Breaking the Chain (15 page)

27
                    
 

             
"Wait here while I check everything out," Jack suggested as he tugged on the trap door. "After all that rain, the tunnel could be really slick."
             
"Be careful," Mary warned in a soft voice. "If water saturated the walls, they could cave in without warning. Don't take any chances, Jack. Please. I know you think this is a big adventure, but it's not. The tunnel's dangerous, especially when the ground's waterlogged." She chewed her bottom lip as he descended into the darkness, and prayed that the safety precautions they'd taken would be enough.
             
"Man, it's dark in here," Jack called out. "This big flashlight's worthless; I'll need the kerosene lamp." A few moments later he reappeared, perched half-in, half-out of the entrance.
             
"Can you tell if it's flooded?" Mary asked, handing him one of the two lanterns she'd brought from the house.
             
"I'll let you know in a minute, soon as I get far enough in," Jack called over his shoulder as he and the lantern disappeared.
             
Anxious for his safety, Mary leaned forward. "Is the floor wet? What about the walls? Has much water seeped in?"
             
"Not much; maybe half-an-inch at most," came the muffled reply a few seconds later. "Hang on a minute, and I'll come back for you. I just want to see where this leads. Be back in a jiff."
             
Five minutes ticked by, then six. Seven. Eight. Still no Jack. Where was he? Worried, Mary lit the extra lamp and gingerly stepped into the opening. Holding onto the makeshift handrail the workmen had built, she descended the few stairs into the dark hole.
             
Shivers raced up and down her spine when rank, moisture-laden air assaulted her face like a clammy, invisible spider web, clinging to anything and everything it touched. It felt as if a blanket of slime had coated her skin, and her first impulse was to turn and bolt for the opening, to escape back into the safety of the warm sunshine.
             
Why had she let Jack talk her into coming? She hated tunnels, especially after what happened the last time she'd been stupid enough to venture into one. Would she never learn? Biting her lip, she forced unwilling feet to propel her forward, slipping and sliding on the slick mud underfoot.
             
As she crept further and further from the opening, the smell of rotting vegetation intensified. Gagging at the fetid odors that now permeated the air, she dug a tissue out of her shorts and held it in across her face. "Jack, where the hell are you?" she called, thoroughly irritated. He could've at least come back to check on her. "What in God's name are you doing?"
             
"I'll be right there," came the excited reply. "I've nearly got them. Almost done."
             
The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. Obviously, he was having the time of his life. Great. So much for her hope of going back to the house anytime soon. He must have found something. What?
             
Her curiosity got the best of her and she picked her way through the slick mud that was giving way to soft dirt. Noticing the change in footing, she held her lantern near the closest wall. It was dry! Cheered by her discovery, she picked up her pace. "I'm headed your way," she called. "Where are you?"
             
"Just past the bend. I can't wait to try out the metal detector down here," Jack continued in an excited voice.
             
She rounded the bend and saw him kneeling in the dirt. He must have heard her footsteps, because he turned and waved her over.
             
"Look at this," he exclaimed, pointing to two strips of dirt sticking out of the ground. "I've found a couple of metal bands. They might be from some kind of trunk. Isn't this great?" He tugged at the strips, and the metal pieces broke free from the dried mud. "Got ya," he said in a self-satisfied tone.
             
Curious, she moved closer. "Surely they didn't bury a trunk in the middle of the floor," she said. "That doesn't make sense. Why hide something where people could trip over it? If it were me, I'd bury my stuff inside one of the walls."
             
"Who knows?" Jack said, struggling to his feet. "Let's take these back to the workshop and clean them up. Then we'll be able to tell what they're from." He fished a white dishcloth out of his back pocket and dropped it near the pile of loose dirt and rocks. "It's not an 'X,'" he grinned, "but at least it'll mark the proverbial spot where I found these."
             
Mary clapped him on the back as they retraced their steps. "I always knew you were an adventurer at heart," she said with a sly grin.
             
"Every man is an adventurer at heart, sweetie," he replied. "Surely you've guessed that by now."
             
They heard a loud thump, then a muffled curse. "Anybody down here?" a deep voice called.
             
Mary turned to Jack. "Isn't that Dykes? What's he doing down here?"
             
"Damn. I told him to wait until I could bring him down. What the hell does he think he's doing?" Jack said, quickening his pace. "Where are you?" he called.
             
"On the stairs. Don't worry, I'm not traipsing through the tunnel unescorted," Dykes added in an amused tone.
             
"Hang on. We're almost out," Jack replied.
             
A few minutes later they saw patches of sunlight filtering through the entrance, illuminating the long silhouette of Dykes, who leaned against the handrail, patiently waiting.
             
"Hi," he greeted them. "Find anything interesting?"
             
Jack nodded and motioned for him to move. "Yeah, I'll show you in a minute."
             
Mary winced as her eyes encountered the bright sunlight streaming through the windows in Jack's workshop. Momentarily blinded, she staggered toward the workbench and was glad a pair of hands loosened the kerosene lamp from her grip.
             
"Give me your stuff, Jack," Dykes offered. "I'll stack it on the workbench while your eyes get adjusted to the light."
             
"Thanks." Jack held out the lantern, then the metal strips. When his eyes adjusted enough for him to see, he grabbed a dirty rag and started wiping off the thick layer of mud that coated much of his precious find.
             
Dykes inched closer, eyeing the strips as Jack unveiled more and more metal. "So, what do you think they're from?"
             
Jack's grin widened. "Maybe a trunk. Once I get them cleaned up, I'll know for sure."
             
Dykes nodded. "Cool. You going back into the tunnel anytime soon?"
             
Jack nodded. "Yeah. Probably as soon as I get the dirt off these strips. I can't wait to use my new metal detector." He flicked a glance toward Mary, who nodded, then turned to Dykes. "You wanna go with me next time?"
             
Dykes eyes lit up. "You bet. Only..."
             
Mary looked up from her perch on the windowsill. "Only what? What's wrong?"
             
Dykes shook his head. "Nothing's wrong, except that we need to leave pretty soon. The only reason I came out here was to give you a message. The hospital called a few minutes ago. It appears that your aunt's awake and demanding to see you. In person. Wants you in Boston today."

28
             
             
 

             
The somber atmosphere of the Boston hospital intensified Mary's gloomy mood as she walked toward the Cardiac Intensive Care Nurse's Station. She'd always found hospitals to be depressing places; this one was particularly dreary.
             
The staff nurses were busy working on charts, and she waited a few moments before clearing her throat to attract someone's attention.
             
"Hello," she said when one woman happened to glance her way. "I'm Mary Windom. My aunt, Elizavon Phelps, is a patient here. The hospital called earlier today and told me I would be able to see her. I believe she's been asking for me."
             
If the situation hadn't been so serious, she would've laughed at the look of relief that crossed the woman's face; obviously Elizavon had gotten on her case. Smothering her smile, she waited for the woman to speak.
             
"Your aunt's in room 645," the nurse said, motioning with her hand. "I'll show you where it is. She's been asking for you all morning. I'm afraid you can only go in for a few minutes, and then you'll have to leave. And please, please don't do or say anything to upset her. She's very ill."
             
"I know. I wanted to come earlier, but the doctor told me to wait until her condition improved."
             
The woman nodded. "I recognize your voice from the phone calls.
It's nice to be able to put a face with the name.
I'm sorry you had to wait so long to come see her, but it was probably for the best. The heart attack was quite severe; your aunt is a very sick woman." She opened the door and motioned Mary inside. "Don't be too long; she needs her rest," she reminded in a soft voice.
             
"Thanks." Mary stepped inside, and gasped. Elizavon looked like an emaciated corpse from a grade 'B' horror movie. Her normally pale skin had a pasty gray tinge, and her cheeks were sunken hollows in an already gaunt face. Her colorless lips matched the off-white of her pillowcase, and her breathing came in shallow gasps. Poor Elizavon! Tears formed in Mary's eyes and rolled down her cheeks, unchecked.
             
Moving closer to the bed, she clasped her aunt's skeleton-like fingers in hers, taking care not to disturb the three intravenous drug lines that were connected to a tube inserted in the back of her aunt's hand.
             
"Aunt Elizavon, it's Mary," she called softly. "I'm here."
             
One eye opened, then the other. "About time," Elizavon muttered in a raspy voice.
             
"I would've come earlier, Aunt Elizavon, but the doctor's wouldn't let me see you," Mary explained. "They told me to wait until you showed some sign of progress."
             
"Likely story," Elizavon argued.
             
Mary's lips twitched. Sick or not, her aunt was still a caustic old woman. She should've known a heart attack wouldn't change Elizavon's personality.
             
There was a soft knock on the door, and the nurse stuck her head into the room. "I'm sorry, but time's up," she said with a smile. "You can come back a little later. Right now your aunt needs her rest."
             
Mary nodded and squeezed Elizavon's fingers. "I'll be back in a little while, Aunt Elizavon. Promise." She leaned over and kissed the old woman's leathery check. "Try and get some rest. I'll see you later."
             
Mary spent much of the next four days in the hospital intensive care waiting room, cooling her heels in between the precious few moments she was allowed to visit with her aunt. On the fifth day, she made it a point to corner one of her aunt's cardiologists as he made his rounds.
             
"How's my aunt doing, Dr. Barrett?" she asked. "Can you give me a little more information other than the 'her condition's stabilized' routine I've been getting from the nurses?"
             
He looked up from the chart he'd been examining and frowned. "Who are you?"
             
"Mary Windom. I'm Elizavon's niece, but I'm also her next of kin. I've been trying to find out how she's doing for several days."
             
He reached up and scratched his forehead. "Well, since you're her next of kin, I'll be glad to talk to you." He motioned for Mary to follow him into a small cubicle the nurses used when they were working on charts. Gesturing for her to take a seat, he placed her aunt's chart on the narrow worktable in front of him, and took a seat. "Your aunt has had a very serious myocardial infarction that's permanently damaged part of her heart. In all honesty, I'm surprised she's made it this far, considering the state she was in when she arrived. That being said, I must admit that she's doing much better than we expected. However, you need to bear in mind that at her age, she's a high-risk patient."
             
The man was talking in circles! "What are you trying to tell me? In layman's terms, please?" Mary asked.
             
He held her gaze with his. "Right now we can't begin to predict how much she'll recover. She's making excellent progress, but she's not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. And, it's going to be an uphill battle. She may or may not be up to it. Whether she recovers and how fully she can live is anyone's guess. I've seen some patients in her condition go on for years; quite frankly, others are gone the next morning. We'll just have to wait and see what happens." He rose, picked up Elizavon's chart. "I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do for now."
             
"She's a very determined woman," Mary said.
             
"I understand you, but that's not necessarily a positive sign," he commented.
             
It wasn't what he said, but the way he said it that gave Mary the distinct impression that the man wasn't exactly thrilled with her aunt. Uh oh. That could only mean one thing--Elizavon's temperament must be getting back to normal. Her aunt had been unusually docile the last few days, but Mary knew the illusion of civility would be short lived once Elizavon started to feel better. Evidently the 'honeymoon' was over, and her aunt's acidic temperament had slipped back into place. Obviously the doctor had already felt the old woman's wrath. She pitied the poor women assigned to take care of her aunt. Better them than her!
             
"Has she been nasty to the nurses?"
             
The doctor shook his head. "Let's just say she hasn't been the best patient we've ever had." He peered at Mary over his glasses. "Is she always this, um, demanding?"
             
"She's usually much worse. Atilla the Hun was a pussy cat compared to my aunt."
             
"I see," he said. There was a momentary silence as he scribbled something on the chart.
             
"How long will it be before you release her from the cardiac intensive care unit?" Mary asked.
             
He snapped the chart shut. "Depends. If she doesn't have any major setbacks, we might consider transferring her to a step-down unit in a week, then to a private room after she shows steady improvement. If she continues to do well, she might get to go home in, say, a week or two after that. Maybe. That's if nothing, and I do mean nothing, goes wrong. However, you need to understand that everything depends on whether or not she develops any complications. At her age, that's a distinct possibility. I'm afraid that's the best prognosis I can give you for now."
             
"Thank you, Dr. Barrett. I appreciate your being candid."
             
"No problem. I was glad to answer
your
questions." He stuffed his pen back into his pocket and moved into the hallway, toward his next patient.
             
Mary stopped by the nurse's station before going to see her aunt. "How's my aunt doing?" she queried. "Has she been behaving herself?"
             
Several nurses rolled their eyes, but withheld comment.
             
"I'm sorry if she's been nasty to you," Mary apologized. "Elizavon isn't exactly the most cheerful person I know."
             
"You can say that again," chimed in one nurse.
             
"That's enough, Doris," snapped the head nurse. She turned to Mary. "I'm sure your aunt's attitude is only temporary. It's not easy being cheerful when you're in pain," she explained.
             
"Well, I just wanted to let all of you know that I really do appreciate everything you're doing for my aunt," Mary continued. "She's lucky to have such wonderful nurses."
             
"We're glad to help," the head nurse replied. "And don't worry about your aunt's behavior. I'm sure her temperament will improve once she starts to feel better," she added before excusing herself.
             
"Don't bet on it," Mary muttered under her breath as she covered the short distance to her aunt's room. Shaking her head, she wondered what kind of mood her aunt was in. Judging from the nurses' reaction, it was bound to be ugly. Evidently it hadn't taken long for Elizavon to get back to full form. Even being at death's door hadn't altered her personality. A close shave with Saint Peter and Heaven's Pearly Gates would make most people reassess their past sins and try to do better, but not so her aunt. Elizavon was in a class of her own. She'd probably be snotty to God if she thought she could get away with it.
             
Sighing softly, Mary straightened her shoulders, pasted a false smile on her face, and pushed open the door to Elizavon's room.
             
"About time you got here," Elizavon growled.
             
Mary bit back the reply that leapt to her lips. It wouldn't do to get into an argument; the best way to handle her aunt's nasty comments would be to ignore them. She stared at Elizavon for several moments, trying to gauge her mood, and decided that the old woman looked better. Some color had returned to her cheeks, and the concave hollows that were supposed to be the sides of her face weren't nearly as sunken in as they had been a few days ago. That wasn't the only change--Elizavon's bed had been raised to the point where she was almost sitting up, but not quite.
             
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Mary chose her response carefully, trying not to upset her aunt. As if that were possible, she thought sourly.
             
"Sorry I'm late, Aunt Elizavon. I was with your doctor," Mary said. "He told me that if you continue to improve, they might let you go home in a few weeks."
             
"Quacks, all of them. That's what they are," Elizavon sniffed. She peered at Mary through squinted eyes. "Why are you hovering by the door? Come closer, so I can talk to you," she ordered. "I have something to say to you."
             
Yes, your majesty. Anything you say, your majesty, thought Mary, and immediately felt ashamed of herself. How could she make fun of a sick woman? Elizavon might be a tyrant, but she was still a sick, frail, old woman. Ashamed of her sarcastic, albeit unspoken, outburst, Mary grabbed the visitor's chair and moved it closer to the bed. "What do you want to talk about, Aunt Elizavon?"
             
The old woman eyed her suspiciously. "You."
             
"Me?" Shocked, Mary searched for something intelligent to say. Why did Elizavon want to talk about her? "What...what about me?"
             
"Don't look like such a scared rabbit," Elizavon chided. "Doesn't suit you. You're not a mouse; never have been. In fact, I think you're the only one in the family who's like me, strong and willful. Unlike that worthless sister of yours, I might add."
             
Was that supposed to be some kind of compliment? From her aunt? Stunned, Mary could only sit there, dumfounded and open-mouthed. What was Elizavon leading up to?
             
"Give me your hand," Elizavon demanded. When Mary extended it, Elizavon traced the lines on the inside of Mary's palm. "You got the Phelps lifeline, Mary. Means you're going to live a long, prosperous life." She squinted her eyes and stared at her niece for a few moments.
             
"Quit looking so dazed. What I have to say's important. Should've told you long ago, but your mother didn't want me to. Made me promise. I'm not going to my grave with this on my conscience."
             
"But Aunt Elizavon, you're not going to die. At least not right now," Mary interjected.
             
"Don't be obtuse, Mary. I'm sick, not senile. I know I'm not going to die just yet; but I've had a close call with Death and I want--no, I need to tell you this before I have another little incident. Those quacks say I might not survive another attack, and one could come without warning."
             
Puzzled, Mary struggled for words. "Tell me what?"
             
Elizavon motioned her closer. "About your ability to 'see' things," she whispered in a ragged voice. "You've always--" Her next words were cut off by spasms of coughing and choking that intensified until the old woman lay gasping for breath.
             
Fighting the rising sense of panic that threatened to immobilize her, Mary pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse, then ran to the door. Jerking it open, she raced down the hall toward the nurses' station. "Come quick, I think my aunt's choking to death!" she cried. "I think she's dying."