“Maisey,” he says, tremulously, reaching for my hand. “Why are you angry? What’s going on?”
He peers up at Officer Mendez, squinting as if trying to focus, and the fear smacks me yet another whack over the top of my head. Dad’s not acting. He’s genuinely lost. If this is true, if it’s true that my mother is upstairs in a coma, then anything could be true. All the horrible things this officer is saying Might. Be. True.
My body sags at the knees, the railing digging into my ribs as I collapse against its support. I’ve got no more stuffing. There’s a loud buzzing in my ears. Somebody should fix the fluorescents; they’re way too dim.
“Mom?” Elle’s voice sounds far away.
I can’t seem to turn my head. The floor is disappearing under my feet, and the buzzing drowns out further words.
Something solid behind my knees; hands lower me to sitting and push my head forward so I’m doubled up over the emptiness in my belly. My own breathing grows louder than the buzzing in my ears. My heart is beating in my head now, instead of in my chest where it belongs, and it’s beating way too fast.
“She hasn’t slept in forever, and I don’t think she’s eaten anything. Plus she’s worried.” Elle sounds frightened. I need to comfort her, but I can’t move.
“I can’t imagine being grilled by the police has been helpful,” a woman’s voice says. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, steadying, gentle. Another slips onto my neck, checking my pulse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the voice says. “She’ll be fine.”
My heart begins traveling in the right direction, out of my head and back toward my chest. I can feel all my fingers and toes, along with a growing sense of embarrassment. It’s tempting to pretend I’m unconscious, but of course I can’t.
“I’m okay,” I croak. “Sorry.”
“Take your time,” the voice says. “No rush.” And then to Elle, “Maybe you could go ask the nurse if they have some juice or something for your mom?”
I manage to get my eyes open.
Dad has drifted back to sleep. A woman in a white lab coat stands beside his bed, looking at the monitors, then placing a stethoscope to his chest and listening. She drags the other visitor chair close to mine and sits, holding out her hand. “You must be Maisey. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
When I take her hand, it feels small and fragile in mine, bird bones, but what I read in her dark eyes more than makes up for her physical stature. This is not a woman you want to tangle with.
“I’m Eliana Margoni,” she says. “I’m your mother’s doctor. The nurses told me you were here with Walter. I’m sure you have many questions.”
Her calm compassion undoes me. Tears well up, and I’m powerless to hold them back.
“If it helps,” Dr. Margoni says, “I’m certain that the bleeding in your mother’s brain is from a ruptured aneurism. We discovered it about three months ago and knew her death was just a matter of time. The idea that your father hit or shoved her is ludicrous.”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
Through my tears she’s a distorted blob of black and white, the expression on her face unreadable.
“That is a question I’m afraid I can’t answer. It was a ticking time bomb. Your mother opted not to try a repair, which had a high probability of leaving her brain damaged and incapacitated. Your father disagreed. As long as there was hope, he wanted to try. But you know how she is.”
“I know.”
Dr. Margoni squeezes my hand. “I understand that we’ve been unable to find her advance directive. I can tell you that she told me one had been done and that they would bring a copy to the clinic. That didn’t happen. But I can attest that she told me she would like to die quietly at home and was not interested in extraordinary measures. I have that note documented. I would need a subpoena to release it to the police, of course, unless Leah’s next of kin gives permission.”
Even though I am the next of kin, and this means making a decision, a warm ray of sunshine pierces the frosty coldness inside me. Her tone is incisive and authoritative, turning the world right-side up.
“If it would be helpful, then I would totally support releasing that to the police. Of course.”
Dad makes a louder snoring sound and jolts awake. His eyes are wild, scanning the room, but before I can get up, the lids drift closed again, and he falls back asleep.
“We’ve given him a sedative,” Dr. Margoni explains. “He was exhausted, poor man.”
“I understand there is a matter of broken bones,” Mendez says, stiffly. “Can you explain those away?”
“How did you hear about that?” Dr. Margoni sounds severe now. “I’m quite sure you don’t have a warrant.”
“Sources,” he says. “Small town. People talk.”
“Small town is no excuse for a breach of client confidentiality.”
“Look. I heard about it. I’m investigating. It’s my job. You think I want to be here? Walter’s done my parents’ taxes. He goes fishing with my uncle.”
Dr. Margoni glares at him, then turns back to me. “I’m here because I just heard myself. Small-town news travels faster than radiology to a doctor, apparently.”
Elle comes back, carrying a can of Coke. “Vending machine,” she says. “It’s ice-cold.”
I’m not thirsty, but I take the can because Elle brought it for me. The curve of the can in my hand, its weight, the cold against my palm, all serve to calm and ground me. I take a swig, the sweet fizz ending in a bitter taste. I want Elle to leave the room again but can’t think of an excuse.
“What’s up?” she says. “Is it Grandma? You all look like a funeral or something.”
Dr. Margoni gives me a questioning look.
“Elle already knows,” I say, giving permission to carry on the conversation. I glare at Mendez, the one who is responsible for her knowing, but he ignores me and talks directly to the doctor.
“I heard there are a lot of old fractures. Highly suggestive of domestic violence.”
“All old fractures, as you say. Healed.”
“But how old is old?” Mendez persists. “Six months? A year?”
“Ten years. Twenty. Once the fracture has formed a callus, there’s no way of knowing how long ago it happened. She’s been a patient at the clinic for ten years, and there are no documented injuries during that time frame.”
“How would you know?” Mendez asks. “An abused woman won’t often tell you, am I correct? Maybe the injuries had time to heal between visits.”
“Leah was not an abused woman,” Dr. Margoni says, dismissively. “She had an appointment to see me, by the way, to create a POLST form. That’s an official document outlining her wishes for treatment, Maisey. Based on our office conversations, I think it’s highly likely Walter acted on her wishes by not calling for medical assistance.”
“Three days,” Officer Mendez growls. “That’s a long time to let somebody lie around unconscious.”
“Three days in which, I understand, he somehow managed to get her into a bed, despite his significant arthritis and degenerative disc disease. Three days in which he bathed her, spooned water into her mouth, and watched over her.”
“Serial killers have done the same for dead bodies.”
While they are discussing my parents—my mother’s desire to die, my father as a demented killer—the tension and incomprehension within me keeps growing.
“I don’t want her to die,” I blurt out, cutting short the legal discussion.
“Nobody does,” Dr. Margoni says. “Death does not always comply with our wishes. I understand that you must be completely overwhelmed, but we need to decide what to do when she stops breathing. Or when her heart stops beating. She didn’t want any lifesaving measures; she didn’t even want to come to the hospital.”