Life Support

by Tess Gerritsen

  “If you can find it for me.”

  He stuffed Harry Slotkin’s chart in the cabinet and slid the drawer shut with a bang. “To tell you the truth, Harper, it’s not high on my list of priorities.”

  A light was burning in the living room. As Toby pulled into the driveway next to Jane Nolan’s Saab, she saw the warm glow through the curtains, saw the silhouette of a woman standing in the window. It was a reassuring sight, that vigilant figure peering out at the darkness. It told her someone was home, someone was keeping watch.

  Toby let herself in the front door and walked into the living room. “I’m back.”

  Jane Nolan had turned from the window to gather up her magazines. On the sofa, a National Enquirer lay open to a spread on “Shocking Psychic Predictions.” Quickly Jane scooped it up and turned to Toby with an embarrassed smile. “My intellectual stimulation for the night. I know I’m supposed to be improving my mind with serious reading. But honestly”—she held up the tabloid—“I can’t resist anything with Daniel Day-Lewis on the cover.”

  “Neither can I,” admitted Toby. They both laughed, a comfortable acknowledgment that among women, some fantasies are universal.

  “How did the evening go?” asked Toby.

  “Very well.” Jane turned and quickly straightened the sofa cushions. “We had dinner at seven, and she pretty much devoured everything. Then I gave her a bubble bath. I guess I shouldn’t have, though,” she added ruefully.

  “Why? What happened?’

  “She had such a good time she refused to get out. I had to drain the tub first.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever given Mom a bubble bath.”

  “Oh, it’s really funny to watch! She puts the foam on her head and blows it all over. You should’ve seen the mess on the floor. It’s like watching a kid play. Which, in a way, she is.”

  Toby sighed. “And the kid is getting younger every day.”

  “But she’s such a nice kid. I’ve worked with so many Alzheimer’s patients who aren’t nice. Who just get mean as they get older. I don’t think your mother will.”

  “No, she won’t.” Toby smiled. “She never was.”

  Jane picked up the rest of her magazines, and Daniel Day-Lewis disappeared into her backpack. There was a Modem Bride in the stack as well. The magazine of dreamers, thought Toby. According to Jane’s résumé, she was single. At thirty-five, Jane seemed like so many other women Toby knew, unattached but hopeful. Anxious but not yet desperate. Women for whom images of dark-haired movie idols would have to suffice until a flesh-and-blood man came into their lives. If one appeared at all.

  They walked to the front door.

  “So you think everything went well,” said Toby.

  “Oh, yes. Ellen and I will get along just fine.” Jane opened the door and stopped. “I almost forgot. Your sister called. And there was a call from some man at the ME’s office. He said he’d call back.”

  “Dr. Dvorak? Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. I told him you’d be home later.” She smiled and gave a wave. “Good night.”

  Toby latched the front door and went to the bedroom to call her sister.

  “I thought it was your night off,” said Vickie.

  “It is.”

  “I was surprised when Jane answered.”

  “I asked her to watch Mom for a few hours. You know, I do enjoy having one night out every six months.”

  Vickie sighed. “You’re pissed at me again. Aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes you are. Toby, I know you’re getting stuck with Mom. I know it doesn’t seem fair. But what am I supposed to do? I’ve got these kids driving me crazy. I have a job, and I still end up with most of the housework. I feel like I’m barely treading water.”

  “Vickie, is this a contest? Who’s suffering the most?”

  “You have no idea what it’s like trying to deal with kids.”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  There was a long pause. And Toby thought: I have no idea because I never got the chance. But she couldn’t blame that on Vickie. It was ambition that had kept Toby focused so squarely on her career. Four years of medical school, three years of residency. There’d been no time for romance. And then Ellen’s memory had deteriorated, and Toby had gradually assumed responsibility for her mother’s affairs. It had not been planned. It was not a path she’d deliberately chosen. It was simply the way her life had turned out.

  She had no right to be angry at her sister.

  “Look, can you come for dinner on Sunday?” asked Vickie.

  “I’m working that night.”

  “I can never keep your schedule straight. Is it still four nights on, three nights off?”

  “Most of the time. I’ll be off Monday and Tuesday next week.”

  “Oh, God. Neither of those nights will work for us. Monday’s open house at school. And Tuesday is Hannah’s piano recital.”

  Toby said nothing, merely waited for Vickie to finish her usual litany of how full her calendar was, how difficult to coordinate the schedules of four different people. Hannah and Gabe were so busy these days, like all kids, filling up every spare moment of their childhoods with music lessons, gymnastics, swimming, computer classes. It was drive them here, drive them there, and by the end of the day, Vickie didn’t know which end was up.

  “It’s all right,” Toby finally interrupted. “Why don’t we try for another day?”

  “I really did want you to come over.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m off the second weekend of November.”

  “Oh, I’ll put that down. First let me make sure it’s okay with the troops. I’ll call you back next week, okay?”

  “Fine. Good night, Vickie.” Toby hung up and wearily ran her hand through her hair. Too busy, too busy. We can’t even find the time to mend our bridges. She went down the hall to her mother’s room and peeked in the door.

  By the soft glow of the night-light, Toby could see that Ellen was asleep. She looked childlike in her bed, her lips slightly parted, her face smooth and unworried. There were times, like this one, when Toby glimpsed the ghost of the little girl that once was Ellen, when she could picture the child with Ellen’s face and Ellen’s fears. What became of that child? Did she retreat, to become entombed in all the numbing layers of adulthood? Was she reemerging only now, at the end of life, as those same layers peeled away?

  She touched her mother’s forehead, brushing aside her tendrils of gray hair. Stirring, Ellen opened her eyes and regarded Toby with a look of confusion.

  “It’s just me, Mom,” said Toby. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Is the stove turned off?”

  “Yes, Mom. And the doors are locked. Good night.” She gave Ellen a kiss and left the room.

  She decided not to go to bed yet. No sense confusing her circadian rhythm—in another twenty-four hours she’d be back on the night shift. She poured herself a glass of brandy and carried it into the living room. She turned on the stereo and slipped in a Mendelssohn CD. A single violin sang out, pure and mournful. It was Ellen’s favorite concerto, and now it was Toby’s as well.

  At the peak of a crescendo, the phone rang. She turned down the music and reached for the receiver.

  It was Dvorak. “I’m sorry to call so late,” he said.

  “It’s all right. I just got home a little while ago.” She settled back on the sofa cushions, the brandy glass in hand. “I heard you tried to reach me earlier.”

  “I spoke to your housekeeper.” He paused. In the background, she could hear opera music playing on his end. Don Giovanni. Here we are, she thought, two unattached people, each of us sitting at home, keeping company with our stereos. He said, “You were going to check the history on those Brant Hill patients. I was wondering if you’d learned anything more.”

  “I saw Harry Slotkin’s chart. There was no surgical exposure to Creutzfeldt-Jakob.”

  “And the hormone injections?”

  “None. I
don’t think he was on the protocol. At least, it wasn’t mentioned in his chart.”

  “What about Parmenter?”

  “We couldn’t locate his record. So I don’t know about surgical exposure. You might ask Dr. Wallenberg tomorrow.”

  He said nothing. She realized that Don Giovanni was no longer playing, that Dvorak was sitting in silence.

  “I wish I could tell you more,” she said. “This waiting around for a diagnosis must be awful.”

  “I’ve had more enjoyable evenings,” he admitted. “I’ve discovered that life insurance policies make very dull reading.”

  “Oh, no. That’s not how you spent your evening, was it?”

  “The bottle of wine helped.”

  She gave a sympathetic murmur. “Brandy is what I generally recommend after a bad day. In fact, I’m holding a glass of it right now.” She paused, and added recklessly: “You know, I’ll be awake all night. I always am. You’re welcome to come over and have a glass with me.”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she closed her eyes, thinking: God, why did I say that? Why do I sound so desperate for company?

  “Thank you, but I wouldn’t be much fun tonight,” he said. “Another time, maybe.”

  “Yes. Another time. Good night.” As she hung up, she thought, And what was I expecting? That he’d drive right over, that they’d spend the night together gazing into each other’s eyes?

  She sighed and restarted the Mendelssohn concerto. As the violin played, she sipped her brandy and counted the hours until dawn.

  12

  James Bigelow was tired of funerals. He had attended so many of them in the last few years, and lately they had become more and more frequent, like an accelerating drumbeat marking the passage of time. That so many of his friends had died was to be expected; at seventy-six years old, he had already outlived most of them. Now death was catching up with him as well. He could sense its stalking footsteps, could envision, quite clearly, his own stiff form lying in the open coffin, face powdered, hair combed, gray woolen suit neatly pressed and buttoned. This very same crowd filing by, silently paying their last respects. The fact it was Angus Parmenter and not Bigelow lying in the coffin was merely a matter of timing. Another month, another year, and it would be his coffin on display in this funeral parlor. The journey comes to an end for all of us.

  The line moved forward; so did Bigelow. He came to a stop beside the coffin and gazed down at his friend. Even you were not immortal, Angus.

  He moved past, headed up the center aisle, and took a seat in the fourth row. From there he watched the procession of familiar faces from Brant Hill. There was Angus’s neighbor Anna Valentine, who had recklessly pursued him with phone calls and casseroles. There were golfing buddies from the club, and couples from the wine-tasting circle, and musicians from the Brant Hill amateur band.

  Where was Phil Dorr?

  Bigelow scanned the room, looking for Phil, knowing he should be here. Only three days ago, they had shared a few drinks at the club, had spoken in hushed tones about their old poker buddies, Angus and Harry and Stan Mackie. All three of them gone now, and only Phil and Bigelow remaining. A game of poker with just two of them didn’t seem worth the effort, Phil had said. He’d been planning to slip a deck of cards into Angus’s coffin, a sort of going-away gift for the great poker table in the sky. Would the family mind? he’d wondered. Would they think it undignified to have such a cheap token tucked in with the satin lining? They’d shared a sad laugh about that, another round of tonic water. Hell, Phil had said, he’d do it anyway; Angus would appreciate the gesture.

  But Phil had not shown up today with his deck of cards.

  Anna Valentine edged into his row and sat down in the chair next to him. Her face was thickly powdered, grotesquely so, every fine wrinkle emphasized by the attempt to camouflage her age. Another hungry widow; he was surrounded by them. Normally he would have avoided striking up a conversation with her, for fear of stirring up mistaken notions of affection in her one-track mind, but at the moment there was no one else close enough to talk to.

  Leaning toward her, he murmured: “Where’s Phil?”

  She looked at him, as though surprised he’d spoken to her. “What?”

  “Phil Dorr. He was supposed to be here.”

  “I think he’s not feeling well.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know. He begged off the theater trip two nights ago. Said his eyes were bothering him.”

  “He didn’t tell me.”

  “He only noticed it last week. He was going to see the doctor about it.” She gave a deep sigh and gazed straight ahead, at the coffin. “It’s terrible, isn’t it, how everything’s falling apart. Our eyes, our hips, our hearing. I realized today that my voice has changed. I hadn’t noticed. I saw the videotape of our trip to Faneuil Hall, and I couldn’t believe how old I sounded. I don’t feel old, Jimmy. I don’t recognize myself in the mirror anymore. . . .” Again she sighed. A tear slid down her cheek, carving a trail through that dusting of face powder. She wiped it away, leaving a chalky smear.

  Phil’s eyes were bothering him.

  Bigelow sat thinking about this as the line of mourners filed past the coffin, as chairs creaked and voices murmured around him: “Remember when Angus . . .” “Can’t believe he’s gone. . .” “Said it was some kind of stroke . . .” “No, that’s not what I heard. . .”

  Abruptly Bigelow rose to his feet.

  “Aren’t you staying for the service?” asked Anna.

  “I—I have to go talk to someone,” he said and squeezed past her, into the aisle. He thought he heard her calling after him, but he didn’t glance back; he headed straight out the front door.

  He drove first to Phil’s cottage, which was only a few houses away from his. The door was locked; no one answered the bell. Bigelow stood on the porch peering in through the window, but all he could see was the foyer with the little cherry wood table and the brass umbrella holder. There was a single shoe lying on the floor—that struck him as odd. Wrong. Phil was so persnickety about orderliness.

  Walking back out through the garden gate, he noticed the mailbox was full. That, too, was unlike Phil.

  His eyes were bothering him.

  Bigelow climbed back in his car and drove the winding half mile to the Brant Hill Clinic. By the time he walked up to the receptionist’s window, his palms were sweating, his pulse hammering.

  The woman didn’t notice he was there—she was too busy yammering on the phone.

  He rapped at the window. “I have to see Dr. Wallenberg.”

  “I’ll be right with you,” she answered.

  He watched with surging frustration as she turned away from him and began typing on the keyboard as she talked on the phone, something about insurance copayments and authorization numbers.

  “This is important!” he said. “I have to know what happened to Phil Dorr.”

  “Sir, I’m on the telephone.”

  “Phil’s sick too, isn’t he? He’s having trouble with his eyes.”

  “You’ll have to talk to his doctor.”

  “Then let me see Dr. Wallenberg.”

  “He’s at lunch right now.”

  “When will he get back? When?”

  “Sir, you really do have to calm down—”

  He reached in through the window and stabbed the disconnect button on her phone. “I have to see Wallenberg!”

  She pushed her chair back from the window, retreating beyond his reach. Two other women suddenly appeared from the file room. They were all staring at him, at the crazy man ranting in their waiting room.

  A door opened and one of the doctors appeared. A big black man, he towered over Bigelow. His name tag said: ROBERT BRACE, M.D.

  “Sir, what seems to be the problem?”

  “I have to see Wallenberg.”

  “He’s out of the building at the moment.”

  “Then you tell me what happened to Phil.”

 
“Who?”

  “You know! Phil Dorr! They said he’s sick—something wrong with his eyes. Is he in the hospital?”

  “Sir, why don’t you have a seat while the ladies check the files for—”

  “I don’t want to sit down! I just want to know if he’s got the same thing Angus had. The same thing Stan Mackie had.”

  The front door opened and a woman patient walked in. She froze, stared at Bigelow’s flushed face, sensing at once that some crisis was under way.

  “Why don’t we talk in my office?” said Dr. Brace, his voice low and gentle. He reached out toward Bigelow. “It’s just up the hall.”

  Bigelow gazed at the doctor’s broad hand, the surprisingly pale palm across which a lifeline traced thick and black. He looked up at Dr. Brace. “I just want to know,” he said softly.

  “Know what, sir?”

  “Am I going to get sick like the others?”

  The doctor shook his head—not an answer to the question, but an expression of bewilderment. “Why would you get sick?”

  “They said there was no risk—they said the procedure was safe. But then Mackie got sick, and—”

  “Sir, I don’t know Mr. Mackie.”

  Bigelow looked at the receptionist. “You remember Stan Mackie. Tell me you remember Stan.”

  “Of course, Mr. Bigelow,” she answered. “We were so sorry when he passed on.”

  “Now Phil’s gone too, isn’t he? I’m the only one left.”

  “Sir?” It was one of the other clerks, calling through the window. “I just checked Mr. Dorr’s chart. He’s not sick.”

  “Why didn’t he go to Angus’s funeral? He was supposed to be there!”

  “Mr. Dorr had to leave town for a family emergency. He asked for his medical records to be transferred to his new doctor in La Jolla.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it says here.” She held up the chart, with a note clipped to the cover. “The authorization’s dated yesterday. It says ’Patient has moved due to family emergency— will not be returning. Transfer all records to Brant Hill West, La Jolla, California.’”

  Bigelow moved to the window and stared at the signature on the authorization: Carl Wallenberg, M.D.