Revenant Rising (61 page)
“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” Her grin goes ear to ear, “I’ve spent time with both Bemus and Tom Jensen and the thought of them—or you—with a tiny baby. . . .”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. No one can imagine me caring for an infant, even though Colin’s referred to me as nanny often enough. But to continue . . . We spelled one another with Simon. He had to be fed every couple hours, and it seemed like he never slept. We took turns replenishing baby supplies and doing laundry—never-ending chores—and one of us was always at the hospital with Colin, who never really woke up.
“As far as anyone could tell, Colin was oblivious to everything around him. He would look at me and seem focused when I told him about the baby, and I’d get no reaction. I should mention that he couldn’t speak because he was still on a respirator, but he didn’t wiggle so much as an eyebrow or lift a finger when I told him his mother said to call the baby Simon, the name he’d picked out for a boy.
“While I was alone, I necessarily had to bring Simon to the hospital whenever I looked in on Colin. On those occasions they let me park him in the nursery for short periods. When Bemus and Tom made the scene and basically went unrecognized by Colin, they both said I ought to show him the baby and maybe shock him out of this funk he was in. So, one day, two weeks or so into the ordeal and against everybody else’s better judgment, I brought Simon to Colin’s hospital room, displayed him on the bed alongside Colin who showed absolutely no reaction even though the kid screeched at the top of his lungs throughout.
“Then I decided it was time he heard about Aurora. I figured if that didn’t do it, nothing would. I went easy at first, described how there was no avoiding the accident, how he shouldn’t blame himself, how there was no saving her, how she was killed instantly. I explained that the combined efforts of several police agencies nationwide failed to produce any surviving members of her particular branch of the Shantz family, so there was no one to object when I had her cremated. I told him unless he had other plans, her ashes would remain in a box at the crematorium until the end of time. Then I told him again, the whole story, and with the repeat I was blunt, brutal even. I didn’t spare any of the nasty details, including my opinion of the deceased. I referred to Aurora as a ruthlessly conniving cunt—and worse—and when he didn’t react in any physical way, I was forced to acknowledge how bad things really were.
“Following that heartbreaker, I asked for a meeting with his doctors. When I demanded that specialists be brought in, nobody acted like I was pulling rank or insisting on preferential treatment. They immediately arranged for consults with the head of neurology at a big teaching hospital right there in Michigan and with a prominent authority from a well-known teaching hospital in Baltimore.”
“In-person hands-on consultations?”
“Yeah, and it cost the fucking earth, what with chartered planes and everything else that went into it, but it had to be done that way because Colin couldn’t yet be moved.”
“I see.”
“After extensive testing and poking and prodding, these two experts established that he
most likely
had an acquired brain injury
probably
resulting from crush injuries to the chest, and this could be
considered
cerebral hypoxia
depending
on the extent to which blood flow to the brain
may have been
impaired. I read the report so many times most of it’s committed to memory, and I emphasize the qualifiers now to give you some idea how much dithering was going on. Took me a while to understand that the neurologists weren’t just trying to cover their respective asses—that this was their way of saying they just didn’t fucking
know
what was wrong with him.
“But with or without precise diagnosis, all the doctors involved agreed that Colin should be transferred to a long-term catastrophic care facility as soon as he could be moved. I went into overdrive trying to find one in the UK. Those in the know over there said the premier facility of that type was the Fortescu Clinic in Colorado, a place that specialized in rehabilitating body as well as mind. This was ideal because Colin was going to need weeks and months of physical therapy if he was ever going to walk again.
“Another ten days went by before Colin was stable enough to be moved. During that time he had a few setbacks—another lung collapse, drainage problems with the splenectomy incision, infection in one of his legs. While that went on, the three of us held the fort as far as Simon was concerned and read up on what to expect if non-traumatic brain injury had, in fact, occurred. Between hospital pamphlets and texts from the library, we learned Colin could be screwed in the areas of cognition, language, memory, concentration, reasoning, and problem solving. And that that type injury could bring on muscle disorders and cause severe behavior problems like psychosis and depression. Another laundry list of dire prophecies I’ve never been able to forget.
“Beneath this black cloud, we never stopped trying to reach Colin. Bemus had a Walkman and an assortment of CDs with him, and once Colin was off the respirator we had him plugged into music of some kind every chance we got. I thought for sure we’d get a rise out of him the day he was forced to listen to a hair band he absolutely detested. But nothing.
“He was scheduled to be transferred to Colorado the first Monday in December, so Chris Thorne and his wife, Susa, came the weekend before to take Simon home to England. They both broke down when they saw what was left of Colin and that affected everybody. From then on, it was a real struggle to hold it together until goodbyes were said. When we went our separate ways—me to Colorado with Colin, and Bemus and Tom back to New York—we couldn’t help feel we were marking the end of an era. We all knew that even if Colin made a full recovery, he’d never be the same person he was at the start.”
“Whew.” Laurel lets out a long sigh and pauses her hand over the tape recorder. “To be continued,” she says and switches it off.
“I agree. You must be way past saturation, and I don’t mind saying I’m startin’ to wear down. We can pick this up another time. As soon as next week if you wish. There’s not a lot more for me to add, but I imagine once you start transcribing you’ll have questions.”
“I will and I’m glad to know I can count on you for at least some of the answers. I don’t want to have to call the UK every time I need a detail or a clarification.”
“I don’t follow. Are you talking about calling Chris Thorne for his input?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Apparently no one told you Colin’s stay’s been cut short. He’s going home no later than Saturday. He would have left today if David hadn’t advised otherwise.” While she gathers her things and gets to her feet, she explains the whys and wherefores, including the fact she herself tried to convince Anthony his schoolmates’ taunts held no truth. She says all this with the casually confident air of a privileged insider, and the same sensation overtakes him as when watching the video of her addressing the press corps: Laurel Chandler’s the one to keep an eye on, not David Sebastian.
They move to the foyer, where her effusive thanks for dinner and the narrative contribution ring nothing short of sincere. He helps her on with her coat and calls downstairs for a cab. In the elevator, he broaches a subject that’s been nettling all day. “Related to another matter, your assistant mentioned that you’re staying at the Phillippe. She didn’t say why, though.”
“Yes, I’m at the Phillippe,” she says as they cross the lobby. “Only until Saturday, as it turns out. I have an unusual number of late nights in town on my calendar this week—including this one—and it simply makes more sense to stay in town. Plus, to be perfectly honest, I’m a little spooked by paparazzi sniffing around my house because of my association with Colin. Even the neighbors have noticed. One went so far as to think she saw an intruder on my porch roof a few nights ago, but I discounted that sighting because the poor woman’s elderly and a bit addled.”
“Well, you can’t be too careful,” he says and hands her into the waiting cab.
Colin was barely past the eye-rubbing arse-scratching stage of waking when Nate rang at eight wanting a briefing. Now, a half hour later, after a quick shower followed by an inevitable review of all the other demands he can’t do anything about, this new one rankles in the extreme.
“I wouldn’t have breakfast with you this often if we were married,” Colin grumbles when Nate arrives. “What’s this make, third time in a week?”
“Who’s counting?” Nate says.
“Yeh, who’s counting?” Colin checks the date on one of the morning papers Nate brought with him, reads Wednesday, April 8 which makes it a week and one day since he first laid eyes on Laurel Chandler. Not nearly long enough to legitimize intent. “How’d it go last night?”
“Fine, but don’t tell me you don’t already know. She still asleep?” Nate nods toward the bedroom and takes a seat at the dining table.
“Leave off with that shit. You’re the one who spent the night with her—the evening, I should say—and after that amount of exposure you can’t have failed to recognize she’s not your regulation pushover. She’s . . . different, she’s not like that.”
“If you’re trying to tell me she’s immune to your charms, save your breath. Last night it was all she could do not to weep and wail when I described what the accident and that goddammed wife of yours put you through. She tried so hard not to cry she got hiccoughs.”
“She told me she had a lot to drink.”
“So I was right, you
did
see her last night.”
“Wrong. She rang me after she was done with you and we chatted a bit. She told me you were very gracious and saw to her every need including when she got hiccoughs from drinking more than usual.”
“Maybe so, but I take that as just another indicator.”
“Of what? Make your bleedin’ point, will you?”
“Are you listening at all? I’m telling you she’s yours for the taking and I’ve gotta fucking wonder what you’re waiting for. She’s the only thing you’ve got left to prove. In a few short days you’ve let the world know you can still command a stage by hijacking the orchestra at the Icon gig; you’ve demonstrated to readers of the tabloid press you’re fit and able-bodied by clocking the photographer outside the recording studio; you’ve shown anyone who cares to know that you’re your own man by shucking the label and releasing staff left and right. Goes without saying that you can attract a mob and, given enough reason, probably foment civil unrest.”
“That’s enough.”
“Oh, and you’ve unquestionably established your soundness of mind by
finally
responding to bad press, even if you did put a pretty face on it by employing—”
“I said that’s enough!”
“Not quite. It’s worth mentioning you’re bitchier than ever. You on the rag or what?”
“I’m . . . I’m pissed because . . . never mind. I need to get out of here, I need some freedom.”
“You’re going home Saturday, aren’t you?”
“She told you, then? Yeh, I am, but whilst I’m waitin’ for Saturday to come, I’m in serious need of—I shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.”
“Okay, I’ll spell. You need to stretch your legs and present circumstances make that increasingly difficult to do.”
“I was thinkin’ about trying out your gym, actually.”
“My home gym? The one in my house where you wouldn’t stay for fear of being too closely monitored?
That
gym?
“Yeh, that would be the one.”
“And now that Laurel’s left her scent there, my place is no longer off limits. I can suppose it’s been sanctified.”
Before Colin can snarl a response, Bemus comes in followed by room service with breakfast. Hot food and drink blunt some of the sharper conversational edges, and while a third party is seated at the table, topics remain neutral. The minute Bemus finishes his breakfast and heads back to his own quarters, Nate nimbly sidesteps the subject left hanging earlier by asking about Simon.
“I should pay him a visit one of these days or he’ll grow up without knowing I’m his unofficial godfather.”