His Frozen Heart

by Nancy Straight

  When she moved in with me, after my parents moved to New Mexico, I needed her. I had been able to boil water, but Libby could make a meal out of almost nothing. She once made some casserole thing out of just rice, tuna fish, and Italian dressing. Reality punched me hard in the stomach: for all of her flaws – I still needed her.

  Larry interrupted my thoughts, “Do you know where he’s staying?”

  I shook my head, biting back the tears that wanted to form. He looked intently, “Where’s he working now?”

  I shook my head again. Libby rarely talked about her father. From time to time we would see his truck in the parking lot of a bar, but if Libby caught a glimpse of it, she’d always tell me to go somewhere else. I had never met her mom. She told me once that her mom had Libby when she was sixteen and wanted to give Libby up for adoption. Her dad wouldn’t sign the papers, so her mom signed over full custody to him. She told me she had seen her mom a few times, but never elaborated on anything about her.

  The ache inside me grew. I was her family. I was all she had in the world, plus I had a hand in why she was here tonight. She had just gotten paid, but she had blown her paycheck and there wasn’t even a package of Ramen Noodles in the house – I guilted her into the bar. If I hadn’t been such a baby about there being no food at the house, she never would have gone to the bar tonight. We could have had a quiet Tuesday in front of the television. If something happened to her, and the last few hours I spent with her were really our last few hours together, I would never forgive myself.

  Larry must have seen I was about to implode because he reached over and pulled my head to his chest. It was awkward, because despite me unloading everything that had happened tonight on him, we weren’t close. My body was stiff up against his. Rather than acknowledging the awkward feeling, I asked, “Have you seen her?”

  He shook his head, “No. Family only.”

  I stood up on instinct. I was her family. I went to the nurse positioned in front of the doors that led into the ICU, “I’m Libby Merrick’s sister. May I see her?”

  In a sorrowful tone she answered, “Visiting hours aren’t until 8 AM.”

  “I just want to see her. Just for a minute. Please.”

  The nurse wore scrubs with Scooby Doo all over them. She was older with graying hair, and eyes that understood I wasn’t going to take “no” for an answer. Compassion came through in her words when she replied, “Let me get the doctor, so he can give you an update on her condition.” She spoke quietly into a phone; the only thing she said that registered was the word “sister.”

  Within minutes a handsome doctor came through the doors guarded by the nurse in the Scooby Doo scrubs. He motioned for me to take a seat as he took one in between Larry and me. “Your sister underwent significant trauma to her head and lost a great deal of blood. She had some defensive wounds on her hands and arms as well, but those are less troubling. We gave her a blood transfusion. The injury which is most concerning is that her brain had swelled, so we needed to put a hole in her skull to allow for the fluid to drain. She is responding well to the treatment, but we need to give her time to heal safely.”

  Still holding it together, my voice barely audible, I asked, “Can I see her?”

  The doctor’s hand took mine, lying loose on my lap. His answer was tender, “She doesn’t look like your sister right now because of the swelling and bruises. I can assure you, she is getting the best care we can offer.”

  My voice broke as a single tear escaped down my cheek, “Just for a second. Please.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “For right now, I don’t want you in her room. I’ll take you to where her room is, so you can see her through the glass.”

  I turned around to see Larry looking hopefully. As little as I liked him, I knew he loved her, too. “Would it be okay if her boyfriend came, too?” There was no need to qualify him as her ex-boyfriend, just like there was no reason to tell the doctor that I wasn’t her sister by blood. He agreed and led us both to an enormous glass wall looking in on Libby.

  The doctor bowed his head, “I’ll give you two a second.” He went two windows away from us, scribbling notes with his finger on an electronic tablet outside another patient’s door.

  The doctor had been right – Libby was unrecognizable. Her face was bruised and swollen, hair above her left ear had been shaved, and a tube ran directly into her skull as her body lay still just feet away from the window. Machines set on the far side of her with their displays recording her pulse, temperature, breathing, and I didn’t know what else.

  Neither of us spoke. Larry and I stood in the dimly lit hallway, transfixed on the dark room and the girl who meant so much to each of us. She had to be okay. Too much of my heart was wrapped up with her. If she died, Libby would take that piece of my heart with her, and it would be lost forever. The doctor hadn’t mentioned brain damage, but if she lived, would she be the same Libby?

  Guilt washed over me: I had to have been in the house when this happened. How could I have slept through such brutality? How had I heard nothing? My house was old; I was upstairs and she downstairs. The assailant may not have known I was even there – or maybe he hadn’t taken his turn with me yet. The man had to have been in the house when I left for work. An ache welled up from deep inside when it hit me that I had slept through the beating and didn’t even notice the perpetrator hiding in the shadows of my own home. If I had just checked on her before I ran out the door, maybe I could have done something. Maybe she wouldn’t be lying in front of me with an oxygen mask on her face.

  Larry’s arm, wrapped around my side, squeezed me gently, “We should go.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Her beauty was still visible through her delicate hands draped gracefully beside her covered-up body. Libby’s clear polish on her fingernails shined up against the white blanket covering her. Her toes were covered up by the blanket, but I knew she wore an emerald green polish with white daises appliqued on them, because mine looked the same. We had done them together three nights ago. I tried not to look at her face, but to concentrate on the rest of her. Larry squeezed my side a second time, silently prodding me to walk away.

  I turned to him and saw tears pouring down his face. He didn’t share in my guilt, nor was he looking for the parts of her that this monster hadn’t touched. Larry only saw the woman he had given his heart to, dancing with the reaper before his eyes. I wrapped both my arms around him and whispered, “She’s going to be okay. It’s Libby. She’s too tough to let something like this take her away from us.”

  The doctor saw us walking toward the door. He handed me his card. Answering my unspoken question in his clinical tone, “We will keep her sedated for at least another two days. Call me anytime if you want an update on her condition.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be back later to check on her.”

  I could sense he wanted to tell me that looking through the window at her wouldn’t do either of us any good, but gratefully he said nothing. As Larry and I emerged into the waiting room, I could see the first rays of dawn showing through the large windows. My mind was slowly breaking free of the guilt that had been weighing it down. That guilt was quickly being replaced by the need for vengeance. Whoever this monster was, I wanted him caught. I wanted him to pay. I wanted him stuck in a room with machines keeping him alive.

  The police were doing their investigation, but the key to everything might not be video tapes and finger prints. The key might be the one person who could not only tell me who the dirt bag was, but also tell me where I could find him.

  I gave Larry a quick hug. He saw I didn’t intend to stay in the waiting room and asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back. I need to see what I can find out about who did this.”

  “The police are already doing that. If she wakes up, one of us should be here.”

  The doctor had already told us both that Libby wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. I forced a smile at him as I brushed a stray tear fro
m his cheek, “I’ll be back later. I’m going to see what I can do to help the cops.”

  Almost absently he answered, “Someone should know something.”

  I was that someone. I did know something, or at least I knew someone who might know something – I had to find Dave. I gave Larry a soft kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back later. You look like hell. You should get some rest. You don’t want Libby to see you like this when she wakes up.”

  Larry’s eyes clouded again, but he nodded and told me, “Be careful.”

  Chapter 7

  Dave Brewer had been at the bar last night. He knew that creepy Teddy guy. If anyone would know where to tell the police to look for Teddy or the guy who tried to turn my safety cage into Swiss Cheese, he would.

  I hadn’t seen or talked to Dave in almost two years. The two of us had been thrown together by circumstance. We had been sort of friends but hadn’t kept in touch after graduation. He acted strange at the bar last night. He really wanted me to call him Mark, but given what had transpired the last few hours, I could see why he wouldn’t want those guys to know his real name. I googled Dave’s name on my phone, and a half-dozen David Brewers popped up – none of them seeming to be the right one.

  He had been a talented mechanic, so maybe he worked for one of the dealerships in town. I could try calling the local service departments. My heart sank as I thought about randomly calling every repair shop in the city looking for him. Even if I stumbled across someone who knew him, I would sound like a stalker. There had to be another way. It hit me – Kendra Brennan.

  Kendra had always been the busybody in our class who seemed to know everyone, all their business and then some. I hated talking to her because she was a gossip, but if anyone might know where to find him, she would. I looked at my watch: it was after 7 AM. I opened the Facebook app on my phone and searched for her – she had already posted something 10 minutes ago. I typed a personal message, “Hi Kendra. I need your help. Can you call me as soon as you get this?” I inserted my phone number, hating the fact that she would now be able to call me whenever the mood struck her, and pushed “send.” Less than 30 seconds passed before my phone rang.

  Her syrupy sweet voice blared through my phone, “Caaaaaandy! I haven’t seen you since high school! How are you?”

  She hadn’t seen me since high school for a reason – I didn’t like her. I hated that I needed her help, but I did, so I made my voice sound happy to hear from her. “Hi Kendra, thanks for calling me. I need to get in touch with Dave Brewer, and I thought you might know where I could find him.”

  “Dave Brewer? That greasy loner guy who was in our class?”

  “Yeah, he did some work on my car, and I need to talk to him. Any idea where he might be?”

  “I think he works in a body shop on the west side. Not someplace to go after dark, if you know what I mean.”

  The west side? That narrowed it to fifty or so possibilities. “Any idea what the name might be?”

  “Brewer’s Body, or Body by Brewer or something. I drove by there once – very ghetto. Hey, I have a great mechanic if you’re looking for one! It’s my boyfriend’s brother – he’s amazing. Al can fix anything from a mower to a semi-truck.” She added in a sing-songy voice, “He’s single, too.”

  That was just like Kendra. Not only was she in everyone’s business, she was forever trying to be a little matchmaker. “Thanks, I just need to get a hold of Dave, but I’ll give you a call if I ever need a mechanic.”

  Gushing, she asked, “So did you hear my big news? I’m sure you did. I posted like fifty times on Facebook, and I changed my profile on Twitter.”

  Oh brother, did I even want to know? “Um, no, I haven’t really been paying attention. What’s new with you?”

  “I got accepted to do a year at Oxford in a study abroad program! Eeep, I’m so excited!”

  Trying to match her enthusiasm, “Wow, that’s great, Kendra.” What I really wanted to say was, “Wow, I’m thrilled I have another spoiled rich friend with parents who have more money than sense” – but I kept my thoughts to myself.

  “I’m going next fall and I can’t wait . . .” She went into full-blown excited-school-girl mode. I promptly engaged my tune-out mode. Maybe it was jealousy, maybe I just didn’t want to hear a blow-by-blow account of how she was going to experience college at a prestigious international university while I was still trying to figure out how I would ever pay back my own student loans to go to college in my hometown. I tried several times to interrupt, but she just kept talking. She wouldn’t even let me wedge in a word to let her know I needed to hang up.

  After enough details that I wanted to find a blindfold and a firing squad, she finally took a breath and I politely let her know I had to go. I wished her luck in her semester abroad and hung up. I opened the browser on my phone and quickly found “Bodies by Brewer Repair and Restoration” on Google. It didn’t have a website, but the yellow pages on my phone said it opened at 8 AM. That gave me just enough time to catch a cab back to the gas station to pick up my car and be there when the place opened.

  The cab I had phoned from the hospital dropped me right next to my car, which was patiently waiting for me on the frozen parking lot. Mr. Sanders was inside the convenience store working the register. Part of me wanted to go inside to say hello, but looking at him through the puckered glass stopped me short. Fear I had carefully tucked away until now rushed in on me like a tsunami. I stood paralyzed, too scared to take a step toward the store. I took a deep breath and tried to force my feet forward, but they had grown roots.

  A black sedan pulled up next to pump one as a flashback of the Nova crashed on me. I ducked down below my fender, my lungs sucking in air faster than a Kirby while my hands began to shake uncontrollably. I closed my eyes, forced an exhale before I could hyperventilate, and told myself it wasn’t the Nova. He wasn’t here. No one was going to shoot me.

  Peering around my bumper at the offending car, relief washed over me when I saw it was a Nissan Maxima. It looked nothing like the Nova with the matte finish and mag wheels that had been parked in the same place last night. Gritting my teeth and forcing my muscles to work, I stood up slowly, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed my little freak out.

  Satisfied that Mr. Sanders hadn’t seen, nor any of the patrons, my eyes settled on my Chevelle. The hole in the windshield was even more pronounced in the daylight than it had been last night. The bullet had gone through the windshield, the driver’s seat, and the back seat.

  I took a step toward it to get a better view, my fear evaporating as anger began to emerge. My hand felt the jagged edge of the hole. Parts for old cars were next to impossible to find, and when I could find them, they cost an arm and a leg. I took a more thorough look to see if he had shot anywhere other than the windshield. A sigh of relief escaped me when I learned the damage was isolated to the windshield and the seats. My car had been perfectly restored. I was pretty sure the seats could be repaired, but if nothing else, I could get by with some black duct tape for the time being.

  I loved my car. It didn’t look like anyone else’s. It didn’t sound like anyone else’s, either. I’d never seen another one like it. It was a 1966 Chevelle Super Sport. I’d bought it off an old guy when I was fifteen for six hundred dollars. The car had been a bucket of rust that wouldn’t start, but I saw the potential. I bought it my sophomore year, a full year before I could even drive.

  Shaking my head at the irony, my car was how I met Dave Brewer to begin with. I sat down in the driver’s seat, cranked the engine, turned the heat on full-blast, and waited for it to warm up. My mind wandered back to my first meeting with Dave. It was hard to believe that it had been five years ago.

  My high school offered classes on vehicle repair; one of the requirements to sign up for the class was every student had to have a broken car. This one definitely qualified. Still all aglow from my six hundred dollar bargain car, I went to the guidance office to sign up for the automotive repair class
as an elective in the fall semester.

  The guidance counselor refused to let me sign up. She said the class was only offered during the same periods as AP English and Chemistry. She refused to let me slide out of either class, which was bogus. Her reasoning for not letting me register was that I was listed as “college-bound,” and auto repair was reserved for “non-college-bound” students. I left the guidance office frustrated beyond belief. Never one to take “no” for an answer, I decided to work a different angle.

  Mr. Kravitz was the teacher who taught the auto repair classes. My freshman year I had gotten busted skipping school. I wasn’t smoking dope, I wasn’t running amuck around the city; I just took the day off to hang out with friends – all of whose parents excused the absence. My parents refused to lie: mine were pissed and wanted to make sure I learned my lesson. In addition to them grounding me and taking my phone away, the school sentenced me to three days detention. My parents thought the school’s policy was too light, so they called the school and demanded I serve two weeks instead of the typical three days. The only good that came from it was I got to know the teacher who seemed to be the permanent detention teacher, Mr. Kravitz.

  After my two weeks of detention, an unheard of long sentence for such a minor rule infraction, he was always really nice when he saw me in the hallways. I thought he might be able to help me get registered for his class. Making a beeline from the guidance office, I bounded into his empty shop and saw him elbow deep in an engine. “Um, Mr. Kravitz, hi. Do you have a second?”