“There’s been an accident, Da-da-Doc. Nothing too serious, but you mind calling me on the land line?”
It was serious, though, I knew. These days, Jeth seldom stutters.
Shay Money was in the emergency room, Jeth told me, maybe already in surgery. Around 3 a.m., she’d skidded off the road and hit a tree, racing to keep up with the ambulance that was taking her friend Corey Varigono to the hospital.
Corey was in critical condition, he said. Drug overdose.
Shay’s condition was unknown.
7
Shay used her finger to signal me closer, and whispered in a voice hoarse from sleep, “The black hole’s trying to drag me back-you believe me now? It won’t let me be something I’m not.”
I touched my lips to a part of her temple not covered by surgical bandage and replied, “You’re giving up so easy? Now you’re even acting like a rich girl. You’ve got the curse thing backward, sister.”
She smiled… winced at the pain, then pointed to her water. It was next to the hospital bed beneath monitors. I held the glass while she used the flexible straw, only a curtain separating us from the woman asleep in the next bed. Just us, but we kept our voices low.
Michael and his mother had exited as I entered, like changing shift. Shay’s future mother-in-law… maybe. As we passed, the fiance stared through me, not a nod, but the mother locked eyes and scowled. Heavy, rectangular brow. Her son had inherited the elongated earlobes. No way to know if she scowled for a reason, or if she was one of those angry people whose face had devolved into a warning to the world.
But Shay dismissed them quickly, whispering, “Understand now why Mrs. Jonquil drives me bonkers?” before demanding a report on Corey. As I answered, Shay’s eyes were intense, alert for lies. Reassuring. Even after slamming her convertible into a palm tree, her brain was sharp.
“Doctors haven’t downgraded Corey’s condition, so she’s hanging in there,” I said.
“That’s all you know?”
“That’s all.”
“How’s her family doing?”
“I’ve never met them, so I can’t say. The waiting room’s full. Your friend Beryl’s here. Liz, too.”
“Did they… say anything to you?”
I caught the hesitation. “I don’t think they saw me.”
“What about Vance?”
I replied, “Vance,” in a flat tone, not ready to tell her we’d met.
“Corey’s husband. That jerk. When I found her, the side of her face was all swollen, and her eye was turning black. I told the EMTs and the cops about him. That son of a bitch.”
I put my hand on her wrist. “The nurse said I’d have to leave if you get upset.”
“Okay, okay. But I show up at three a.m., his truck’s gone, and she’s nearly dead. I’ll bet right now he’s out making sure he has an alibi so he can pretend like nothing happened.”
A girl who knew how small-time criminals operated. Yes, her brain was functioning fine after a very close call.
Along with scalp lacerations and facial bruises, Shay had a closed head injury-medicalspeak for an injury that could be minor or could make her a vegetable. She’d been unconscious for at least a couple of minutes, so there were more tests to be done. But there were no obvious signs of brain trauma.
So I made her sip some water and calm down before telling me what had happened.
Around 2:30 a.m., Shay had checked her cell and found a hysterical message from Corey. After trying Corey’s phone, she drove to the Varigono home, where she’d discovered her friend unconscious on the couch. EMT response was fast, but Corey stopped breathing just before the ambulance arrived.
No wonder the mood was grim in the ICU waiting room.
“I took CPR, but, Christ, I couldn’t tell if I was helping her or not.
She vomited a couple of times. It was awful! Doc?” Shay turned her head slightly-painful. “We promised we’d be straight with each other, so you’ve got to tell me. Is Corey dead?”
Her face was swollen, raw in spots from the air bag. Skin around her eyes was pale purple, edged with magenta. Not too bad. “Raccoon eyes” is another medical term, but the girl was going to be okay.
I replied, “Corey’s alive. That’s the truth. You did everything you could to help her. That’s all a friend can do.”
“I did something else.” Shay touched a finger to her lips, whispering.
“Corey left a note, and I took it. It’s in my purse. No one’s read it but me. Take a look.”
It was to her parents.
Papi and Mami
I am so tired and afraid all the time and I’ve done something I know will never go away. You were wonderful and I never wanted to make you ashamed. I am so sorry and tired of being afraid. Forgive me…
It was written on paper torn from a spiral notebook. Written in a rush by a woman desperate for relief.
In the world’s most dissimilar languages, pet words for mother and father are touchingly similar. The Chinese say baba and mama. In Arabic, they are ami and omi. When conquistadors invaded, Aztec children ran screaming for apa and ama.
The first two words we learn as infants echo humanity’s first words. They are the sound of primal bleating; a child’s plea for help. Those two words are hardwired in the womb, and we carry them with us to the grave. It is known, from voice recorders recovered at crash sites, that mama is often the last word a pilot speaks.
Corey had called for help, but silently, as proud people sometimes do.
I folded the note as Shay said, “Was I wrong to take it? A suicide attempt… all I could think about was how bad it would look on her record. She’s given up on the acting thing, but the design department loves her at Chico’s. Without the note, they can’t prove it wasn’t accidental, can they?”
I said, “You did the right thing,” as I returned the note to her purse. “She needs help and protection but, yeah, I think Corey will thank you-” Then I said, “Hey,” watching her yawn. “Enough for now. I’ll come back this afternoon.”
“But I don’t want you to go. I’m not sleepy.”
Yes, she was. The nurse had also told me she’d been given a painkiller. But the girl reached and took my hand, something else on her mind.
“I’ve been a good friend to everyone but you, Doc. I needed to say that. And apologize.”
“I’ve got no complaints.”
“But I haven’t been straight. Even now. The real reason I missed Corey’s call was because I was at the computer. There was an e-mail waiting when I got home. He wants more money. The full quarter million. He knows my wedding’s a week from Sunday. If he doesn’t get the money by Friday, he’ll… he’ll…” The girl closed her eyes and touched fingers to her head. “He’s going to put the video on the Internet. That’s what Corey meant, the part about her parents being ashamed.”
“I see.” I gave it some time, as if surprised by the news, then said, “But maybe he did us a favor.”
Her expression read, You got to be kidding.
“Think about it. At least he showed his hand-better now than later. And he gave us time, seven days. We have space to deal with it.”
“But I don’t have the money, Doc. And… there’s something else. My bridesmaids got the same e-mail. They knew from the beginning. The four of us chipped in to pay the hundred and nine thousand.”
I sat back in mock disbelief. “Dex didn’t leave a fat insurance policy?”
“All that man left me was a couple of guns, a junker Cadillac, and some real bad memories. Dumb, I knew you didn’t believe me. But it was the only thing I could think of.” She squeezed my fingers, her grip childlike. “I lied to you, pal.”
I smiled. “So what? Compartmentalization-the smart way to handle it. I would’ve done the same.”
Again, she squeezed.
“If I was smart, I wouldn’t be in this mess-I think Michael knows.
Vance stole Corey’s password and read the e-mail before she did. Michael hasn’t mentioned it, but Vance told him something. I can feel it, the way he looks at me now. There’s not going to be a wedding.”