Chill Waters

by Hovey, Joan Hall

Helen said nothing. He knew she didn’t believe Tommy was Heather’s attacker. Tommy was a good boy, she’d said, his only crime being born Nate Prichard’s son. But then, Helen found good in everyone. It was one of the things he loved about her, while at the same time it made him crazy. Unfortunately, their daughter had inherited her mother’s trusting heart. But as far as Bob was concerned, Tommy and his old man were cut from the same cloth. Not in any obvious way. The kid was smarter, smoother, that was all.

  Without telling Helen, he’d made sure Tommy Prichard wouldn’t be going anywhere near their daughter’s hospital room. Not that she was in any state to have visitors anyway, other then her parents. A cop had been assigned to guard her door, just in case Prichard decided to sneak in to see her. Maybe silence her once and for all.

  He knew he wasn’t alone in his suspicions of Prichard, either.

  “Come on up to bed, Helen. It’s late.”

  “No. But you go ahead. You have to get up for work in the morning. I just want to sit awhile.”

  Sighing, he eased himself down beside her and put his arm around her. She was trembling. “Bad dream?” he asked gently, smoothing her hair with his other hand. But for the silver patch in front, it was exactly the same shade of chestnut brown as Heather’s.

  For a moment Helen was silent, then, not looking at him, she said, “It – it was so awful.”

  “I know, honey, but…”

  “No. No. The dream, Bob. In the dream, I was looking down at my little girlin her coffin.” As Helen spoke the words, a cold shiver, like a spasm, went through her, into him. “She was so still, her skin like wax. And her hair was neatnot crinkly and wild the way she wears it. I touched her hair…” She reached out a hand and stroked the empty air in front of her, began to cry. “I couldn’t bear it if …” The soft weeping quickly escalated in harsh, gut-wrenching sobs and Bob had to fight back his own tears.

  “She’s going to be fine, Helen,” he said hoarsely. “Doctor Halstead practically promised she’d make a full recovery. You were there, sweetheart. You heard him.”

  Soon, her sobs subsided, and she dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her robe. “I know you’re right,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, holding her tightly against him, feeling her heart beating against his own. Helen would still be at the hospital if Dr. Halstead hadn’t insisted they both go home and get some rest. He’d practically had to drag Helen away from Heather’s bedside. “Look, we’ll get her some counseling. Hell, we’ll all get counseling. We’ll get through this, Helen. We will.”

  The tick of the antique clock on the mantle seemed louder somehow. Beside it, Heather smiled out at him from an oval pewter frame. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry daddy couldn’t protect you.

  Rain pattered softly against the window.

  “I can still smell those flowers,” Helen whispered. And her words, breathed into the hollow of his neck, chilled him to the core.

  The nurse had left the door propped partly open, letting in a narrow swath of light from the corridor. Heather managed to turn her head just enough to see a navy-blue broad shoulder, a pant-leg, and the splayed polished shoe of the policeman sitting outside her door.

  Laughter drifted to her from the far end of the corridor, sounding echoey, as if she were in a church with a door opening and closing somewhere. Bits of conversation rising and falling, waves washing in and out, like when she and Tommy walked along the beach. No, don’t think about Tommy. She listened to the voices.

  “…but then she said he wouldn’t let her sponge him…” A woman’s voice. She couldn’t make out anymore words. A gale of laughter melted into a drone of fading voices. Heather imagined white-clad figures briskly turning a corner, now beyond her hearing.

  Those nurses didn’t know about her. Didn’t know about her life. Like when you see an airplane flying high up in the sky and you know the people on it don’t know you exist. Though she sometimes imagined the lives of the passengers, wondered at their destinations, their hopes and dreams. Mr. Gardner said that was because she had the soul of an artist.

  “Doctor Whalen … Doctor Whalen…,” came a nasal female voice over the intercom, piercing the quiet of her surroundings. “Please report to…” She heard the soft ping of an elevator stopping, the ring of a phone.

  Physical pain drew her attention from the sounds, and life outside her door. She tried to find a more comfortable position when there wasn’t any. There seemed no part of her body that didn’t shriek at every movement, no matter how small, how careful.

  Her head hurt, too, where he had wound his powerful fingers into her hair, forcing her onto her knees, whispering ugly things to her. Heather squeezed her eyes shut, tried not to think about him, about the awful things he had done to her. Made her do to him. She couldn’t ever go back to school. How could she face anyone? Tears spilled from her closed eyes, stung her eyes, her cheeks. Everyone will know.

  He’d seemed so nice at firstgentle, really soft-spoken. Not like the other one. “Just give me what you have in the till. Don’t be afraid. No one is going to hurt you.”

  She’d believed him. Believed that if she did what he asked, he wouldn’t hurt her. Mr. Poulis always said, “Anyone comes in here demanding money, you just give it to them. Don’t try to be a hero. We can always make us more money. Can’t make us another Heather.”

  Neither of them had really thought it would happen though. It was just talk, just in case. But it wasn’t money he’d wanted.

  The heady smell of flowers wafted through the hospital smells. Heather looked at the huge bouquet of pink roses on her nightstand. She seemed to remember someone saying they were from Mr. Poulis.

  “Heather?” came a soft voice from her doorway. The nurse approached her bed, preceded by a thin beam of light. “You’re awake,” she said, switching off her flashlight and turning on Heather’s overhead bedlamp. Seeing her tears, she asked, “Are you in discomfort, dear?” She checked her pulse.

  Discomfort. Is that what they call what I’m feeling? She tried to answer, but again, nothing came out, no sound whatever. What time was it? How long had she been here? She had a vague recollection of her mother sitting by her bedside, her face pale and anxious. Her father crying, tears pouring down his face as he looked at his daughter lying in the bed. She had never seen her father cry before; it had frightened her. I must look awful. When was that? Today? Yesterday?

  It was nighttime now. Yes, the middle of the night and everyone was asleep but her. That was why the nurse was speaking so softly, so as not to disturb the other patients.

  “Do you know where you are, Heather?”

  She’s trying to get me to speak. Why can’t I? What’s wrong with me?

  As the nurse fluffed her pillow, Heather read the name Janet Lewis, R.N. on the gold bar pinned to the pocket of her white nylon uniform. Her eyes were a soft brown, kind. Heather wanted to cooperate, wanted the comfort of her own voice more than anyone, but it was like the words were trapped inside her head. Like she’d forgotten how to speak.

  Forcing back a wave of panic, she focused on that simple sentence, “I’m in a hospital.” Concentrating all her will and effort into forming the words, getting them past her tongue, she struggled to speak. But it was no use. Tears of frustration seeped from her eyes.

  “Don’t try to force it,” the nurse said gently. “Your mind and body have undergone terrible trauma. The important thing now is to rest. Everything will be all right. Give yourself a chance to heal.”

  Yes. She needed to heal. Her throat was raw and sore when she tried to swallow or speak. She could still feel the pressure of his hands around her throat. When she tried to pry them away, he beat her with his fists. Memory ended there. Why? Why did he want to hurt her? What had she done wrong?

  The nurse had said everything would be all right. But how could it be? Even if her speech did return, how could anything ever be all right again?

  Through the
slightly open drapes, a black starless sky was visible. Rain wriggled down the glass.

  She thought of Tommy out there somewhere. Was he awake too? Did he know? Shame burned inside her. What would he think? What would Tommy think of his sweet Heather now?

  Pushing thoughts of Tommy from her mind, she tried to concentrate on Nurse Lewis’ brisk, efficient movements as she went about the room silent as a ghost, straightening this, smoothing that. Heather followed her with her eyes as she took a banana-colored blanket from the white metal cabinet next to the washroom and laid it gently across the foot of Heather’s bed. Heather could feel its light pressure on her feet.

  Her thoughts went back to Tommy. Mom liked him, she could tell. Daddy was another story. He didn’t come right out and say he disapproved of Tommy, but she knew he didn’t think Tommy was good enough for her, that he thought he was some kind of loser. It didn’t help that Tommy had dropped out of school and gone to work in the scrapyard. But that wasn't his fault, either. Just like it wasn’t his fault he had a rotten father. She’d never met Mr. Prichard, but she’d heard plenty of awful stuff about him, and most of it not from Tommy.

  So Tommy worked in the scrapyard. Big deal. At least he worked. Anyway, it wasn’t like he was planning on staying there his whole life.

  Daddy didn’t really know Tommy. If he did, he’d know that he was a really good person. He wasn’t like a lot of the guys at school, out for one thing. He never once tried anything with her. “I want us to wait until we’re married,” he always told her when things kind of got out of control. She was the one who didn’t want to stop. He’d gently push her away, though, even while she could feel him trembling with wanting her. So how could she face him now? She felt so dirty. So small inside herself. I’m sorry, Tommy. I’m so sorry.

  She tried not to start crying again because the tears smarted too much, but they came anyway.

  The nurse was at her bedside. “Doctor Halstead left orders for pain medication, Heather,” she said, misinterpreting the reason for Heather’s tears. “There’s no need for you to suffer needlessly.”

  She plucked tissues from the box on the night table, gently wiped away her tears. “I’ll be right back.”

  Listening to her soft footsteps fading down the corridor, Heather closed her eyes.

  Tommy slipped through the double-doors of the emergency room of St. Clair General Hospital, glanced up at the hexagon-shaped clock on the wall. The big second hand clicked to 2:07 a.m. The molded, blue plastic chairs were bolted to the floor in a semi-circle, in front of the large windows. Maybe a dozen people waiting to see the doctor on duty. Tommy made his way to the chair closest to the stairs. You had to pass them on your way to the elevators.

  At the far end of the row a woman sat rocking a little boy who sounded like he might cough up his lungs at any second. The poor kid’s face was beet-red and he was crying. He’d get a little break, and then the coughing fit would be on him again.

  In the chair next to the empty one beside him, an old man in a tweed cap pulled low over his brow, was nodding off. How he could sleep with the kid howling and hacking in his ear like that, was a mystery to Tommy. Maybe he was dead.

  Turning a careful eye to the receptionist behind her kiosk, he waited his chance to bolt for the stairs. Mrs. Myers told him Heather was up on the third floor, room 314. He’d telephoned as soon as he heard what happened, grateful it wasn’t Mr. Myers who answered the phone. He was watching TV when he heard it on the news. They didn’t release Heather’s name, but there was only one store in Harding that was open all night.

  Why? Why did this happen to her? She’d been working so hard, saving every penny she could earn to go to one of those famous acting schools, maybe even Julliard.

  Would she blame him? Hate him for not being there for her? God knew he hated himself. Why hadn’t he sensed that she was in trouble, that she needed him?

  The receptionist was on the phone, but she was keeping a steely eye on her flock, forcing him to wait her out. A big woman, she looked like she could pick him up by the ear if she took a mind to, and toss him out of here.

  A young guy was limping in his direction, grimacing with pain. He eased himself down into the empty chair between Tommy and the old man. He was a muscular type about his own age, hair tied back in a skimpy ponytail. Tommy glanced down at the dirty wad of blood-soaked cloth he was pressing against his outer thigh. He acknowledged Tommy with a slight nod, his heel tapping a nervous staccato on the floor. A wave of sourness rose off him, a brew of sweat and pain.

  We’re like people trapped in a broken down bus in the middle of nowhere, Tommy thought, waiting for someone to come and get it going again.

  The receptionist paged a Doctor Whalen on the intercom. Her voice was bored and whiny, not at all how he’d expected it to sound. The kid had started coughing again, wide blue eyes panicky. The old man woke with a jerk and looked around, as if surprised at finding himself in this place, with these strangers. The guy beside him let out a grunt of pain.

  Up on the third floor, the elevator stopped and a man stepped off. He wore a doctor’s white coat, wire-rimmed glasses, and carried a patient’s chart in his hand. From his confident stride and easy manner, no one would have guessed he did not belong here, or that he was not a doctor.

  Except for the girl in room 314.

  The dragon-lady finally broke down and brought the kid a glass of water. She’d barely turned her back and Tommy was on his feet heading for the stairs. He forced himself to walk casually, bracing himself for that nasal voice behind him, commanding him to “stopstop now!” It took all he had not to break into a run.

  But there was no command for him to stop, no sound of urgent feet tromping behind him. Home free. He was on the other side of the door now, and it was swinging closed behind him. He took the metal stairs two at a time, landing on each step as softly as possible. In just minutes he would be with Heather. He would help her through this. He loved her.

  Oh, God, Heather, I’m so sorry.

  Approaching the nurses’ station, the bespectacled man in the white coat spoke pleasantly to the nurse on duty. It mildly amused him when she snapped shut the book she was reading, to see her country-girl cheeks turn nearly as red as the lettering on the book’s dust-jacket that spelled out Summer’s Passion.

  She glanced at the chart in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor,” she said, her greeting coming out high and timid.

  “Morning, nurse. Quiet night?”

  “Yes, doctor. Pretty quiet.”

  He spoke softly, earnestlya man who inspired confidence, and obedience. “Have they transferred the Myers girl to Psyche yet?”

  It was not a large hospital, only three floors, if you didn’t count the basement where the morgue was located. Not much ground to cover.

  “No, Ishe’s still in intensive care.”

  Having already noted the numbers on the door, he took a stab. “Still in 302, then.”

  “314,” she corrected him. She hadn’t seen this one before. But then, Sally Bowes was a recent graduate of nursing school and had been at St. Clair only six weeks. She had dreams of one day working in a big city hospital, where something exciting was always happening. Just like on ER or Chicago Hope. But for now, what with all the cutbacks, she guessed she was lucky to have this job.

  He looked down at his chart. “Right. 314. Good book?” He winked conspiratorially, moved on down the corridor, checking the numbers on the doors as he went. His step faltered when he saw the cop sitting outside her door. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he assessed his situation. A rookie, maybe in his twenties. With an animal’s keen sense of danger, he patted the knife in his belt, under the coat. Just in case. A last resort.

  Drawing nearer, he saw the cop’s mouth agape, heard his snores, and almost laughed out loud. Not that he’d been too worried. He was quite prepared to handle whatever stood in his way, one way or the other.

  “Evening Officer. Long night?”