled her through the front door, telling me the location of the hospital where they were headed. I pleaded with the police officers to let me go with her, and they let me ride in the ambulance. They followed us to the hospital. It didn’t occur to me at the time that they wanted to keep track of my whereabouts.
Sylvie regained consciousness in the ambulance. She screamed when she discovered she couldn’t move her head, but the paramedic gave her a mask with flowing oxygen. That seemed to calm her quickly. I held her hand and explained what had happened. Her eyes grew wide, and tears started to flow.
“Am I going to die?” she cried.
“No, you’re going to be fine, lass,” the paramedic replied. His eyes held mine for a moment, and I knew better than to say anything. I hoped he was telling her the truth. I pulled out my phone and called Seamus, telling him tersely what had happened and the name of the hospital where he could find us. Then I called my mother, who promised to be there before evening. She had to throw some clothes in a bag, and then would get right on the road.
When we arrived at the hospital, the paramedics whisked Sylvie into the emergency department, while the police asked me to stay with them in the waiting room. I was impatient to get back to my sister, but they insisted I stay to answer a few questions.
Their questions were polite enough, but it slowly began to dawn on me that they were asking more about my comings and goings during the day than about the unlocked apartment door, Sylvie’s actions, or her relationship with Seamus.
“Wait a minute,” I said after they asked me what my relationship with Sylvie was like. “Do you think I did this to her?”
“This is just protocol, ma’am,” replied one of the officers.
“Why would I do that to my own sister?” I asked. “My relationship with her is just fine.”
The officer wrote something in his notebook and flipped it shut. “We’ll be in touch, Dr. Dobbins,” he said.
As the officers were leaving, Seamus came running into the emergency department. The police turned to look at him and when they saw he was headed straight toward me, they followed him.
“Where is she?” he asked me, breathless. “What’s going on?”
“I was just on my way back to see her,” I answered him. “The police have been talking to me and they kept me out here in the waiting room.”
“Sir?” One of the officers tapped Seamus on the shoulder and Seamus whipped around, clearly on edge.
“What?” Seamus demanded. “Oh. Sorry, officer. I haven’t got my wits about me, I suppose,” he said, his face reddening.
“We have just a few questions for you before you go back to see Miss Dobbins,” the officer said.
I moved away to give Seamus some privacy while he answered questions. It took much longer than I expected. Perhaps he had told them of his history and they had further questions for him, or perhaps suspicion naturally fell on a boyfriend in the case of an attack on a young woman. Whatever the reason, both officers had taken out their notebooks and were scribbling furiously. I wanted to ask Seamus about it, but when he finished talking to the police, he was anxious to see Sylvie for himself. He clearly did not want to answer any questions from me after his grilling.
“Did they tell you what they think happened?” I asked him.
“Not a word,” he answered gruffly. “I don’t want to talk about it.” I frowned, taken aback by his brusque attitude. He saw the look on my face and his tone softened. “I’m sorry, Greer. I’m quite worried.”
I was worried too, but I wasn’t being rude to him. My thoughts began to reel. Was it possible he knew something about Sylvie’s injuries? Was that the reason he didn’t want to answer my questions?
A nurse took us back to the room where Sylvie was being examined by two doctors. He asked us to wait outside until the doctors had finished. I couldn’t even tell if she was conscious. Seamus stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to see over the doctors’ heads. He turned to me in disgust, his fists clenched. “I can’t see a thing. Why can’t they just let me look at her?”
“I’m sure they will,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice. The truth was, he was beginning to scare me a bit. If I hadn’t known him to be a gentle soul, I would have been afraid of him. Between the tattoos, the bushy beard, and his very thick neck, he was a formidable-looking Scot.
Several long minutes passed, during which Seamus paced the small hallway outside Sylvie’s door. I watched him warily, looking at the clock again and again. Finally, one of the doctors came out and introduced himself as Dr. Yarbrough. Seamus whipped around at the other end of the hall and hurried over.
“Are you the family?” Dr. Yarbrough asked.
“I’m Sylvie’s sister. Our mother is on her way here now from Dumfries. This is her boyfriend,” I said, pointing at Seamus.
“How is she?” Seamus asked.
“She took rather a hard hit on her head and blacked out, but she’s conscious now and talking a bit. She’s quite frightened because she doesn’t know what happened,” the doctor answered.
“Is she going to be all right?” I asked, glancing at Seamus.
“I think so. We’re going to run some tests and keep her here for evaluation. We think she suffered a concussion. Do either of you know exactly what happened?”
Seamus and I shook our heads. “I found her like that on the kitchen floor of our flat,” I told Dr. Yarbrough.
“And she called me and told me to meet her here,” Seamus said, nodding toward me.
“So neither one of you can shed any light on how the injury occurred.”
“That’s right. I’m sorry,” I said. Seamus nodded in agreement.
“I’ll be back in a short while. They’re taking her for x
-rays in a few minutes,” the doctor said.
“Can we go in there?” I asked.
“Yes, but please try not to say anything that’s going to upset her. I want to keep her as calm as possible. And don’t turn the lights on, please. I want to shield her eyes from anything too harsh.”
Seamus and I tiptoed into the darkened room.
“Sylvie?” I whispered.
“Mmm,” she moaned in answer. Her swollen eyes were closed.
“It’s Greer. Seamus is here with me. How are you feeling?”
“Greer?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Shh,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “The doctor doesn’t want you to get excited.”
“What happened?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I found you on the kitchen floor in the flat. You were unconscious. No one else was there. But you’re here in hospital now, and you’re going to be fine.”
“Do you remember anything?” Seamus asked, his voice tight.
I shook my head slightly. “I don’t think we should be asking her that. It might upset her,” I whispered.
“I can hear you,” Sylvie said, her words thick.
I smiled. At least her sarcasm muscle wasn’t damaged.
“I don’t remember anything,” she said slowly.
“No one in the flat?” Seamus asked. I shot him a warning look, which he ignored.
“No.”
“Don’t worry about any of that now. Sylvie, why don’t you try to rest?” I asked, giving Seamus a hard look. “The doctor said someone’s going to take you for x-rays soon.”
“Could you guys wait in here?” she asked.
“Of course,” Seamus and I answered together.
She closed her eyes, and very soon her breathing slowed and became more regular. She was asleep. I motioned Seamus to follow me away from Sylvie’s bed. “You shouldn’t be asking her questions about what happened. We don’t want to upset her.”
“But how else are we going to know what happened?”
“It’ll have to wait until the doctor says she can discuss it.”
He scowled. “Just trying to remember something can’t hurt.”
“Yes it can, especially if she has a concussion or some other head injury. Just leave her alone about it. We’ll find out soon enough.”
He slumped down in the chair beside Sylvie’s bed like a chastised little boy.
I stood by the door, watching the buzz of activity in the big emergency department. Doctors and nurses hurried by, each in search of answers to the problems of their own patients, none wondering about the story behind my sister’s injuries.
I tried to think of a scenario that would explain what had happened in the flat. I had been surprised to find the door unlocked, but Sylvie had probably stopped in for a few minutes and was planning to go back to work. It wouldn’t be unusual for her to leave the door unlocked if she planned to be inside for just a short time. But how had someone known she would be there? I glanced over at Seamus. He was clasping and unclasping his hands as he watched Sylvie sleeping, his face taut and his eyes haggard. Did he know something?
I hated to indict him, even in my thoughts, but he had acted strangely ever since he arrived at hospital and the police had spoken to him. Had he been telling the truth about where he was when I called him? Had he been nearer the flat than I thought?
I shook my head vehemently as if to get rid of those thoughts, and my sudden movement startled Seamus.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. Just a lot going on, I guess.” He looked at me and I held his gaze for a long moment. What was going through his head?
An x-ray technician came into Sylvie’s room, interrupting our staring match. “I’ll be taking her for tests, then I’ll bring her back here. I think they’re going to put her in a room after that.” Sylvie’s eyes fluttered as the tech spoke.
“How’re ye doin’, lass?” the tech asked her.
“I’ve been better,” she said.
“Can I go with her?” Seamus asked the tech.
“Yes, but you’ll have to wait outside the room.”
Seamus nodded. I wondered if he was going to put up an argument, but he kept silent. Sylvie smiled weakly at him, and he held her hand.
“I’ll stay here,” I said to no one in particular. The tech wheeled Sylvie out of the room, and Seamus followed.
I was suddenly exhausted. I sat down in the chair vacated by Seamus and told myself I would just shut my eyes.
* * *
I must have fallen asleep. I woke up with a start when I heard a voice.
“Dr. Dobbins, there’s an officer here to see you.” The nurse stared down at me, a kind look on his face. Behind him was one of the police officers who had questioned me earlier.
“Dr. Dobbins, we’ve been having a look at your flat. Do you know someone by the name of Gerard?”
I sat up straight. Had I heard him right? I gulped. “Yes, I know a Gerard. My former brother-in-law is Gerard Gramercy. Why?”
“I spoke to your landlord. He says a man named Gerard came to him asking for a key to the flat because he wanted to surprise you.”
“And he gave Gerard a key?” I was aghast.
“No, apparently not. But it was interesting that someone was asking for the key.”
I was confused. “So was Gerard the one who attacked Sylvie?”
“We don’t know that. What is your relationship with Gerard?”
“I haven’t seen him in several years, since long before I divorced his brother.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with him?”
I didn’t want to discuss ugly family dynamics with the officer, but I had no choice. “He and I did not get along.”
“How so?”
“He didn’t want his brother to marry me. He never liked me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s simple. My ex-husband’s family has always felt I wasn’t good enough for him. And they took it out on me.”
“How did they take it out on you?”
I hesitated. “By being unkind.”
The officer looked askance at me, as if he knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth. “That’s all? Just being unkind?”
I nodded, not meeting his eyes.
“If you think of anything you’d like to tell me, let me know,” he said, handing me his card. I put it in my pocket and thanked him. After he left, I curled up and tried to rest, but my mind kept returning to the bad time I’d spent in Alistair and Janet’s house.
CHAPTER 16
It was the darkest period of my life. “Center” was the euphemistic word for a psychiatric hospital where, I later learned, Janet had insisted I be taken in order to “ensure the safety of both poor Greer and her wee bairn.” My plan to call my mother and pretend I was talking to Ellie was foiled when I realized I was not allowed to ring up anyone myself. The nurse had to make the calls for me, and she was only permitted to call the number she had been given—Neill’s mobile phone. I begged Neill to call my mother and tell her where I was, but I knew he would call her and tell her more lies. She didn’t come to visit.
I hated Neill and his family more every day for letting me be imprisoned in such a place, where the patients terrified me, the nurses were aloof and uninterested in my plight, and Dr. MacDonald was rarely to be seen. I was subjected to endless tests of my neural and mental abilities and spent a good deal of time sleeping off the effects of the sedatives they must have put in my every meal. Every night I dreamed of Ellie and the McTaggart painting that had captivated me for so long the day and the night before I was sent away.
As hard as I tried, I couldn’t understand why I was in this place. I wasn’t as sick as the other patients—in fact, I wasn’t sick at all. I wasn’t noisy, though I did raise my voice in frustration and anger several times during the so-called therapy sessions. I didn’t fight when it c
ame time to eat or exercise or watch television, though the food was terrible, the exercise consisted of walking in endless circles around a small track in a courtyard, and the TV shows were mind-numbing.
I was in the center for three weeks. I was let out after realizing the wisdom of behaving meekly and engaging in the therapy sessions without complaining about my hard-luck situation or blaming anyone for my stay at the center. I feigned contrition and told my therapy group I had come to understand how the entire incident had been my fault, though I didn’t believe a word I was saying. One day I heard the doctor who led the group therapies tell Dr. MacDonald that I should be allowed to go home because I “no longer exhibited signs of anxiety and self-aggression.” I could have hugged her.
When Neill came to pick me up, he didn’t have Ellie with him. It was a blow I hadn’t seen coming. He had left her with his parents. Though I didn’t mention it to him for fear he would take me back to the center, I fretted all the way back to Candlewick Lane that they would mistreat her while she was in their care. I had no idea how much time she had spent alone with them in my absence, so I could only pray it had been a very short time indeed.
“What did you tell my mother?” I asked, breaking a long silence in the car.
“I told her you had been taken to a mental hospital and were not allowed to have any contact with family except for me and Ellie.” So he had told her the truth. Somehow that seemed even worse than a lie.
I nodded, trying to keep my anger from exploding in an eruption of cursing and hate-filled vitriol. I could barely stand to look at Neill. My mother must have been beside herself with worry.
It seemed like hours before we turned down the long drive leading to my in-laws’ home. As we pulled up in front of the dark, dismal structure, Janet appeared in the doorway, holding a crying Ellie in her arms. Janet looked as cross as Ellie did.