Stash (5 page)

“Fine, right?” He scribbled something and handed her a slip of paper.

Fine.

The nurse said, “You can fill that here before you leave or take it to your pharmacy.”

“I can go now?”

“In a few minutes,” the nurse said. “We have discharge paperwork.”

The curtain slid aside and the same policewoman who had interviewed her at the accident came in. She was accompanied by a square-faced man with a mustache covering his upper lip. He wore a sports jacket over a T-shirt. Behind him stood another nurse or technician, one Gwen hadn’t seen before. This one held a metal briefcase.

The one with the sports jacket introduced himself as Detective William Keller and produced a folded sheet of paper from an inside pocket. It was a warrant—he read—“issued by Judge Robert Donovan of the Town of Morrissey authorizing a sample of blood from Gwen Raine following the vehicular accident on Route 157, Town of Morrissey, hamlet of Helderberg.”

Dr. Su slipped away. The other nurse stood back against the curtain. The new technician moved forward, setting her case at the foot of Gwen’s bed and unsnapping the latches. Gwen stared at the floor, where a dropped bloody gauze lay unnoticed.

“I wasn’t drinking,” Gwen said.

Her heart began to pound. She’d smoked some of the joint in the park. When was that? About two hours ago. Would that show up in a blood test?

The blood technician took out syringe, gauze pads, and rubber tourniquet.

Gwen started to protest. “The other driver crossed into my lane.”

“We’ll test him, too.”

The tech tied the rubber band above Gwen’s elbow.

Detective Keller said, “Officer Hendricks found a bag in your vehicle containing a substance that looks and smells a lot like marijuana.”

The bag from Jude. She could see right where it had been—behind her in the seat pocket, stuffed in a netting next to a Spiderman action figure and Nora’s American Girl books. She could see how it happened: police checking out her car, waiting for the tow truck. Hey, look what I found. What was an ounce of sticky sensimilla doing in this mom’s minivan among these cupcake wrappers, toys, and books? That’s not a snack food for the kids, is it? I guess when you drop out of law school the first year you miss the chapter where it says possession of marijuana is a violation of penal code 221.10, and that driving while under the influence of marijuana is a punishable offense. These moms with school schedules and camps and cooking dinner, keeping the husband happy and house presentable—it’s not that they think they’re above the law, but who has time to keep up with what’s legal and what’s not, all these sections of the penal code?

“Mrs. Raine?” Detective Keller said.

Her fingers rose to the wound along her eyebrow and stayed there, covering her eye.

“Shouldn’t there be a bandage on this?” she asked, tracing the track of stitches.

“I used a spray that works like a bandage,” the nurse said. “That’s all you need.”

The needle stuck a vein on the inside of her elbow. She winced and glanced down to watch the syringe fill.

“Do I have to?” Gwen said.

“We have a warrant, Mrs. Raine.”

Neither of them said a word on the way home, until Brian turned in the driveway and Gwen let out a single, abrupt sound like a stifled laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, nothing,” Gwen said.

“Getting arrested is a big joke?”

“I’m just happy to be home.”

He’d been composed and helpful until now—through the arrest and police station and huddle with their lawyer, Roger Fitzgerald, Marlene’s husband. Yet all along he’d been working on his position: What blend of sympathy and anger should he present to her? He wasn’t sure. He was so relieved that Gwen was okay, and so pissed she’d gotten stoned before driving to pick up the kids. They’d never been through anything like this.

Once inside, he pressed her. “What were you doing with an ounce of pot?”

“It wasn’t all for me, half was for Marlene.”

“You mean you’re
dealing
it?”

“No, I’m not dealing it.”

“Yet half the drugs you got busted for are going to our lawyer’s wife?”

“And Roger, too. He smokes with her.”

Brian sighed. “I’m having a drink. You want anything?”

She shook her head.

He got vodka and ice from the freezer, poured himself three fingers, took a stool next to her at the kitchen island. He leaned his elbows on the granite countertop.

“Where did you even
get
an ounce of pot?”

Gwen met Brian’s eyes and looked away.

“From Jude again? He’s your dealer?”

“He’s not a dealer—he just did me a favor.” Using the language Jude had: a favor between old friends.

“He likes to do you favors it seems.”

“I can’t just run to the store and buy it like you can a bottle of vodka.”

“This morning you didn’t tell me that scoring a bag of weed was on your list of errands for today.”

“Am I supposed to tell you?”

“You told me you were going to the dry cleaner’s. You told me you had to pick up the farm share.”

Gwen said nothing.

“Did you get high with him?”

“Who?”

“Jude.”

“No. What are you accusing me of?”

“You’ve shown an incredible lack of judgment. Don’t you find that troubling?”

“I told you—Marlene was supposed to pick up the kids, but then she got delayed at the doctor’s. It was an accident, Brian. There was no time to react, the other car was just there. I at least turned the wheel. If I hadn’t done that, it could have been a lot worse.”

“How many people were in the other car?”

“I don’t know, it happened so fast.”

“So we don’t know who else is hurt or how badly?”

“Didn’t Roger say he’d find out?”

They still hadn’t heard about that. But crashing through a guardrail and down a ravine, that can’t be a joyride.

“How often do you do this?” Brian asked.

“What?”

“Get high during the day, when you’re with the kids. Is this a daily habit?”

“I’d never do anything to put them in danger. You know that.”

Brian let it go. If anything, Gwen was overprotective of their children. She even kept a close eye when they played in the backyard. They weren’t allowed to cross the street without her—and they lived on a quiet residential road. She was careful about what they ate, she limited junk food, made them wear helmets on their bikes. He couldn’t question her devotion to their safety.

Gwen said, “It could have happened to you after having a few drinks when we go out.”

Her mouth tightened and she swallowed. For the first time, she looked ugly to him, her face puffy and discolored, the gash over her eye a violent track of red crossed with black sutures, the rest of her thin and drained like a battered, hopeless woman from a trailer park, a druggie from the school of hard knocks. All she needed was a cigarette hanging from her lip.

Gwen moved to the couch with a cold pack they’d given her at the hospital. She opened and massaged the bag to activate it, then leaned back and rested the pack over the bridge of her nose and eyes, careful near her stitches.

“So what’s Marlene going to the doctor for this time?” Brian said.

“Don’t pick on her.”

“I’m just asking.”

“She wants to make sure she’s ovulating okay. You know she’s trying to get pregnant again.”

“Roger said they were done.”

“There are two sides to that story.”

Brian nodded in agreement. “I spoke to Marlene and she’s going to feed the kids dinner and drop them off later. I didn’t get a chance to tell her that the drug score didn’t come through.”

Gwen moaned and said nothing for a minute. When Brian didn’t continue, she said, “At least come hold my hand.”

That’s what he had done when he first saw her in the hospital: held her hand. A nurse had pointed to the curtain, the one with the uniformed police officer standing outside it, and Brian rushed in to find Gwen sitting upright in the bed, holding her forearm in the air. People loitered about the bed. He paid them no attention. He nuzzled her raised hand in both of his, then held her fingers against his cheek. He bent down and tenderly kissed her lips.

He’d battled a sick feeling in his stomach the entire way to the hospital. Gwen’s voice on the phone—she was hurt more than she’d let on. The way she said “please hurry.” The way she said she was scared. Something more was wrong, she was hiding the severity of her injuries. Adding to his anxiety were his own circumstances: getting pulled from a tense moment in the executive meeting he’d been planning for weeks. Gwen knew how important that meeting was to him; she wouldn’t have called him out for a fender bender.

He ran a red light on his way to the hospital. She might be dead when he got there. Hadn’t he let that thought cross his mind recently, just last week, when the wife of someone he knew in the lab at Pherogenix drowned in Lake George—what would life be like if Gwen died? It was only natural to ponder what could happen, how he would react, what he would do next. Contingency planning, they called it at work. Succession planning. What if the
worst happened? Impossible to grasp the horror of it—the burden of caring solo for the children, his wife and soul mate gone forever, the future lonely and bleak. This is how his mind spun and plunged as he pushed the ticket button at the hospital parking lot gate, hurried through the automatic doors, approached the nurses’ station.

Yet there she was, alive and beautiful and valiant. Beautiful in a wounded way. God, the surge of love and relief that flooded him. She was not dead, not about to die. The redness and swelling in her face gave her a full, flushed look, with the gash along her eyebrow a wound she’d taken in battle. Gwen had brushed against death and escaped.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much.” He held her and held back his sobs.

And then the story unfolded.

Gwen’s arm was raised not to reach for him but to hold a gauze against her vein where a med tech from the police department had just sucked her blood. And that officer he’d hardly registered on his way in? She was waiting to escort his wife to the police station because Gwen was under arrest.

Hearing this turn of events, Brian delayed registering shock or anger. He simply switched modes, leaving behind the life-and-death love drama for practical detail.

You let them take your blood? Did you admit to anything?

They told me I had to.

I’m calling Roger right now.

Upon release from the hospital, Gwen rode in the back of the police cruiser. At least they didn’t handcuff her. Brian took her purse and was following in his own car when Roger returned his call. Brian briefly explained that Gwen had smoked a little pot and was in a car accident. They were on the way to the police station now from the hospital.

He could see the shape of her head outlined against the back window of the police car in front of him. You see that view and wonder what murky fiend sits back there. Hard to believe that shape was his wife.

“Tell her not to say a word or submit to any tests,” Roger said.

“They already took her blood before I got there.”

Roger’s voice stayed even. “Don’t say or do anything else. Not one word. I’ll meet you at the station in twenty minutes. They won’t let you into the booking area so you might as well stop and get five hundred dollars in cash for bail. I’ll have her out in an hour.”

Roger was Brian’s friend because Gwen was close friends with Marlene, and Nora was friends with the Fitzgeralds’ daughter, Abby. Roger was a partner in a downtown law firm and had advised Brian and Gwen with the contract on their lake house. When Gwen was taken into police custody, Brian had no one else to call and didn’t know if Roger handled this type of situation, but so far he seemed pretty sure of himself.

“Anyone injured?” Roger asked.

“Gwen banged up her face, I think on the air bag. Took a few stitches in the eyebrow.”

“Single car accident?”

“No, she said someone crossed the double yellow and hit her, but I don’t know what happened after that. The other car might have gone through a guardrail.”

“I’ll find out.”

Brian turned off at the next intersection and circled back home. He kept one thousand dollars in cash in an envelope taped to the back of his dresser. Gwen knew about it, although she didn’t know about the other three thousand stashed in his metal toolbox in the basement. Brian wasn’t exactly sure what the money was for, other than emergency purposes. It would buy food and
gas for a while if for some reason the banks shut down. It would get them across the country or out of the country. It wouldn’t last long, but knowing he had the cash on hand provided comfort.

He kept the car running in the driveway while he ran upstairs. Laid across the bed in neat piles were the clothes Gwen had put out to pack for the lake, plus toiletries, books, toys for the kids. They should be on their way to the lake house right now, sharing a family sing-along in the car, goofy rhyming songs the kids liked, Brian chilled and easy because he’d slam-dunked his presentation, cleared his plate for the long weekend, and was ready for Gwen.

Brian moved the dresser to reach the envelope. He counted out five of the hundred-dollar bills, then decided to take the other five. He pushed the dresser back in place and drove to the police station.

It was late afternoon near the change of shift and the arresting officer, Sergeant Marcia Hendricks, hustled them along. She was the only woman police officer in Morrissey. Now Gwen remembered why she looked familiar. There had been a profile of her in the town’s newspaper, the
Morrissey Bee
, a few months ago. The same paper that carried the town’s weekly police blotter of arrests and incidents. Gwen’s name could appear in next week’s edition. That would be a disaster. It may not be the most widely read publication in America, but the people Gwen knew at least glanced at the
Bee
to see goings-on about town. And Gwen being arrested would qualify as a going-on in Morrissey. Mostly a progressive town, there were still rules. Morrissey might not be cultivating our next generation’s leaders, but it occupied a place on the social ladder, perhaps raising the second in commands, and the town
feverishly wanted to defend its place. Mothers who served as PTA vice presidents but got arrested on drug charges didn’t belong in the mix.