“Stephanie.” It was Lido’s voice. “Your mother’s on her way to NYU Emergency. She’s taken a bad fall. Where are you? I’ll be right there.”
I looked at the stalled lanes of cars in front of me. It was one vast parking lot. I turned to Twain. “Your car here? I’ve got to get to the hospital right now!”
Twain nodded. “Just off the corner. What’s wrong?”
“My mother’s on her way to the ER.” I spoke into the phone. “Forget it, Lido. You’ll never make it. I’ve got a ride.”
“Okay,” Lido replied. “I’ll meet you there.”
Twain and I began to run flat out on the rain-drenched pavement. It felt like I was running next to a cheetah. His strides were long and graceful. “Tell your driver to run all the lights.”
“I’m the driver,” Twain replied.
“No you’re not,” I replied. “Not anymore.”
Chapter Twenty-three
It was a miracle. The street opened up before me. I leaned on the horn as I shot past Madison Avenue. Twain’s midnight-blue Corvette seemed to blend in with the stormy sky as it raced like a stealth fighter across town. I heard an ambulance’s electronic siren yelp as we approached First Avenue. Ma was in it; I could feel it in my bones. I swung in tight, right behind it, stuck to its bumper right up to the ER entrance.
I was out of the car before the stretcher had hit the ground. Ma looked unconscious. An oxygen mask was strapped to her face. “What happened?” I screamed. A paramedic shoved me aside. I ran after them as they raced Ma into the building.
I looked behind me. There was no sign of Twain or his car. I turned back. I was living the nightmare. There was a doctor and a nurse on either side of the stretcher, backpedaling with us. Their faces were painted with concern. As we raced down the entryway, the doctor boosted himself up to the stretcher. I saw a bright object in his hand, a small flashlight. He parted Ma’s eyelid and scanned her eye diagnostically. “She’s diabetic, Type 1,” I yelled ahead. The doctor looked up.
“You’re family?” he asked urgently.
“I’m her daughter.”
“Your mother’s in shock.”
“Neighbor found her at the bottom of a stairwell,” one paramedic barked. “Multiple contusions to the head, they don’t look serious. Check her for internal bleeding. BP is eighty over fifty. Pulse is forty-five.”
The doctor pointed to the left, toward a passageway. The paramedics heeded. He queried the nurse, “Are any of the ORs available?”
“Number two is,” she replied.
“Start rapid infusion of crystalloid solution and check her hematocrit, type and cross-match for six units,” he bellowed. He tore away her blouse and began pressing lightly on her stomach. “I want a CBC count, serum creatinine, electrolyte, amylase and blood glucose. Order a full series of abdominal X-rays. Have them ready the OR and schedule an immediate abdominal laparotomy.” He was off the stretcher now, running alongside. “Call Edwards and tell him I can assist.”
“What’s going on?” I asked frantically.
“I think your mother’s bleeding,” the doctor barked. The stretcher crashed through swinging doors. I was on my way through when a male nurse stopped me.
“You’ll have to wait out here,” the nurse advised. “Don’t worry, your mother’s in good hands.”
I froze in my tracks, breathless, confused and disoriented. I stared at the sealed doors, wondering if Ma would come out alive. Someone was holding a cup of coffee in my face. “Light with Sweet’N Low, correct?” Twain was standing in front of me. He had ditched the cloak and was wearing scrubs, a surgical mask and gloves.
“What happened to the d’Artagnan getup?”
Twain shrugged. “When in Rome—” He sat down next to me. “I’m affiliated here. I was in the OR,” he announced. “They’ve got your mother’s blood sugar corrected, but she bled quite a bit. They’ve got to operate. There’s evidence of blunt liver trauma. They’re scrubbing now. Someone will be over with a release form any minute.”
“I can give her blood.”
“They’re already administering from a universal donor, but I’ll let them know. What’s your type?”
“O negative.”
Twain stood. “I’ll find out where to go for blood donation. A hospital can never have enough.”
He looked so normal in the scrubs, clean and clinical, a Dr. Kildare for the mentally ill. Perhaps it was the circumstances, but I was beginning to feel a slight bond with the odd Dr. Twain. I was glad that he was with me. Now all I had to do was pray.
I was sipping the orange juice I had been given in the blood donor unit when Twain came back. He was still in scrubs. Lido was with me as well. I wasn’t used to having two men in attendance, in particular, two who got to me the way Lido and Twain did.
Twain was smiling. I jumped up. “She’s out of the woods,” he announced. “They repaired the damaged liver.”
“Can I see her?” I asked anxiously. Lido was next to me, hanging onto Twain’s every word.
“Soon. She’s in recovery. It was a rough ride. She won’t be herself for a couple of days.”
“Thank you, Dr. Twain.” I noticed a sheepish expression on Lido’s face. “Shoot, where are my manners? Dr. Twain, this is my partner, Detective Lido.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doc. Detective Chalice told me that you came up big for her and her mom. Thanks. Don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything I can do for you. You’ve made a friend for life.”
“Not at all, Detective. It’s my privilege to serve.”
Shit, I didn’t know which of them to hug first. I was getting uncharacteristically misty. The cop was gone. Only the child was left, thankful for her mother’s safe recovery from harm. “Thank you, Doctor.” I was fighting it, but couldn’t stop. My arms were around Twain. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I squeezed him tightly. Don’t hate me for this, but he was as solid as a rock, arms like cast-iron sewer pipes.
I pulled back. Twain took my hands in his. I could feel the latex against my skin. He remained cool, perhaps for Lido’s benefit. “Glad I could help.” He turned to Lido. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Detective.” Then he turned back to me. “I’m going back inside to see how your mother’s coming along.” He smiled warmly. “Then I’m going to scrub. I haven’t been in an OR in years. Too many microbes for my liking.” His eyes widened, a modest attempt at feigning nervousness. “Let’s speak tomorrow.” His hands rolled off mine slowly, very slowly. I hoped that Lido hadn’t noticed. Was it Twain who had lingered, or was it me?
He began walking away. “Hey,” I called after him, “did they use my blood?”
Twain shrugged. “I’ll inquire.” He turned away.
“That’s the cuckoo? Seems like an OK type,” Lido said.
I put my arms around Lido and rested my head on his shoulder. He was no pile of mush either. “He surprised me. I guess I’ll have to look at him differently now. Everyone came through for me. Thanks.” I kissed him. He tightened his arms around me. I felt really good, but very vulnerable. I made a mental note not to let it carry over to the job.
“I’m glad your mom’s okay.”
I was feeling spent, terribly so. I was capable of chasing rocket-fast crack-heads for miles, through alleys and across rooftops, but family really got to me. I was down a father already, and Ma . . . Thank God we caught a break. “Let’s sit down,” I told Lido. “I’m wasted.” There was a loveseat on the other side of the waiting room. We filled it.
I rested my head on Lido’s shoulder and closed my eyes. I was in the ER again escorting Ma into the operating room. It had been freaky, almost like the nightmare. It was as if all those dreams were preparing me for the real thing. Perhaps the dreams would stop now, now that I had lived through the real thing. Had the dreams been a prophecy of sorts? I hoped that was all it was. I hoped that my brief experience with psychoanalysis was over.
Lido took the Saint Christopher medal from around his neck and put it around m
ine. “Why don’t you wear this a while. Saint Christopher helps me get through the tough times.” He smiled at me like my dad used to when I was a little girl. “He’ll watch over you.”
I couldn’t say no. I just whispered, “Thank you.” Then I began to cry.
~~~
Twain caught up with Carl Edwards in the doctor’s locker room. Edwards looked up at Twain. “You can take the mask off now, Doctor.” He winked at Twain. “I think the patient’s safe from the risk of infection now that she’s in the recovery room.”
Twain smiled. He loosened the top lace and let the mask flap a little, then moved to the other side of the locker room and sat down in a vinyl chair out of harm’s way. “Nice work in there. It’s been years for me. Watching you work was a real treat.”
Edwards put his foot up on a chair and tied his wingtip. “I’ve performed trauma surgery for nine years. You should see some of the messes they bring me. Today was a piece of cake.” He took his left foot off the chair and put his right in the identical spot. “What’s your specialty, Dr. Twain?”
Twain seemed introspective. “Psychiatric medicine. I’m not used to actually seeing inside the body. The psyche is messy enough for me.” He glanced off into the distance. “Just a friend of the family trying to lend a helping hand.”
“You’ve got the hard job, Doctor. I just cut and patch.” Edwards rolled his eyes. “Loose screws, that’s beyond me.” Edwards straightened up. He pulled his suit jacket out of his locker and put it on. He stopped to look himself over before walking over to Twain. He extended his hand before realizing that Twain was still wearing surgical gloves. “Oh, sorry.”
Twain shot an embarrassed glance at his latex-covered hand. “Better safe than sorry,” Twain mused.
Edwards chuckled. “Thanks for running liaison with the family, Dr. Twain.” He saluted in place of the handshake and walked to the door.
“Oh, Doctor, did you use a lot of blood?”
“Eight units, I believe. It took a while to patch that liver. That reminds me, I’ll have to raise hell with the blood unit. Some moron brought in a unit of type AB. Good thing the attending doctor checked. The patient was O positive. It would have killed her!” Edwards shook his head in dismay. Twain tilted his head, expressing disbelief. “Thanks again, Dr. Twain.” Edwards turned and left.
The door closed, leaving Twain alone in the locker room to reflect on what he had just heard. It had been almost twenty-five years since he had studied blood chemistry, but there were some things you never forgot and this was one of them.
Chapter Twenty-four
My cell phone was ringing. I dashed the length of the corridor and turned the corner into Ma’s room in the ICU. Lido had gotten a little bored the other day and had monkeyed around with my phone’s ringtones. A twenty-decibel rendition of “Foxy Lady” was pouring out of my shoulder bag: two bars, three, four. One more and it would switch over to voice mail. “Hello,” I said in a breathless voice. “Chalice.”
“Detective, hello, how’s Mother coming along?”
I’d know that voice anywhere. It drew an immediate physiological response. I won’t go into it again. “Dr. Twain, hi,” I said excitedly.
“Just checking up. I do hope there’s good news.”
I hurried out of the room. The phone wasn’t supposed to be switched on within the hospital’s confines, let alone Jimi Hendrix blasting in the ICU. There was a small lounge at the end of the hall. I rushed to it as I replied, “She’s still in ICU, but she’s awake and she started asking for food half an hour ago. I guess we’re out of the woods. You sound far away. Where are you?”
“I’m on my cellular. I would like to go out of town for a spot. Is there anything you need from me before I go?”
“When will you be back?”
“Two days or less; an impromptu holiday sort of thing. Is that all right? I’ve left instruction with my office to forward your calls to me wherever I am.”
“Whatever it is, it’ll keep.”
“Send my fondest wishes to Mum. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”
“Take good care, Doctor.” I meant it.
~~~
Dr. Twain stowed his cell phone. Having verified Chalice’s location, he then pulled a ski mask over his face. His gloves, as usual, were already in place.
He emerged from the stairwell with keys in hand and proceeded to let himself into Chalice’s apartment. His office would return the keys to her in the morning, stating that they had fallen from her purse and had been found in Dr. Twain’s car. He had filched them in the hospital during the confusion and hysteria. It was a bold move for Twain, but one that he embraced with verve and excitement. The mismatched blood types had aroused his suspicions. It was imperative that he learn more.
Once behind closed doors, Twain flipped on the light switch and headed directly for the bookshelf. It was filled with paperbacks, mostly thrillers and police procedurals, not at all what he was looking for.
Twain marveled at how exquisitely Chalice’s bedroom was decorated. It was feminine and tasteful. It included an antique chiffonier and a sleigh bed of reasonable quality. The room held the remnant fragrance of her perfume. Twain allowed it to waft through his mask and found it intoxicating.
Her bedspread was a divine bone and china blue foulard adorned with a delicate detailed fringe. It reminded him of his childhood in London.
He glanced around the room, squinting through the uncomfortable cutouts in the ski mask. He thought of taking it off, but was too nervous to do so. Chalice might send someone to collect fresh clothing. The possibility of being discovered by Lido or another close friend weighed heavily on his mind.
There was no sign of what he was looking for. He was about to check the living room, but stopped. The force that had retained him was almost involuntary. He sat down on the edge of her bed and ran his hand over the quilt. Blast! The cool texture of the high-count percale was lost to him. He couldn’t feel anything through the gloves.
Twain bent down and sniffed the fabric. He could smell her on it. Her essence and aura were there. He closed his eyes and she was there with him, alongside him. He reached out to caress the fabric one more time. His hand dropped, only to stop an inch from the surface. How would the touch of her bedding feel to his bare skin? He withdrew his hand nervously. A moment of divine pleasure, to be followed, he was sure, by an eternity of neurosis. Along with her lovely scent, there were undoubtedly bits of skin and hair, bacteria-infested tissue. Dare he? He could wash, after all, disinfect in his ritualistic manner. He ran his hand along her supple, imaginary leg and felt himself tighten in spasm. Off! Off with it! The glove was off in a second. A micron’s width separated the tactile pads of his fingertips from the cotton’s luscious surface. There he froze, waiting, wanting, trembling, tempting fate. No!
He sprang from the bed and into the living room. He felt uncomfortable, a sense of being watched. Twain stilled his breathing and attuned his ears to the silence. A moment passed. Nothing. His eyes traveled around the room as he stood, silently waiting for any sound to confirm his suspicions. Still nothing. He finally released his breath. A smile came to him, pushing the paranoia from his mind. It was on the coffee table. Twain sat down on the couch. He refitted his glove before he began leafing through Chalice’s family photo album.
The most recent pictures were dated. Twain passed them quickly and continued to flip toward her past. He was getting closer. As he flipped the pages, Stephanie Chalice was going back in time, growing younger. He saw it all, drawing impressions along the way, as she regressed from a woman back into a child: the Police Academy, college, high school, middle school, and finally elementary school.
The dating stopped, or rather, it had begun in the early seventies. He was near the end of the album now and still hadn’t found what he was looking for. He flipped a few more pages and saw the precious newborn. He marveled at her simplicity and innocence. He couldn’t help feeling that he knew her, that he had always known her, had
always wanted to know her.
He regarded the unspoiled child in the photo. Guilt rose within him. He was an unwanted visitor in her home and now in her life. He thought of what he had contemplated scarcely minutes earlier and felt ashamed. How could he have considered it? How could he have violated and defiled her home? Thank God, he thought. Thank God he had not. Tension started to creep over him again. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was not alone. He continued to feel uncomfortable, despite the fact that the apartment was silent.
And then he saw it. The photo had been taken before she was born. He slipped the picture out of its mounting brackets and flipped it around. The date was inscribed in pencil. It had likely been there for an eternity, before Chalice had grown into a woman and developed a nose for such details, a nose for inquisitiveness. He was sure that she had never checked the date. It was the one fact she had accepted unconditionally. Twain looked at the photograph of her parents just days before she was born, and his eyes began to mist over. He knew it was a lie.
Chapter Twenty-five
“Why’d you waste your money on those?”
Ma’s voice was still weak. She tried to mask her appreciation, enshroud it in cynicism. I knew better. I fussed with the bouquet of yellow tulips nonetheless: primping, fanning, arranging, anything to ignore her artificial argument. “There, aren’t they beautiful?”
It took but a moment for her heart to betray her. “Yes. Yes, Stephanie. They’re beautiful.” She grimaced as she spread her arms. “My sweet, beautiful girl.” Tears began to glide down her cheeks. A moment later, we were in each other’s arms, weeping sweet tears of joy. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an old pain in the ass.”
“It’s all right, Ma. You’ll be home making lasagna in no time.”
“Lasagna? I’d be happy with a mouthful of anything.” Her IV was still in place, a sorry substitute for a steaming bowl of pasta.
I smiled sympathetically. “Give it a little time.”
Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1) Page 12