by Joan Hess
As I parked, Bobbi Rodriquez came out of Ultima and stopped beside me. “Ooh, this is so exciting!” she squealed.
“That I can park without assistance?”
“Just that you’re here. Did you come for the group, or for an aerobics class? Jody said you didn’t seem to enjoy the one you went to a couple of weeks ago.” She tilted her head and put a finger on her cheek. “You’re not in bad shape for your age,” she continued, fluttering her eyelashes at me. “I bet you were bored with the beginners’ class; it’s so incredibly easy that it’s not very challenging. Do you want to try one of my classes? You can come once for free, and I promise we’ll just work out until we’re ready to drop right there on the floor.”
“It sounds wonderful, but perhaps some other time.
“It is some other time,” she said, fluttering harder. “It’s at seven on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Oooh, here’s my ride. I’ll be so excited if you come tonight, or another night, if you’re busy as a bee.” She waggled her fingers at me and scampered over to a rusty red sports car, which was, I noticed without interest, driven by the sullen boy I’d encountered in Jody’s office. He glowered briefly in my direction, then pulled out of the lot in a spew of gravel, barely missing a station wagon and a pair of pudgy pedestrians.
I went across the sidewalk to the glass door, relieved that I did not have to produce an alibi for the evening. The pudgy pedestrians crowded behind me, and after a few awkward moments in the doorway, squeezed past me and headed down the corridor. They looked as if they might be related to an Ultima client, and for lack of anything better to do, I trailed after them, peeking curiously into small dark examination rooms with professional scales and padded tables covered with pristine white paper.
A larger room at the end of the corridor was lit. Half a dozen people sat on folding chairs, and Candice was serving coffee on a tray. Gerald was not there, but by this point I wasn’t overcome with surprise.
Candice gave me a warm smile. “How considerate of you to come to help Maribeth. She’s doing so well, and I think, despite these minor setbacks, that she’ll reach her goal.”
“Edwina sure won’t,” opined an elderly woman who weighed no more than seventy pounds and whose feet dangled several inches above the carpet. “Edwina thinks she’s foolin’ me, but she ain’t. I hear the icebox door a-openin’ every night ‘long about midnight. She tries to open it real slow and sneaky so I won’t hear it, but it squeaks like a hog gettin’ castrated every time.”
The discussion went downhill from this point. Each of the members of the group had a long, involved personal anecdote about his or her beloved dieter and was encouraged to ramble on in considerable detail. Candice listened to all of them, making reassuring remarks and suggestions about how best to handle—in a supportive and nonjudgmental way, of course—the midnight prowlers, closet chocoholics, and other miscreants who were straying off the straight and narrow (a.k.a. eight-hundred-calorie) path. The two pudgy pedestrians both turned out to be clients, and we listened forever while they accused each other of unspeakable sins against the program. When my turn came, I considered relating each and every detail of Caron and Inez’s fight against the flab but thought better of it and wanly gestured to the next speaker.
At five forty-five Candice stood up and congratulated us on our deep commitment to our family members and friends fighting the battle of the bulge. Everyone laughed politely and departed, chattering like kindergartners on a field trip. I waited until the last was halfway down the corridor, then said to Candice, “As I told your husband last night, I’m concerned about Maribeth’s behavior, especially in the last few days. At times she’s vague, and then she abruptly flies into a rage. Today she fainted in the bookstore, although she claimed it was due to missing two potassium caplets yesterday.”
I expected a bit more than a raised eyebrow, but I was expecting in vain. “You spoke to my husband last night?” she said with a small laugh. “And how could you have done that?”
“I knocked on the door and he unlocked it, although he was in the middle of a physical examination. He looked through Maribeth’s chart and said the supplements were adequate. I wasn’t convinced, and after today’s episode I’m even more concerned.”
She went to the coffeepot in the corner and turned it off, then loaded the tray with plastic cups and other paraphernalia. Turning back, she said, “I’ve noticed a few unusual reactions from Maribeth, and I suggested that she increase her potassium and add an extra protein supplement or two daily. However, I think we must all try to ignore these minor outbursts and encourage her to stick with the program. I’m worried that her obesity might lead to serious systemic problems, and I know Gerald shares my concern. He’s promised to monitor her very closely.”
“Then you think she’ll be able to remain on the program?” I persisted. “What about this bout of dizziness?”
“Our records are highly confidential, but since you’re her closest friend, I’ll try to explain what may have occurred. As I mentioned earlier, she’s been forced to deal with several setbacks recently. Nothing of significance, but a stray pound popping back on when she claims to have stayed legal. She and I both know she’s telling little white lies to cover up her indiscretions, but she refuses to admit it. This kind of denial can lead to a great deal of inner turmoil, and it’s not uncommon for someone under that kind of pressure to feel a bit unsteady on her feet. I’ll make a note of this incident on her chart, however, and try to help her face the reality that we all can slip at times.”
“Setbacks?” I echoed. “She’s never mentioned that.”
“But she wouldn’t, would she? Thanks again for coming by.” Candice smiled at me and went out of the room.
I walked slowly down the corridor and through the reception room to the door. I’d never been intently involved in a diet that I perceived would change my life, but I couldn’t understand how Candice’s version of denial and inner turmoil could lay anyone out cold on the floor. As I opened the car door, Maribeth came out of the fitness center, a canvas bag in her hand and a strange expression on her face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked in an unfriendly voice.
I was too numbed from the meeting to concoct a clever lie, so I told her I’d come to the group to ask Candice about the fainting spell.
“Was Gerald there?”
When I mutely shook my head, she clasped the bag to her chest as if she could find warmth from it. Her face was white, as were her lips. The only hint of color came from the angry patches of acne on her chin and around her mouth. “No big deal,” she mumbled, staring at the sidewalk. Her fingers tightened around the bag. When she lifted her head, there was a heretofore unseen expression on her face. It made me think of a defenseless animal treed by a pack of baying hounds.
“Maribeth,” I began cautiously, “are you—”
“Your friend who was in the bookstore this afternoon’s a detective, isn’t he?”
“Peter? Yes, he’s with the local CID. Why don’t you let me give you a ride home? You can come back for the car later.”
“Why was he following me? Doesn’t he know what’s going on?”
“He wasn’t following you. We’ve been seeing each other for quite a long while, and he came by to say hello after a trip out of town. Why would he follow you?”
“I don’t know. You’re right—there’s no reason for him to follow me. It’s too confusing, or maybe I’m just too dumb to understand. He keeps telling me to trust him, you know.”
“Gerald’s still insisting you consider a week or two of rest to … ah, relax and feel more in control of yourself?” It wasn’t especially tactful, but it was the best I could do. “Would that be so bad?”
“I thought you of all people would be the one who understood, Claire. We’re in the same boat, aren’t we?”
“Which boat is that, Maribeth?” I asked in the same cautious voice, intently aware of how very near the edge she was.
“Don’t yo
u know? Aren’t you worried?”
She certainly had part of it right. I took a breath, wishing I’d paid more attention in psychology classes two decades ago, and said, “All I know is that I’m very worried about you. Why don’t we get in my car and discuss this further?”
She stared wildly at me, then swung around and climbed into her car. The engine roared and she screeched into reverse, ground the gears, and raced out of the parking lot as rapidly as the red sports car had done an hour earlier. I stood where I was, thoroughly stunned, trying to think how best to stop her before she crashed into a truck or wrapped the car around a utility pole.
I let out my breath as her car braked at the stoplight. When the light turned green, however, the car remained in the same spot, the brake lights shining like red, demonic eyes. A car behind Maribeth honked, but was finally forced to pull around her, as were the next two in line. I was about to run to the corner when the brake lights went off and the car began to back up in a series of angular swerves and squeals until it reached the edge of the parking lot. It manuevered around until it was aimed in my direction; headlights blinded me as it began to lurch forward.
Straight at me.
“What’s going on?” Candice called from the doorway behind me.
“I—don’t—know,” I croaked. I moved across the sidewalk to the Ultima door. “It’s Maribeth. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I don’t care for it.”
“Is she all right?”
“How the hell should I know? I think we might step inside, though.” I shoved Candice backward and followed her, all the while watching Maribeth’s car as it lurched toward us, the sound of the engine erupting like a warped record.
“Is she upset?”
“To put it mildly. Maybe you’d better call someone.”
“Who?”
I spun around and gave her an exasperated look. “I don’t know—you’re the owner of this place, the registered nurse, the professional who said Maribeth was having a tiny problem with denial. I suspect she’s in the midst of flipping out, but I’m only a civilian.” I was about to continue when there was a deafening crash behind me. Shards of glass went flying past me on all sides, and something stung me in the back. It felt, I told myself with a hazy smile as my knees folded, like a giant bumblebee.
It was my last thought for the moment.
SEVEN
“Shhh,” someone whispered, not too far from my ear.
I dearly hoped that the shush would have some effect on the ear in question, which was ringing like a fire alarm. Odd, I mused, that no one was urging me to exit the building in an orderly fashion and line up at the end of the playground so that roll call could be taken. Perhaps I was a monitor …
I opened one eye to see if Miss Wornewood, my sixth-grade teacher, was hovering nearby with her black attendance book and her typically harried expression.
Joanie Powell looked more harried than Miss Wornewood ever had, including the month some of the boys had dedicated themselves to filling her (Miss Wornewood’s, not Joanie’s) desk with various reptiles and amphibians. “You’re awake,” she said (Joanie, not Miss W.). “How do you feel?”
I closed my eye to consider the question. After a moment, I determined that I felt as if I’d been run down by a motorcycle gang. “Lovely,” I muttered. “Where am I and where’s Miss Wornewood?”
“The doctor said she might be groggy from the pain medication,” Joanie explained in a satisfied voice.
By this time I’d figured out that I was lying in a bed, that my back was most likely a canvas of tread marks, that my buttocks had been used for a dartboard, and that the fire alarm was not going to cease its deafening din, no matter whether I exited the building or checked the girls’ bathrooms for loiterers. A hand brushed my cheek, and I opted to try the other eye.
Peter looked pretty damn harried, too. “Claire? Do you understand where you are?”
“Shall I find the doctor?” Joanie said.
“Everybody calm down,” I said. “I feel absolutely terrible, and my head may explode any second now, but the last thing I need is a doctor.” I got both eyes open. The walls confining me were a revolting shade of green, the bed had rails, and stuck in my arm was a needle connected to a tube that ran up to a glass bottle on a stand. I clearly had had need of a doctor in the recent past. “If someone would be so kind as to explain …”
Peter bent over to kiss my forehead. “You were at the Ultima Center, remember?” he said. “For reasons we don’t yet understand, Maribeth Galleston drove her car into the front of the building. A brick bounced off your lovely cranium, and a good-sized piece of glass went into your back, although it missed everything of significance. A lot of smaller ones caught you below the waist. The glass has been removed, and a great deal of pain medication is now dripping into your veins.”
“Do you have any idea why Maribeth did what she did?” Joanie asked.
When I turned my head to look at her, a lightning bolt leapt between my temples. “Why don’t the two of you pick one side of the bed?” I groped around in my remaining gray matter. “No, I don’t know why Maribeth did it. I went to the family support group, survived forty-five minutes of platitudinous enthusiasm, talked to Candice, and then met Maribeth coming out of the fitness center.”
“And?” Peter said encouragingly.
“And I suppose we must have talked, although the details are foggy. Or was it Bobby Spandex? Lord, I don’t know. Could someone please ask Miss Wornewood to turn off that damn bell?”
“She’s delirious,” Joanie announced.
“I am not delirious, nor am I deaf—although it’s a matter of time,” I said, grimacing. “If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll try to—what about Maribeth? Is she all right? And Candice? She was facing the door when everything came at us. Is she … all right, too?”
“Maribeth’s in intensive care,” Peter said gently. “I’m afraid Candice took a lot of glass in her chest area. Both lungs were punctured, as was her carotid artery, and she was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“How bad is Maribeth?” I whispered.
Joanie patted my hand. “She’s critical. She took a hard knock on the head when she slammed against the steering wheel. They did some tests and discovered she’d had a heart attack, either just before the accident, or as a result of the impact. She’s in a coma. They’re doing some kind of scan now to determine if there’s irreversible brain damage. I feel like all this is my fault. I feel … dreadful.” She moved away from the bed and sank down in a chair, clearly struggling to maintain her composure.
“I’ll let you know about Maribeth’s condition as soon as I hear from the doctor,” Peter said. “Please try to remember what happened, Claire. We have no idea whether we’re looking at an accident induced by a heart attack or some crazy attempted homicide.”
“How long was I unconscious? And what about Caron? Did someone let her know what happened?”
“I called her as soon as I heard what had happened and let her know you were going to be okay. She can stay at Inez’s house for a day or two while you’re here at the hospital. You were out for almost twelve hours; it’s not quite daybreak yet I know you feel bad, but please try to remember.”
“A day or two at the hospital? I don’t like hospitals, Peter. They wake you up to give you sleeping pills, then wake you up again to see if the pills are working. They make you eat gruel and drink funny-colored things. I want my own bed.” I could hear myself whining, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. To add to my embarrassment, a tear rolled slowly down my cheek, leaving a crooked wet path that felt as though a garden snail had crawled down my face.
Joanie stopped sniffling and dried her cheeks with a tissue. “Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. You’ve suffered a blow to the head, and it’s imperative that you remain under constant medical supervision for forty-eight hours. The doctor said it was more than probable that you have a concussion, although it’s impossible to determine how serious it may be. You are not le
aving this room.”
I tried to sit up, but my arms weren’t cooperative and my back was downright rebellious. “Promise me no gruel,” I said, trying to sound flippant, when I was more tempted to burst into a torrent of tears. “It’s beginning to come back to me … I attended the group meeting and talked to Candice, then went out to the sidewalk at about six o’clock. Maribeth came out of the fitness center and demanded to know what I’d been doing in the Ultima Center. I resorted to the truth, and she asked me if Gerald had been there. I admitted he hadn’t been, which seemed to upset her. She drove away, stopped at the traffic light by the highway, and sat through a green light before turning around and coming back. Her driving was erratic enough to worry me—particularly when she seemed to be aiming for me. Candice came to the door of the Ultima Center and asked what was wrong. We went inside and were discussing what to do when … it became moot.”
“Could you see Maribeth’s face?” Peter asked. “Did she look normal?”
“I saw two headlights coming at me like something from a Stephen King novel,” I replied acerbically. “I didn’t trot around and tap on the car window.”
Joanie sadly shook her head. “I think it’s obvious that when Maribeth had driven the short distance, she realized she was having some sort of attack and headed back for assistance. By the time she reached the parking lot, she’d lost all control and was helpless to avoid crashing into the front of the Ultima Center. The whole thing is a tragic accident.”
“Possibly,” Peter murmured as he took out a small notebook and a pen. He frowned at me. “You said she was upset because her husband was not at this meeting. Why would his absence upset her?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Joanie added, “in that Maribeth said he was attending several meetings every week. Missing one seems minor. Then again, she’s been rather unpredictable this last week or so.”
I wanted to pull the sheet over my face and make them both disappear. Instead, I said, “There is only one officially scheduled family support group each week, and it’s the one I sat through. Gerald may have told Maribeth he was going to night sessions, but I think Maribeth had begun to realize the truth. It was as obvious as the needle in my arm—and as painful.”