Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (38 page)

“I got a call from Laura a short while ago,” she said to a nurse whose eyes remained fixed on the computer screen in front of her, “about my daughter, Phoebe Murrow…that she was…that she might be coming out of her coma.” Isabel's voice sounded tense and slightly high-pitched.

She wondered if the woman was even listening. “But she doesn't seem any different to me.”

The nurse finally looked up. “Coming out of a coma isn't like waking up from sleep. And it's different for everybody, but I'll let her know,” she said. “I'm sure she'll be right over.”

Isabel thought about what she said. “Do you mean soon? Or when? What about Dr. Bailey? Is she around?”

It was only after Isabel returned to Phoebe's bedside that she realized the breathing tube had been removed. How could she have missed that?

“When did they take the tube out?” she asked Noah and Emma.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Emma replied.

“What if something happens?”
Like she stops breathing?
Isabel thought. “Shouldn't they be watching her?” She said this more to herself than to Emma or Noah, but he answered anyway.

“This thing on her finger,” Noah said, pointing to Phoebe's right hand, “it's an oxygen saturation monitor. The nurse told me if it drops below a certain level some alarm will go off. But she also said to push this buzzer if I thought something was wrong.” He lifted a thick white plastic tube with a button on the end.

“Oh, okay,” she said. Noah's memory and obvious intelligence impressed her.

“Yeah, and one other thing. It sounded like Phoebe made a noise, sort of a groan, after they took the thing out.”

“I heard it, too,” Emma chimed in, a smile lighting up her porcelain features.

“Really?” Isabel said hopefully. “Oh, my gosh, do you think she might actually—”
come back to us?
She lifted Phoebe's hand. “I'm here, darling. Your good friends, Noah and Emma, are too. Isn't that lovely? And your father and brother are coming.”

Until someone said something, she would ignore the “two-at-a-time” rule in the ICU.

Before she'd left home, Ron had taken her by the shoulders. “I think everything's going to be all right,” he said, an uncharacteristic desperation in his eyes. She'd unlatched his hands, had trouble even meeting his gaze, though part of her had wanted to fall into his embrace. “Yes, maybe,” she said. “Let's hope so.”

Now Emma said she ought to get home, but would return on Saturday. After Isabel insisted that Emma take a taxi, “I don't want you wandering around out there in the dark,” she pressed cab fare into the girl's hand and gave her another heartfelt hug.

Once she left, Isabel noticed a paperback copy of
To Kill a Mockingbird
lying open beside the card, the cover facing up. “Have you been reading to her?” she asked Noah. “It's one of Phoebe's favorites. But I guess you knew that?”

He nodded.

“Why don't you keep reading? I'd love to hear it too.” She wanted to keep her mind occupied and could think of nothing more soothing than to hear this boy's voice.

And so he began to read, picking up apparently where he'd left off. But almost immediately Isabel's mind spun off. Until he said something about events leading to an accident.

Events that lead to an accident
, Isabel thought. Will we ever be able to look back on this as an accident? She thought too about how every community, in a way, mirrored the small town of Monroeville, where prejudice existed and despicable things happened. After a few more sentences, in which Boo Radley and Dill were introduced, she found her interest flagging and only half-listened. Her foot tapped the floor with growing restlessness; she worried about where Ron and Jackson could be, and why the nurse or a doctor hadn't shown up.

Even as these thoughts marched through her mind, Ron came through the door of the ICU and Laura's dark head of wavy hair bobbed toward Phoebe's bed. Before she reached them, though, the nurse veered off to the left, saying something to Ron as she passed him. Now where was she off to?

At Ron's approach Isabel's brow knitted into a slight frown. “Where's Jackson?”

Somewhat sheepishly Ron told her that their son had received a call from Matthew, one of his best friends and a neighbor. “Maybe it's for the best?” he said, as if sensing Isabel's disapproval.

Her smile was tight. Jackson hadn't visited, not once, because she and Ron hadn't wanted him to remember his sister this way. But tonight she wanted him here. Phoebe might respond to his voice, she thought.

Trying to keep her disappointment in check, she turned to Noah. “I imagine your parents might like to get you home? It's getting late.”

He nodded. “But it's okay, Mrs. Murrow, they know I'm here.” He pushed the novel into his backpack, which he hoisted onto his shoulder, and extended his hand toward Ron. They shook. He took one more look at Phoebe, told her he'd come the following day if it was all right – he eyed Isabel, who said, of course it was – and asked for a call if there were any further developments.

“Of course, we will,” Isabel said. He took off just as the nurse arrived.

Sandy hobbled down the stairs to answer the door. Squinting through the peephole, she saw that it wasn't Bill; no, two cops stood there. She had half a mind not to answer. Were they going to arrest her? Had Phoebe died? Another hard knock. Heart pounding, she opened up.

The two men flashed their badges at her. She felt so close to fainting that she barely heard their names. They took their time examining her – up, down and sideways it seemed – which was really annoying because she looked like shit. They sniffed the air – could they tell she'd been drinking? Hell, that was no crime – then glanced at her foot and asked if she was okay.

Do I look okay?
she wanted to ask, but instead forced a smile onto her face. “It's been a rough night,” she said.

“We can see that. Can we come inside?”

“I'm kind of busy,” she said. “What's this about?”

One of them pointed at the vandalized lawn. Then she realized that most likely they were here because one of her stupid neighbors had reported the “disturbance.”

“How long will this take?”

“Just a few minutes.”

As it was, they took their time and asked plenty, like did she have any idea why someone would do such things to her house. Her property. Though tempted to say something about Isabel, and even vaguely wondering if that had been Ron's SUV, she just shook her head. “Nope, no idea, Officer.”

“We can report it as vandalism and further look into it, Ma'am,” one of them said.

If only she could explain how much Isabel hated her and all the problems she'd caused. If only they would arrest
her
. “No, it's not necessary,” she said reluctantly. “There's lots of loony bins in the world, Officer, and I guess they picked my house.”

She flashed him a beleaguered smile, praying they would leave.

Laura greeted Ron and Isabel in her courteous, efficient manner, pushed a few buttons on the bedside monitor and reviewed the log. Isabel was dying to ask for details about Phoebe, but waited. The nurse took a few moments to observe her patient, then finally turned to Isabel and Ron. “Everything looks good,” she said brightly.

“But what can you tell us about her
status
?” Isabel cast a worried glance at Phoebe, wondering if she could hear her. She stroked the blanket covering Phoebe's torso as she used to do when she was young.

“Well, I'm pretty sure she moved, and random movement could mean she's recovering. There's really no set pattern, but things like that, along with opening their eyes, responding to their surroundings in some way, an increasing awareness of themselves, these are the things we watch for.”

“So you're not sure?” Isabel asked, already feeling the adrenaline from her earlier excitement recede.

“Like I said, I'm
pretty
sure,” Laura replied, then turned her eyes to one of the monitors. “Your parents are here, Phoebe. Can you give us a wink?” She chuckled a bit. “Oh, I guess you only do that for Noah, is that right?”

Isabel watched Phoebe's face, and for a moment she could have sworn the girl began blushing.

As if her explanation hadn't been interrupted, Laura continued describing the stages of recovery. “Response to pain is the first sign of consciousness. When the doctor comes by she might do what we call a ‘chest rub' along the sternum, which simulates pain. If the patient responds that's a good sign, though not entirely specific.

“Visual and auditory tracking usually come next. For example, if she turns when you arrive and tracks your movements, or appears to be listening to your voice, that's also a good sign.” Laura's eyes moved from Phoebe to Isabel and Ron. “Many people respond to their name or a loved one's voice.”

They'd been told this before and now Isabel wanted to call out Phoebe's name, but she would wait until the nurse had finished.

“Obviously if she can respond to our commands and talk to us, well, then we know she's really on the mend. Sometimes all this happens very quickly, other times it happens over a longer period. Everybody's different.”

How often Isabel had heard that annoying phrase! What Laura had refrained from saying was that the extent of the damage also influences the level of recovery. And that was still the big unknown, a factor teasing, taunting, and mocking Isabel.

What if her poor girl was brain-damaged for life?

Isabel could wait no longer. “Phoebe, we're here, darling,” she said. “Daddy and I. We love you.”

A groan startled the three of them. In unison they stared at Phoebe, whose head turned from one side to the other, as if she were agitated. “Oh, Phoebe,” Isabel muttered. Ron stood at the foot of the bed and squeezed her foot. “Feebs, how ya doin', kiddo? You waking up from a long nap?”

Isabel thought she might cry then. Phoebe's eyes seemed to flutter, and for an instant they opened halfway, only to close again. “Oh, Phoebe,” Isabel said again. “My darling child. We love you so much. Can you hear me?” Tears brimmed in her eyes. She reached for her hand and squeezed it. “We're here for you, sweetie. Right here.” What other things could she say to coax her daughter back to life?

She felt slight pressure from Phoebe's fingers on the palm of her hand, but it was so faint she thought she might have imagined it.

Isabel took in deep breaths of the frigid night air as she walked to her car in the hospital parking lot. Her mood had shifted dramatically over the last two hours. She almost felt ebullient, especially when compared to her emotional nadir of the previous couple of days. When she pulled onto the street, she found herself turning left, not right. She wasn't the least bit tired.

Instead of heading home to see Jackson, she aimed north, toward Bethesda. Ron would pick him up. What did it matter if she came home an hour earlier or later? And if for some reason Ron called wondering where she was, she'd tell him the truth, though she doubted he would.

She didn't know why, but she wanted to go to the Littletons'. Well, she did know. She wanted to see the damage she'd done to their steps – had it only been two days ago? – and she also had a few questions to ask Sandy. She wanted to know how her own actions might have contributed to Sandy's creation of Shane? She wasn't excusing Sandy's conduct, but on the other hand, she felt it was essential to recognize her own faults. She'd rejected Sandy on numerous occasions, and had reported her to the police. Was that enough to cause someone to do this to a young girl?

If she felt gutsy enough she'd even apologize for setting the steps on fire and make reparations. Her own form of restorative justice. She again wondered how she'd done something so completely out of character? And yet, in the course of her work, she'd often encountered quite normal people who “cracked” when under severe pressure. Somehow she'd always applied different standards to herself. I guess I'm more like everyone else than I thought. She sighed.

Taking the final turn onto the Littletons' street, Isabel saw two police cars, one in front of their house, the other in the driveway. The rooftop light on the latter was rotating, though without the usual sense of urgency. Curious, she continued driving toward the house. Then, as she drew closer, she saw that the police were nowhere to be seen. They must be inside, she decided, growing a little worried. Could something have happened to Sandy?

As soon as she reached the edge of the Littleton's property, she saw skid marks crisscrossing the front yard, huge gashes in a formerly perfect lawn, ones that obviously had been made by a large SUV or small truck. Then, she squinted to make sure, but it looked as though one of the large picture windows had been broken. And graffiti defiled the walls.

The words “Liar, Bully, Killer” were spray-painted in white, black and red. Just beyond the smashed window was the two-foot tall word “bit,” which puzzled her, until she passed the house and saw the concluding letters, “ch,” on the side wall.

Isabel was shocked by this display of hatred and animosity. It frightened her. And it reminded her of the Southern town depicted in Harper Lee's novel. She felt as though her own fury and outrage had been transmuted into other people's actions. This needed to stop. And yet this thought brought her up short.

Two days ago she'd wanted to kill Sandy. Still far from forgiving her, Isabel wondered if she'd be feeling as generous if Phoebe hadn't shown signs of lifting out of her coma. Then again the final outcome of Phoebe's condition remained uncertain, and might for some time. Nonetheless, she felt strongly opposed to vandalism and bullying. It was that sort of behavior that had sent her daughter to despair and to attempt suicide in the first place.

With the police there she wouldn't be knocking on the front door. So now what?