Terminally Ill

by Melissa Yi

  “You’re welcome,” said Tucker. He belatedly realized that Elvis wasn’t making any move to take his outstretched hand, so he shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “You saved my life,” said Elvis to me.

  I tried to smile. “Well, technically, we all did. Tucker, the paramedics, the staff at UC—”

  Elvis didn’t even blink. “You did. I saw white lights and everything, but then you pulled me back.”

  “Um, well, I was the first one to start CPR. But lots of other—”

  “I saw you,” he said, which was bizarre, because I’d never witnessed him opening his eyes on the stretcher. He’d looked pretty unconscious when they were taking him away. I never got to see him in the emerg at UC. Earlier on, before they’d dropped him in the river, the only time I’d stepped out of the crowd was to nail him in his coffin. So unless he had X-ray vision, he couldn’t recognize me. Probably the lack of oxygen to his brain had affected his memory.

  “You probably saw us when they were chaining you up. We were in the front row,” said Tucker.

  I suppose Elvis might have noticed my rain-streaked face under my blue hood, but more likely, we were all blobs in the crowd while Elvis danced and donned his chains. I tried to lighten the mood. “That part was fun. You do a great Elvis Presley.”

  “He’s a big ham,” said Archer affectionately. He moved to clap his brother on the shoulder, but Elvis moved forward, toward me, and said, “If you save someone’s life in China, doesn’t it mean that they owe you their life?”

  I was taken aback, the way I always am whenever a stranger glances at my face and assumes that I am the master of all Oriental history and culture instead of treating me like a regular human being. “I don’t know. I’ve heard that, but I’ve never looked into it. Um, don’t worry about it.”

  Elvis kept going like I hadn’t spoken. “I need you to save my life one more time.”

  Not this again. I shook my head. “You’re going to be fine, Elvis. I know you’re probably not 100 percent”—part of me wondered what his baseline was, because his intensity was a bit scary and off-putting. Maybe he was like that pre-stunt—”but that’s what your medical team here is for. They’re going to take good care of you.”

  Elvis said, “I don’t need that kind of help.”

  Archer cleared his throat. “Sure you do, buddy.”

  Elvis kept right on talking. “Someone tried to kill me.”

  Chapter 11

  The words seemed to still the entire room for a second. We stood there, gaping at each other. Elvis’s big green eyes never wavered. Then he said, “I’ve never missed a trick. Ask anyone.”

  Archer said, “That’s true. Even the first one, where he was in high school and a policeman put him in handcuffs as a joke, he got out less than a minute. He always gets out. He’s like the Mounties. They always get their man, and Elvis always gets out. But you know, Elvis—”

  Elvis said, “I know what’s normal for me. And I know that stunt wasn’t normal.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  For the first time, he blinked and paused before he said, “I just know.”

  I glanced at his brother. Archer said heavily, “He doesn’t remember the stunt.”

  “Oh.” I tried not to ask the obvious question: so how would you know if it’s normal or not? I said, “Well, that’s very distressing, but maybe amnesia is normal after…you stop breathing for a few minutes.” I was going to have to come up with better euphemisms for near-death when talking to patients. “I bet with rehabilitation and time, your memory will start to…improve.” With any luck.

  “I don’t want to wait for that,” said Elvis.

  I nodded. “I understand that. I wouldn’t want to wait, either. But I can’t help you.”

  “I’ll pay you,” said Elvis.

  “That’s generous of you, but—”

  “You’re the detective doctor, right? I’ll pay you. Archer offered you a grand. It’s probably not enough. I bet we could double that. How does that sound?”

  “It’s not the money. I’m retired from all that,” I said, taking a step back from him.

  “Hang on,” said Tucker. “Let’s just chill for a second.”

  I shot him a look. I hate when people tell me to chill. It’s like, if I was tense before, how is you bossing me around going to get me to relax? But when I turned back to Elvis, he was glowering at Tucker too, so for the first time, we agreed on something.

  I turned to Elvis, aiming for a warm yet professional tone. “Look. I know that the human brain can be pretty great at healing itself.” Elvis made a face, so maybe I wasn’t phrasing it right, but I was thinking of stroke victims who’d told me they’d been completely mute and paralyzed on one side, but now, years later, they could Skype, play bridge, and walk with just a little bit weakness on one side. Of course I’d also met patients who hadn’t recovered like that, but even so. Elvis was young and already walking and talking, which was pretty amazeballs and definitely a good prognostic sign. “So once you’ve healed up, you may recover your memories and evidence that someone tried to kill you. Then you can talk to the police.”

  “Yeah, and by then, whoever did it will have skipped town!” said Elvis.

  That part was true. I changed tactics. “If you want to hire someone, you need a real private detective. I already have a more than full-time job.”

  “I don’t want any private detective. I want you.” He stared at me, giving me the uncomfortable feeling that Elvis survived so many life-threatening escapades not just because he was thin and quick and dexterous, but because he was as stubborn as a pit bull.

  Fortunately, so am I. “You can’t have me,” I said evenly. “I just came to see how you’re doing.”

  Elvis snorted. “If you wanted that, you could just have checked out the news reports.”

  I paused. I suppose I could have been content to read that he was in satisfactory or stable condition. He had a point, but he was still highly irritating. I didn’t have to trek down here post-call to get brow-beaten into working for him. I bit my lip before I could tell him so. Ryan once told me that, in an argument, whoever stays calm, wins. For some reason, that sounds better than Tucker ordering me to chillax. I tried to channel Elvis’s point of view. “I guess I was curious, but that doesn’t mean I want to become a detective again. I’m a doctor. I like to know how my…people are doing.” I didn’t call him a patient in case he got offended.

  Archer laid his hand on Elvis’s shoulder again. Elvis shoved it away and stomped back to his bed, dragging his table back in front of him. He stuck some meat in his mouth and chewed loudly.

  Archer shook his head. “I’m sorry, Hope. He’s been in a really bad mood since—”

  “I can hear you,” said Elvis, around his food.

  “And he’s been acting like a spoiled brat who doesn’t recognize that you saved his life,” Archer said, raising his voice and silencing his brother.

  “Sorry,” said Elvis, after a pause. “I suck.”

  I started to deny it, but I stopped. Even Tucker just watched his hero, not jumping in the way he usually would.

  Elvis ran his hand through his hair, messing it up. “Look. I’m an escape artist. That’s all I do. I could never sit in an office and make photocopies all day. I would go crazy.” Across the small room, he pinned me with his green goggle eyes, and I kind of believed him. “I don’t know much, but I know I prepared for that stunt for six months. We built that coffin. I practiced with it, and with the chains, in the costume, even at a swimming pool. I knew how to get out in two minutes flat. Something went wrong.”

  Archer nodded silently. When I looked at him, he said, “It’s true. He averaged a minute and 45 seconds. He should have broken through the coffin as soon as it hit the water.”

  “Did you inspect the coffin afterward to see if someone had tampered with it?” Tucker said.

  Archer shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything. Hugo dropped me off at the hospita
l with Elvis.” Hugo must be the muscle guy who drove the truck and helped nail Elvis into the coffin. “Then he went back to the Old Port to pick up Lucia plus the coffin and all that. I told him to return the TV. We had to bring that in so I could get my deposit back. But I also asked him to grab any extra T-shirts back from the kid who was selling them, make sure the quay was clean—just details I would have taken care of if I’d been there.”

  It sounded like Hugo had had his hands full. “Did he take the TV back?” I asked.

  “Yeah. He brought me the receipt after. He was fired up because he wanted his pay. I didn’t have enough cash on me, and I was waiting for the trauma doctors to come back and keeping an eye on Elvis to make sure he didn’t have another seizure. I told Hugo to hang on. He went out for a smoke and never came back. I texted him, and he said he’d see me when I had his pay ready. Later, he texted me, said he had information I’d be interested in, but I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was pissed because by then I’d heard that he tried to take the money from the guys selling admissions and T-shirts, but they both held it for me.”

  Hugo sounded pretty greedy. I tried to recall what Hugo looked like, but mostly I just remembered a 30-something, heavy set white guy with brown hair and a thick nose. I’d been busy staring at Elvis and Archer during the show. “Did you get your money, then?”

  “Yeah, the other guys met me in the emergency room around supper time. I remember because Elvis was having trouble eating the soup.”

  “Hey,” said Elvis.

  “You kept spilling it,” said Archer, before he added to me, “They brought me the money. I paid them their share. I paid Lucia right after. She had to go to work.”

  I wondered what kind of work Lucia did, but I left that for another time. “And Hugo?”

  “I texted him as soon as Elvis finished his supper. He said he was on his way, but he never made it.”

  I exchanged a look with Tucker. “You haven’t gotten a hold of him for the last two days?”

  Archer shrugged. “I’ve been a little busy. He’ll turn up. Lucia said she’d dig him up today. She’s coming in—” He checked his watch and beamed. “Should be here any minute.”

  I didn’t like this. “Does Hugo still have your truck with the coffin and all your other stuff in it?”

  Archer’s smile flickered for a second. “Nah. He parked it in the hospital garage when he brought me the TV receipt, but he didn’t lock the cab, which I didn’t figure out until Sunday morning.”

  Elvis snorted.

  Archer turned on his brother and scowled. “I stuck by you as long as I could. They said visiting hours were over and kicked me out. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed.”

  Elvis fake-coughed something that sounded like Ooshe.

  Archer socked him in the arm, but I could tell that he was blushing. He had a tan that looked like it came from the sun, like a construction worker, not a fake bake like Elvis, but he’d started to tint red underneath it.

  And then I got it. Not Ooshe. “You went to see Lucia?”

  Archer tugged at his collar for a second. “I wanted to see if she was okay. We didn’t get a chance to talk in the emergency room, really, so I checked on her.”

  Elvis laughed. “Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays? I’ve still got some skin condoms from Sara—”

  Archer cleared his throat. “Shut up, Elvis.”

  The warning rang clear enough in his voice that Tucker and I exchanged glances before I looked from one brother to the other. So Archer was boffing Lucia. It wasn’t much of a shocker, but I decided to redirect them anyway. “Did you know Lucia from Winnipeg, or did you meet her here?”

  Archer smiled. “I met her online before we drove out here. I was on the TripTalk forum, asking questions about Montreal, and she offered to put us up in her apartment, a little two-bedroom place in the east end. Her roommate’s got a boyfriend, though, and I wanted more security and privacy closer to the Old Port, so we rented a room at the Hotel St-Cyr and I hired her for publicity.”

  “And Hugo?” I asked.

  “I needed someone behind the scenes. Lucia knew him, so she brought him along.”

  Seemed fishy to me, but all I said was, “He didn’t lock your truck cab?”

  “I guess someone could have jimmied the lock, but it was unlocked Sunday morning and my tools were gone. The coffin and T-shirts were still packed in the back.”

  “You think he took the tools?”

  Archer paused before he shook his head. “All I know is that they’re gone now. But my truck was parked outside the hospital, then, uh, in the east end of Montreal, so I guess anyone could have taken them before I noticed.”

  If someone stole the bike light off my handlebars inside a garage, I wasn’t surprised that it was bye-bye for Archer’s tools after 36 hours in an unlocked truck. And after a night in the east end of Montreal, which I’d heard was kind sketchy, he was lucky to hang on to the coffin and T-shirts.

  Elvis cracked his knuckles. “Why are we talking about this shit? Let’s stick to what’s important. Someone’s out to get me. They almost killed me.”

  I saw no proof of an assassination attempt, but I played along. “You talked to the police?” I asked.

  Elvis snorted. “Useless twats. All they cared about was those goddamned tools.”

  Archer laid a hand on his arm. “They said there’s not much they can do for Elvis. There’s no evidence of wrongdoing. But they came by today, made a report about the tools and gave me a card. Told me not to get my hopes up. The tools are long gone. If we’re lucky, they might ditch a few somewhere along the road.”

  “Or sell them on eBay,” said Elvis.

  It was the first time he’d made a joke, even a small one, so I smiled at him. He smiled back for a second.

  “That does, uh, sound unfortunate,” I said. I was about to say that it blew, but you learn to censor yourself as a doctor. I didn’t want pity to suck me in, but I still needed to know that they’d be taken care of. “But the most important thing is that you’re all right, Elvis. Do they expect you to recover your memory?”

  Elvis shook his head and bolted down the remains of his coffee. “They never tell you anything straight.”

  I turned to Archer. He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “We’ve kind of gotten the runaround. I wish you could talk to one of his doctors, but I bet they’re all gone now.”

  After hours, I’d only be able to talk to a resident or fellow, but they’d be busy on call, and they’d probably just cover the service and wouldn’t know Elvis’s case any better than I would, if I could access his chart. “They might not know your prognosis. Everyone is different, and every brain is different. But maybe if I looked at your chart, I might be able to translate it into English for you. If you want, I could take a look. I’d need your permission,” I said, directly to Elvis.

  “Sure, whatever. You want me to sign it, I’ll sign it.”

  Archer nodded. “And if you need some backup, I’ll sign it, too.”

  Tucker flashed me a broad smile. “I’ll get the chart. Or the forms.”

  I had no doubt he’d charm the chart out of the nurses’ hands, which was good. Better him than me blushing and saying, “I have permission...” while the nurses sniffed and demanded paperwork signed in triplicate.

  On the other hand, maybe that would be better than standing with the Serratore brothers in awkward silence. It wasn’t like I could say, “Hey, how about them Habs?” and turn to idle hockey talk. Every conversational gambit seemed to either point out the fact that I didn’t want to pin on a detective badge or that his life and livelihood might be ruined.

  Finally, I just said, “White lights, huh? I thought maybe that was a myth.”

  Elvis grinned at me. “No, I really saw them. Well, it was more like a flash. You know, like if your screen blanks out? My whole vision just went white.”

  Hmm. Maybe that was just from his brain being deprived of oxygen. I thought of something else. “It
’s funny that you remember that, but you don’t remember the rest of the stunt.”

  “I know! It’s driving me crazy. I remember waking up that morning and saying to Archer, ‘It’s D-Day.’”

  Archer nodded in silent agreement.

  “But after that, nothing. I don’t remember having toast, or going for a run, or going on the computer, even though he told me I did all that. I don’t remember getting to the dock. I don’t remember the show, or you guys bringing me back. I just remember a bright light and trying to breathe, and the next thing I know, I’m wearing a crappy hospital gown and Archer’s bad breath hanging over me.”

  I glanced at Archer. He said, “He remembers waking up upstairs. Nothing about the emergency room.”

  “Then why did you want to see me? You don’t remember me at all,” I said, both relieved and nettled.

  “I believe in my gut, and my gut says, I need you.” Again, he laid those green pop eyes on me.

  I switched my gaze to Archer. The sane one. “Guts are good, but you should really check out people before you hire them. Not that I’m for sale, but did you ask Lucia and Hugo for references?”

  “Of course I did,” Archer said. “I called them before we came out here. She did some modeling work, plus she worked as a waitress until the restaurant went out of business a month ago.”

  A month ago. Rent was due right about now. “Did Hugo have references too?”

  Archer nodded. “I only had time to call two of his, but they were okay. He did some construction work on and off, but he was on unemployment. I think he was glad to make some money.”

  I bet he was. Could he have made even more money by sabotaging Elvis? But why kill the goose who laid the golden egg, or even a copper egg? Unless there was any profit to be made on Elvis dying. I couldn’t think of how. “Could you send me their references?”

  Archer’s brow furrowed, “I guess so. You really think…”

  “Elvis thinks someone sabotaged his stunt. There are only three people who had close access to him that day. You, Lucia, and Hugo.”

  Archer’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t seriously think I would—”