The Grey Door

by Danna Wilberg

  Jess smiled at Emilio Cortez. Dumbshit. Thank you very much.

  CHAPTER 20

  MIDDLE SEAT

  G race stuffed her small suitcase in an overhead bin and squeezed between a woman holding an infant and a teenage boy who gave her a resentful look as he folded his long legs against the wall of the fuselage.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, stashing her purse under her seat and fastening her seatbelt. Flying wasn’t on her fave list to begin with, and under the circumstances, her anticipation had grown twofold.

  Not in the mood for conversation anyway.

  The flight attendant called for everyone’s attention. Soon, oxygen was being sucked out of the cabin and replaced with a poor imitation. The hissing nozzle above her head taunted her. Chicken. Scaredy-cat.

  Megan Tatterhorn’s urgency had heightened Grace’s desire to board the first plane to Anaheim. “Someone from the hospital will meet you at the gate. Don’t eat or drink anything, just in case.” What am I getting myself into? Grace shivered, conjuring images of big needles puncturing her flesh. The drug, filgrastim, would be started immediately to raise red blood cell production. Dammit, Mom, how did I let you talk me into getting on the bone marrow donor list anyway? Her heart kept time with the wheels thumping on the tarmac. The weight of the burden pressed her back against her seat. I can do this. When hydraulic flaps descended, an invisible force extracted her fear, and steel wings took flight.

  ***

  Jess stopped in the men’s room where he took a swig of water and swallowed two Vicodin. Fucking dog. The bite throbbed like crazy. The earlier little romp he had with Jenna aggravated it, and the tape securing the gauze he had applied afterward pulled at the hairs on his leg. His pain level waxed and waned with the help of the pills.

  He marveled at how lucky they got in court today but worried that letting Vasquez off the hook for Weston’s murder could work to his disadvantage. He suspected that Weston’s buddies wouldn’t quit until someone paid for the crime. Laughter bubbled inside. Won’t be me, chumps.

  He limped to his car, tugging at his pant leg. He needed to get back to the office. His secretary, Melissa, had paged him twice. He’d be in for an ass-chewing if he didn’t hurry. Everett probably wanted to get him behind closed doors to boast about his performance in court today. He’d play the game. Oh, Everett. Keep on thinking your shit doesn’t stink. Go ahead and get Vasquez off. Enjoy your victory. He laughed out loud. I know better.

  When he pulled from the space behind the courthouse, the police car parked in the lot caused no alarm. The Vicodin kicked in, and Jess felt invincible.

  ***

  Detective Frank Spiderelli, nicknamed “Spider,” spotted Jess in the courtroom earlier. Many officers were interested in the “Chewy” Charro Vasquez’s case. Those who knew Garret Weston wanted justice. Spider wasn’t convinced “Chewy” was the shooter. Ballistics showed the gun used to shoot Garret didn’t fit the MO of a gang-banger like Chewy.

  Spider’s callused palm rustled across his unshaven chin. The new sergeant had him doing extra detail, scoping out Grace’s house. The additional hours weren’t a chore. He liked Grace, and he took the act of violence against her dog personally. Spider thought about the picture that had been on Garret’s desk, the crooked smile and the sparkle in Garret’s eyes when he claimed the dog would be his one day. Man, Garret loved that dog. He loved Grace. Spider lowered the radio’s volume, his thoughts competing to be heard. Grace loved Garret in a way most guys never got a chance to experience. She spent every spare moment at the hospital, reading to Garret and holding his hand. Spider recalled the time he caught her crying softly. She quickly dried her eyes and said encouragingly, “He looks much better today, doesn’t he?”

  Spider watched Jess Bartell disappear from sight before starting his engine. Never trusted that guy. The detective had been convinced Bartell was the person stalking Grace before Garret was shot. Candy Lewis proved him wrong. Still, there was something about Bartell he couldn’t shake, something evil. “Give me a reason to bust you, motherfucker. Just one.”

  ***

  Happy hour officially began in the Simms household. Fran poured herself a splash of vodka and stood by the wet-bar mulling over the news Grace’s hurried voice delivered from the airport. St. Jo’s hospital had contacted her and wanted her to come immediately. “Jesus,” she said, sipping her drink. It seemed only yesterday Grace was a little girl and she was the mom who said all the right things. “We all make mistakes,” she said, addressing the glass in her hand. She swirled the clear liquid until the ice cubes tinkled.

  Fran crossed the room and sank into a celery-colored BarcaLounger. For many years, Frances led a fight to enlist bone marrow donors. Her pitch? “Make a difference. Save a life.” Now her daughter would have to endure the pain it took to fight for that life.

  “I’m so sorry. I never dreamt—”

  It seemed fighting was her forte, not Grace’s. She was a natural, a veteran. She fought for her husband’s love for more years than she cared to mention. “For what?” She was no more to Roger than a name on a sign-in sheet. In retribution, she settled for the first schmuck to pay her a compliment. Tom, the salesman, sold her on a happy future. How long will it last? A year? Two?

  Fran’s attention slid to boxes of clothes stacked neatly by the front door. Should’ve been gone weeks ago. She couldn’t part with them. No matter how good a salesman Tom was, he could never hold a candle to Grace’s father.

  Frances pulled her legs beneath her, crossing her ankles. Her fingertips caressed her bare thigh. Roger’s touch had made her quiver with excitement. He made a lot of woman quiver.

  Shirley Meltz came to mind. Bitterness rose in Fran’s craw. Shirley was beautiful. Built. She flaunted her beauty every chance she got. Roger noticed. He more than noticed. He wanted Shirley in the worst way. It was evident. Marcus knew it. Hell, everyone knew.

  Fran thought she had the advantage; she was Roger’s wife. His pregnant wife. But twenty pounds into her second trimester, Shirley became pregnant too. Rumors ran rampant, the gossip more than Fran could bear. She buried herself in her work, volunteered for every cause on the planet, and did anything to live outside the pain of knowing. Roger didn’t come home the night Marcus called the house, frantically looking for his wife.

  Fran didn’t want the rumors to be true. She loved Roger. I wanted a family.

  For years, she tried to forgive her husband’s indiscretions. She was the dutiful wife, hiding her real feelings from the doctors Roger loved to be seen with and the wives he loved to tease. God heard her prayers. By taking Roger’s mind, God punished Roger severely for the pain he caused. His charm and brilliance as a surgeon had faded. The Roger everyone knew and loved had been turned into a child-like image that threw tantrums at the sight of red Jell-O on his dinner tray. Fran scoffed. Serves him right, the bastard.

  Grace turned out fine. She has my strength. Her plight, noble and good. She is destined for more than I can give. She’s a match. One could only hope. Timing is everything. If the transplant proved successful, Grace would feel that surge of puissance she had felt long ago. No one can take away your power once you save a life. The experience would sustain her, make her whole. Right? Fran lifted her glass to toast and then swallowed.

  She rose from her chair to reach for the photo tucked behind the vase of fresh-cut flowers on the mantle. The sweet fragrance of lilacs and heliotrope made it easy for Fran to remember. Grace was eight years old. Everyone smiled in the photo of what started out to be a glorious day at the lake.

  ***

  Jenna clutched her side, twisting the restraints that limited her reach. Drool loosened the caked blood on the corner of her mouth. Bruises tattooed her body in purple, crimson, yellow, and blue. A burning sensation blazed from her urethra to her kidneys. Please, dear God, she pleaded silently, let me die.

  In her delirium, she recognized the face hovering above. A fresh split on her lower lip cautioned her smile. Grandma. She
closed her eyes and the woman took her hand.

  They journeyed to a room filled with light. Jenna felt happy. It was the kind of light she yearned for each year. Last-day-of -school light. Six-weeks-of-nowhere-to-be light. No reason to hesitate. She stepped forward.

  Suddenly her path became clear. Uncle Chevy, taken from life too soon by a drunk driver, stood waiting with open arms. Treats concealed in his breast pocket drew her near.

  “Oh, looky here,” he said, handing her a heart-shaped candy. “It says you are a cutie.” In her reverie, Jenna giggled, knowing if her dad were there, he would scold the man for spoiling Jenna’s dinner. Uncle Chevy winked. “See ya soon, kiddo.”

  Shielding her eyes from the intense light absorbing her uncle’s image, Jenna almost missed her precious Cocker Spaniel padding toward her. The dog’s passion for chasing skunks tagged him with a nickname, Pewy. Curiously Pewy’s beige fur was no longer stained orange from tomato-juice rinses. This must be heaven. Her hopes were dashed by the memory of the day Pewy disappeared. I didn’t know.

  The sun perched high in the sky. One of those nowhere-to-be days. Her attention was glued to a book. I didn’t see him sneak out. “I’m sorry, boy.” She waited for the dog to wag his tail in forgiveness and lick her hand. But instead, the dog turned and ran. Jenna ran to catch up. Standing at the edge of darkness, she called to her dog. “I will never leave you again!”

  A voice echoed back, “Not today!” God? A weak stream flowed from her bladder, shooting daggers up into her womb. Pain persevered.

  “Jenna, wake up!” Jess shook her violently. “Fuck!” He rolled plastic sheeting, catching the bloody urine pooling beneath her naked body. Her face flushed pink, her skin, hot to the touch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why do you always have to complicate things for me?” He seethed between clenched teeth. “I should let you die! You’ve been a pain in my ass since day one!” He shoved her limp body on its side, yanked the plastic sheeting from under her, and dropped her back down on the mattress. “Another mess! I could kill you!”

  Jenna stirred in response to Jess’s threat. Go ahead, the voice sizzled in her head. Fire raged in her brain. Suddenly, as if the gates of hell opened wide spewing forth a demon, words escaped her lips, sounding clear as a bell. “You’re not man enough!”

  Jess backed away from the bed, but Jenna could sense the anger humming in his veins. He raked his dark waves with his trembling hands. His eyes, wide and crazed, stared at her in disbelief. She cringed, bracing herself for the final blow that would end her life.

  It never came.

  ***

  Jess crumpled to the floor. He held himself tightly in a fetal position, imagining his face pressed against cold Formica instead of a concrete floor. His small fists were tied behind his back. A tall figure stood over him. He could hear the cracking sound of leather hitting his buttocks and thighs. “Hit him again, Harry,” his mother cried excitedly, a half empty bottle of Jack in her hand. “Hit him again!”

  ***

  Grace stared at the blinking lights lining the runway. The plane came to a complete stop. No turning back. She joined in the chorus of clicks traveling down the fuselage as everyone unfastened their seatbelts. “Welcome to John Wayne Airport,” announced the flight attendant in a perky voice.

  The woman sitting next to Grace rose and slung her baby over one shoulder. The tiny face watched Grace carefully as Grace maneuvered out of her seat and retrieved her bag from the overhead bin. Grace smiled. The baby smiled back. Meg Tatterhorn’s words came to mind. A pediatric patient. Anxiety melted away, replaced by a warm feeling. She filed down the aisle thinking, children deserve a chance.

  In the baggage area, white rectangles bobbed in the air. One read, “G. Simms.”

  “I’m G. Simms,” she announced to the slender man holding the sign. She observed the livery hat too large for his head.

  He tucked the sign beneath his arm. “This way, please,” he urged, before asking politely, “How was your trip?” Despite his small stature, he picked up her bag with ease.

  “Short, thank God. Eh, flying isn’t my thing.”

  “A means to an end,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with glee.

  Rows of brown creases formed on each side of his face when he smiled. “My mother’s philosophy. Me? I drive. I hate flying. It just plain scares me.” Grace felt instant rapport. She was happy for the understanding.

  “This way,” he instructed.

  The driver grabbed the minivan’s latch with gnarled hands and slid the door open. The hospital name sprawled beneath tinted windows caught Grace’s attention, reminding her it wasn’t a pleasure trip. “Do you mind?” Grace pulled the handle on the front, passenger door and climbed inside.

  “Can’t say I blame you. I like riding up front myself. Makes me feel more…in control.” He slammed her door shut and hopped into the driver’s seat. “I’d let you drive, but…rules are rules! And the truth is, I never let anyone drive. Yeah,” he said, starting the engine, his laugh laced with a hint of sarcasm. “Guess I’m not alone in my thinking.”

  Grace wasn’t sure if she resented the implication. She wasn’t controlling, was she? No. Jess was controlling. Her mother? Shit. “How long before we reach the hospital?”

  “Fifteen minutes tops,” he answered. “Seat belt fastened?” Her flat expression answered his question. “Sorry, ma’am. Rules.” The creases on his face deepened as he merged into traffic.

  A few minutes of silence was all the driver could take. “It’s a good thing you’re doing,” he said, glancing her way. Fetching donors from the airport is my favorite part of the job.” “How did you— I thought,” she stammered.

  “Oh, yes…well… no one has to tell me.” He glanced at her bag. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No harm, I guess.” She looked away. “I’m nervous. Excited!” She turned to him, “I’m scared. I hate needles.”

  “A means to an end,” they said simultaneously. They shared a laugh, then the driver’s smile faded. “I wish my Rosalie— He stopped talking and concentrated on the traffic.

  “Your wife?”

  “No. My wife died giving birth to Rosalie. My daughter was six years old when the doctors diagnosed her with leukemia. Her relatives live in Spain. Farmers. Too poor to come to America. If only Rosalie had had a sister.”

  Alarms went off in Grace’s head. Sister? Relative? Megan Tatterhorn said she was a rare match. What did she mean? Her mom had mentioned once there was Native American lineage on her father’s side. Was that it? It took hundreds of donors to come up with one compatible match. Sometimes more. Grace pulled her cell phone from her purse. Her hand shook as she navigated the keys. “Mom? Mom, where are you? Mom? Please call me. It’s urgent. I’m on my way to St. Jo’s. I need to know about ‘optimal’ donorship.”

  ***

  Fran leaned back in her chair. A bottle of vodka, now empty, stood on the table mocking her behavior. “Yes, you are a sorry sight, Frances Simms,” she slurred. The room was beginning to spin, yet she couldn’t move. Her grief glued her to the chair, stole her common sense, and left her in a drunken stupor. “He was mine, Shirley Meltz,” she whispered. “Mine.”

  Finally, after thirty-one years, Frances had her answer. The truth Roger would never admit to was now revealed. He swore up and down to God and country he didn’t sleep with Shirley Meltz. As hard as Fran tried to believe him, she never could. Something deep inside her gut told her he was lying. Woman’s intuition.

  When Grace contacted her the first time to let her know the hospital called, Fran was curious. She knew they usually tested on the other end. In rare circumstances, a person was flown in. Family. It took a bit of cajoling to get Margaret to spill the beans, but Fran knew she would: “A newborn came in with an entourage. The grandpa’s a doctor from Sacramento. He’s got everyone here hoppin’. Like we’re not busy enough! I’d love to know who he’s connected to. They flew in a donor from, coincidentally, the guy’s hometown, Sacramento! Isn’t t
hat just plain uncanny?”

  Fran felt sick hearing the news, yet she still held out hope that Margaret was right. One big coincidence. Then Grace’s call burst her bubble. “Optimal” donorship. Histocompatible, proteins that stimulate the immune response, found in the cell walls, markers, determining a set of genes inherited from either the father’s side or the mother’s side of the family. Human leukocyte antigen. It was rare that a parent matched a child, let alone another member of the family. No wonder they were so excited. Grace was an HLA match.

  ***

  Fear crept up Grace’s spine, causing her head to tingle and tiny bumps to rise on her skin. She shivered as if the motion would reset the boundaries of her experience and all would be well. Not so. The strangeness in what waited ahead of her was cause for alarm. She closed her eyes and then reopened them to make sure what she was seeing was real. Clear plastic sheeting concealed the construction area leading to the west wing of the hospital. The sign posted read “Pardon Our Dust,” below an apology along with dates determining the length of inconvenience to hospital staff and visitors. Like my dream. The scene mimicked the dream she had after Candy Lewis shot herself and then again while Garret lay in a coma. The dream she and Dr. Meltz determined manifested itself from post-traumatic stress, the dream that stole her sleep and left her with night terrors.

  “Miss Simms?” The driver nodded to his right. “This way,” he said, his smile warm and friendly. “Don’t be nervous. Remember: a means to an end.”

  Grace lagged behind, staring in disbelief at the coffee kiosk. It can’t be. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. Construction goes on all the time in hospitals. But the door revealing itself before she made the next turn made her shudder. People walked in; people walked out. I have to see the blood. She needed proof. If her dream were coming true, there would be a pool of blood on the floor up ahead. Whose blood?