Eye Sleuth (16 page)

A shudder shook me. What if Mary Sakamoto’s death and the attack on Lanny were related because of Lanny’s connection to me? Was the death of Dr. Anders as simple as a heart attack? My sleuthing had better get off the ground fast if his death was suspicious. By now, the bath water was tepid and my hands were like prunes––time to stop obsessing. I climbed out and was putting the wooden cover back over the tub when the phone rang.

“No. Some city on the south coast. It has a new conference center so the optometric foundation that plans these meetings got a deal.”

The good news from Lars was that Lanny was holding her own. We talked for a few more minutes. The cats were curled up on the bed, anticipating my next stop. Joining them, I lay listening to their even breathing. Sleep was impossible. My mind ticked on wearily as I slipped between patches of sleep and dozing and wakefulness. The phone ringing in the kitchen brought me fully awake to morning brightness. My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. Blearily, I focused on the clock’s digital display: 7:10. An early bird. Then I heard the caller’s voice. It was Lars again and he sounded really cheerful. Dashing into the other room, I picked up, yawning as I greeted him.

“Yoko, it looks as if Lanny can go home tomorrow. Any chance you can stay there, even if it’s only for a few days? She’ll have a nurse with her during the day, someone who is also trained in security, and I’ll be there overnight for a while. I know she’d love to see you, so would I.”

“Lars, that’s a great idea, I’d love to,” I whooped, coming awake with a surge of happiness.

The cats looked up from their food bowls, blinking in annoyed surprise, then went back to crunching dry Friskies.

“Wonderful. Look, I want to talk to you about what the doctors told me,” Lars said. “I’d rather not go over it at Lanny’s when she’s home. Can you spring free for lunch today, meet me at the club?”

“I’ll be there with bells on. I’m going to the passport office first thing this morning but after that, I’ll be at the college. It’ll only take me a few minutes to walk to the club.”

After I dressed, I scribbled out a note for my neighbor, Larissa, asking her to look after the cats while I was at Lanny’s and also when I was at the conference. She had my spare key and joked that time with my cats was her “pet fix.” I decided to pack when I got home in the evening. That way, I could take my suitcase to work so that when Lanny went home, I’d go straight over to her place from the college.

It helped that I was second in line at the passport office. The process, from taking a photo to filling out forms, was speedy.

“This will be ready in forty-eight hours,” the clerk said.

I arranged for the passport to be sent to the college, which the dean had suggested, saying that the college would pay any extra fee.

It was barely ten by the time I got to SUNY and settled down to some serious deskwork. Lars and I were to meet at one and it was almost that when I left to walk the few blocks to the National Arts Club. How different from the day I’d hurried to meet Lanny, the day she’d been pushed over the balcony. Today felt good because Lanny would soon be leaving the hospital. It really was beautiful, sunny and mild. The trees in Gramercy Park were unfurling tender leaves the vivid green of Granny Smith apples. Bright pansies edged the flowerbeds in the park.

Lars was walking briskly down the street towards the club as I reached its front door. I waved my arms like a maniac, not minding the stares of passersby.

We went into the lobby and up the wide marble steps of the grand staircase, passing the club’s latest acquisitions, a massive nineteenth-century Japanese wood carving of a lion and tiger cavorting happily. Peter Dalton’s contemporary marble of a lush-limbed female nude was close to the toothy jungle duo, a strange pairing. Lars unhooked the red velvet rope barring the way into the members’ main lounge and we walked across the expanse of Persian rugs and into the bar lounge where we stopped to gaze curiously at where the iconic glass dome had been. A pale aqua silk canopy draped in graceful pleating over the gaping hole left by the dome’s absence was the temporary replacement.

Val Sangrassio glanced up from behind the bar where he’d presided with tender sophistication for decades.

“Mr. Oldenburg, Yoko, welcome.”

Val came hurrying to greet us, shaking our hands, relief and pleasure softening his craggy face when Lars told him Lanny would soon be leaving the hospital.

Lunch turned into a mini-celebration with staff and a few members stopping by our table as the good news about Lanny spread. She’d been active on various club committees over the years and had a reputation as a hard worker, not a socialite prima donna but a woman who was warm and honest. Her connections had landed me the front desk job here when I was a student and I watched the familiar faces, remembering who had sharp tongues and hot tempers and who were genuinely good natured. Was anyone here involved? Had Lanny been attacked because of something she knew about one of the members or some of the behind-scenes problems forever brewing? Lars had said he didn’t think so but I wasn’t totally convinced.

Lars filled me in on the doctors’ reports then added, “You know that the police questioned Lanny. She doesn’t remember that, she doesn’t even remember that you and I asked her about the attack. She doesn’t remember anything about being at the club or what she was doing in the days before the attack.”

I kept quiet. Words wouldn’t help right now.

“The hospital is running more tests. So far, the news is good. The exact words, if I can remember them, was that ‘prompt monitoring of brain pressure and the draining of excess brain fluid greatly reduced the potential effects of the injury and coma.’”

“That’s good news.”

“Lanny’s in fair shape but the other day you mentioned possible problems. What did you mean?”

I chose my words carefully. It wouldn’t do to play fast and loose with the facts and gloss over potential problems. Better that Lars knew what to expect.

“It depends on what part of the brain was damaged,” I said slowly. “Problems will be neurological and Lanny may complain of blurring or double vision.”

“Will they keep her longer in hospital because of that?” Lars asked.

“That’s unlikely. The sooner she goes home, the sooner she can start on therapies. The good news is that the brain is often able to create new pathways, it’s called neural plasticity.”

I didn’t dwell on the not-so-good news, that too often problems like double vision went untreated. People usually thought it would disappear as the patient improved. People were dead wrong. If double vision seemed to vanish, it was frequently the brain playing tricks and suppressing the input from one eye. I’d thought about what Lanny would need once she came out of the hospital. Top of my agenda was a thorough exam of her vision but that had to wait until she was home and started on rehabilitation.

“Any news yet on the homecoming?”

“Today or tomorrow, if there aren’t any setbacks.” Lars hesitated. “The doctor said she’d had several small seizures so she was put on anticonvulsant medication and has to continue that for a few more days. Then there are the headaches. Lanny says they are terrible and nothing she’s been given helps for long. I asked the doctor and he said she may have to live with them because the headaches are partly from neck strain.”

“Among other things,” I said, thinking of the myriad symptoms, physical and psychological, that vision dysfunction can trigger. “Give Lanny time to settle in at home. Trust me, when the time’s right, I’ll suggest a vision evaluation. Have the doctors explained what to expect, what adjustments may be necessary or what treatments might be appropriate?”

This was no time to hold back, not that I ever did. Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m outspoken, I’ve been that way since I was a kid, even though it goes against my parents’ mantra, the one from the Japanese adage, “The nail that sticks out is hammered down.” In other words, “Don’t speak out. Go along to get along.”

“Has anyone said that Lanny’s behavior may be different?” I asked.

“No. Isn’t it early to make judgments? At the hospital, they said the best thing was to make her comfortable. Relax and wait, they said. It’s mild TBI.”

“Mild TBI is a bit misleading. It doesn’t always mean mild functional loss. What may seem like minor injury can cause serious, lasting disability.”

“What do you mean, disability?”

“Dizziness, headaches, poor memory.”

Lars nodded, looking more and more uneasy. I sighed. James Brady, President Reagan’s press secretary, had helped raise awareness of brain injury to a national level, but most people still don’t have a clue about the terrible impact TBI can have on someone’s functioning.

“What exactly does ‘function’ mean?” Lars asked.

“Even the simplest part of Lanny’s day, from brushing her teeth to dressing, may now be complex and confusing to her. Some brain cells respond selectively to faces and eyes. Damage to those cells means visual memory is impaired. It’s thought that doing something for the first time may prime the brain’s visual system to deal with useful information. But if it’s damaged, information that was stored there can be lost.”

Lars stared, puzzled. “But she can see and she does recognize me.”

“True, Lars, and that’s good! Still, daily chores we take for granted, showering, washing your hair, deciding what to wear, can be terribly difficult if you don’t have stored memory of those functions. Sometimes, what happens after TBI can be like dementia. President Reagan had been riding horses for years, but eventually he literally forgot how to ride because dementia changed the way his brain functioned. You have to prepare for a learning curve on Lanny’s part, we all do.”

I suggested Lars check out the New York chapter of the Brain Injury Association of America, I knew he’d find a lot of helpful information there. We talked more about what Lanny’s convalescence would involve. Only once did Lars show real anger. That emotion had been a long time coming to the surface, overlaid by another emotion, deep fear that we’d lose Lanny.

“If I ever find the man who attacked Lanny….”

I didn’t say a word. From a purely selfish point of view, I didn’t want to think about that man finding me. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I ever saw him again, for sure I’d call the police––after I stopped running. I’d deliberately not mentioned my pyromaniac of a mugger to Lars, he had enough to worry about. If the man who tried to set me on fire in the hall of my apartment building was the man who’d attacked Lanny, he’d found me. If so, would he return? Obviously he now knew where I lived. Lanny’s tragic encounter, chance or not, had left her with TBI. It was a hair-raising prospect to consider how I might fare a second time, given the violence shown Lanny and the vicious setting of the fire in my hall.

At some point, when Lars had less to deal with, I’d talk to him about my niggling suspicion that the equipment Dr. Anders was developing might be the reason Mary Sakamoto had warned me of danger. Trouble was, it didn’t make much sense. Who—other than a select few at SUNY—knew about the prototypes? And they were for vision therapy, a health care. Still, plenty of creations designed to help and heal have had their uses perverted. I’d have to think carefully about the prototypes. Beyond that, where were the connections? It was a hell of a leap to get from Mary Sakamoto to Dr. Anders. Right now, Lars needed my full support. It was crystal clear Lars and Lanny were more than good friends and that might make his adjustment to Lanny’s condition all the more difficult. Many TBI victims are so different, their relationships are forced into unwelcome changes like separation and divorce.

I steered the talk to a safer place. “I’ll bring you a book, Endless Journey, by Dr. Janet Stumbo. She was in a horrendous car crash and partially blinded and told she was TBI, with ‘no hope’ for change.” Lars frowned and I shook my head at him. “That’s not the end of the story, I’m glad to say. A learning disabilities specialist referred Dr. Stumbo to a behavioral optometrist and she got back much of her sight and vision.”

“She did?” Lars said.

“It took time but once she had hope, nothing stopped Janet.”

“Will I be able to understand the book?” Lars asked. “I have to ask the doctors to speak English and your field is hardly better, such technospeak.”

“Stumbo’s book is user friendly,” I promised. “It’s written for the families of TBI victims.” I glanced at the time. “I’d better get back to work. Can I do anything to help with Lanny’s homecoming?”

“I’ve stocked up on groceries. Tina, a private nurse––and trained in security, only keep that under your hat––is coming to spend days with Lanny, help her with everything, take her to doctors’ appointments and therapy and shopping. We’ll try that for a few weeks, see how it goes. Lanny will be so glad to see you.” He paused, then said, “I’m still inclined to believe the attack was random violence.”

“Do the police agree with you, that it was random violence?” I asked the question deliberately, knowing it was vital that I was objective, open to what others thought. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be seeing problems and connections where none existed.