Still Life (6 page)

“And once the ventilator is removed? Once Casey is breathing on her own, what then?”

“Then we remove the trach tube.”

“And after that?”

“I don’t know,” the doctor admitted after a lengthy pause. “Look, I wish I could give you something more concrete to go on. But we’ll just have to take it one day at a time.”

One day at a time, Casey thought after everyone was gone. One day at a time, she repeated wordlessly as the noises of the day dimmed into the whimpers of the night.

Someone deliberately ran me down, she was thinking as sleep began circling her brain, like a helicopter looking for a place to land. Someone is trying to kill me.

Somebody wants me dead.

Who?

“Where were you on the night in question?” a man asked suddenly.

Detective Spinetti?

“I was home all night,” another man answered.

Who’s that? Is someone here?

“Was anyone with you?”

“No. I was alone.”

I don’t understand. Who are you? What are you talking about?

And then suddenly she did understand. There was no one in the room. She was alone, just like the man being questioned on her TV, the night his wife had been cruelly gunned down.

She’d imagined everything.

The entire episode had been nothing but a combination of dreams and television reruns, a little something her mind had cooked up to pass the time and keep her from going crazy with boredom. No one had tried to kill her. There was no one named Detective Spinetti. Her brain had been rocked! That’s what the doctors had said. Hadn’t they? Maybe that was something else her imagination had invented. How could she tell?

How could she be sure of anything?

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. This dream is no longer even vaguely amusing. It stopped making sense a long time ago.

A car didn’t run me down. I’m not lying, broken and comatose, in some narrow hospital bed. My breathing isn’t dependent on a machine; there is no tube in my trachea. I did not hear a nurse’s aide confide she intended to seduce my husband. I most assuredly did not hear a police detective speculate that my condition is the result of a deliberate act, and that everyone I hold dear, my friends and associates, my sister, even the husband I adore, are suspects.

I did not. I did not. I did not.

Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

Casey lay in her bed, unseeing eyes open toward the ceiling. The sky is falling, she thought, recalling the classic children’s story of Chicken Little, and struggling to remember its outcome. Had the sky really come crashing down, or had it just been a case of some stupid chicken running around, flapping his wings, stirring things up for no reason other than his own growing hysteria? Whatever happened to that crazy chicken? Casey was still wondering when she finally succumbed to sleep.

SIX

“O
kay, so you missed the film festival this year,” Janine was saying, jolting Casey back into consciousness.

How long had she been asleep? When had Janine arrived? What was she talking about?

“But not to worry. You picked a good time to be brain-dead. The movies were shit. I saw one last night, and you would not believe how bad it was. I think if it didn’t have subtitles, it would have been laughed right out of the theater. But people always assume that just because it’s French …” Janine took a deep breath.

Casey tried to focus. The city’s modest attempt at a film festival had just ended, which meant it was still April. How much time had she lost since Janine’s last visit?

“Anyway, I brought a newspaper. The doctors said it would be a good idea for us to read to you, that it might help stimulate your brain, or something. But there doesn’t seem to be a whole lot going on that’s very stimulating.”

Don’t worry about that. My brain seems to be working overtime as it is. I’ve been having the most extraordinary hallucinations.

“Let’s see. Did you know that since the 1960s, Philadelphia has lost approximately six hundred thousand residents, due to something called urban blight, which sounds suspiciously like an STD, if you ask me, and that there are about sixty thousand derelict or abandoned buildings throughout the city, despite all the new development? Is this stimulating enough? Blink twice if the answer is yes.”

I’m blinking. Once. Twice. Did you see that?

“Okay, not seeing any blinks, so not very stimulating.”

Dammit, I’m blinking. Look again, I’m blinking. I’m blinking. Why can’t I make you see?

“Let’s see what else is here. What amazing things are you going to miss during the upcoming month of May if you don’t snap out of this ridiculous coma?”

Casey heard the rustling of papers. Or was her imagination just providing the appropriate sound effects? Was Janine even there?

“Okay, so there’s the Dad Vail Regatta, which, as you know, is the largest collegiate regatta in the United States, one that draws thousands of rowers and spectators to the Schuylkill River every year. Something I’m sure you wouldn’t want to miss. And there’s Philadanco! which sounds like another STD but is actually a dance troupe from West Philly, who’ll be performing at the Kimmel Center for one week only, good seats still available. I’ll be sure to call for tickets. And last but not least, May is the month that Philadelphia opens up its historic old homes for public viewing. Your house is pretty historic, wouldn’t you say? Ever consider opening it up for the public to trample through? No, I guess not. Although I think you’d draw quite a crowd. All those people wanting to see exactly where and how Ronald Lerner lived. Although the truth is never as exciting as one’s imagination, is it?”

Believe me, Janine. You have no idea.

“Anyway, I spoke to that police detective again yesterday.”

What?

“How come the policemen on TV all look like Chris Noth, and in real life they look like Detective Spinetti?”

He’s real? I didn’t dream him?

“Anyway, he told me he questioned Richard Mooney after I told him about our encounter, and that Mooney claims he was visiting his mother at the time of your accident. Although Spinetti clearly doesn’t think it
was
an accident.”

Okay, it’s time for a new dream. This one’s turning into something of a nightmare.

“Apparently Mooney’s mother backs him up, although Spinetti says the police don’t exactly trust mothers when it comes to providing alibis.”

Can’t say I trust mothers when it comes to much of anything.

“Anyway, they still haven’t eliminated him as a suspect, especially since—get this—the guy owns a silver SUV. Although frankly, who doesn’t? Besides, you’d think if he was going to try to kill anyone, it would have been me. I’m the one he had the fight with that morning. But then, you always were the chosen one, weren’t you?”

Casey pictured the dazzling smile that accompanied Janine’s question.

“Anyway, it would appear Mooney’s not the only suspect. Spinetti asked a million questions about Drew. Apparently he’s left at least a dozen messages on her voice mail, but she hasn’t answered any of them. I said welcome to the club, Drew’s notorious for not returning calls. He asked how well I knew her, if I thought she was capable of trying to kill you. I told him I honestly didn’t know. I mean, who knows anything with Drew? And, of course, he asked a shitload of questions about Warren.”

“Are you talking about that police detective?” Gail asked from the doorway.

“Oh, hi,” Janine said, her voice receding as she swiveled around in her chair. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Just a few seconds. How’s Casey doing today?”

“Not much change.”

The sound of footsteps approaching, the air growing heavy above Casey’s head, a gentle laugh, like a soft breeze, wafting toward her face.

“Her color’s good.”

“If you like the color of skim milk,” Janine said dryly. “Has he been talking to you, too?”

“Who?”

“That police detective. Spinetti.”

“I assume he’s talking to everyone close to Casey.”

“He ask you about Warren?”

“I told him he was way off base,” Gail insisted. “I said Warren adored Casey, that there was no way on earth he had anything to do with this.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Don’t you?”

“I guess.”

What do you mean, you guess?

“What do you mean, you guess?” Gail said in Casey’s stead.

“Well, isn’t it always the husband in cases like this?”

“Not in
this
case,” Gail said adamantly.

“He could have hired someone.”

“You’ve been watching too much TV.”

“You’re right,” Janine said.

“Warren’s a wonderful man.”

“Yes, he is.”

“He adores Casey.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Then why would you say something like that?”

“I don’t know. Blame it on that detective and his stupid questions.”

“He asked quite a few questions about you, as a matter of fact,” Gail said.

“About me? What do you mean? What kind of questions?”

“About your relationship with Casey, how upset you were when she opted out of your partnership, if you were jealous or resentful of her success….”

“That moron. What’d you tell him?”

“The same thing I told him about Warren—that he was completely off base.”

Casey could feel Janine shaking her head in anger and realized she was almost enjoying Janine’s discomfort. It served her right for the reservations she’d expressed about Warren.

“What a jerk. Did you happen to remind him I was with you at the time Casey was run down?”

“He said you had plenty of time to drop me off and get back to the parking garage.”

“Did he also have an explanation for how I was able to turn my little red Nissan into a silver Ford SUV? Does he think I’m David Copperfield, for Christ’s sake?”

“You could have hired someone,” Gail said, echoing Janine’s earlier remark.

“Very funny. Anyway, let’s talk about something more pleasant. How was your date last night?”

Gail had had a date? With whom?

“It was nice,” Gail said shyly, soft giggles bracketing her reply.

“Define the word ‘nice.’”

“It was just nice. You know.”

“I don’t know. ‘Nice’ is not part of my vocabulary.”

“It was okay.”

“Just okay? Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, I had a good time. You’re worse than Detective Spi-netti.”

“How good a time?” Janine pressed.

“It was really nice.” Gail sighed. “God, I feel like such a traitor.”

“Why would you feel like a traitor?”

“Because our best friend is lying here in a coma….”

“You think Casey would want us to stay at home and do nothing?”

“No, I guess not.”

“You don’t have to guess. I’m telling you,” Janine said, as if she were privy to Casey’s most secret thoughts. “The last thing Casey would want is for us to sit around moping. If nothing else, what happened to Casey proves that we never know how long we’ve got on this earth, and that we have a duty to enjoy ourselves when we have the chance.”

Is that what it proved? Casey wondered, before deciding Janine was probably right.

“So, tell me about this guy. What’s he like?”

“He’s just a guy.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Does it matter? You don’t know him.”

“I know everybody.”

“You don’t know him,” Gail repeated, without any accompanying laughter.

“You’re being very opaque.”

Janine was right, Casey thought, her own curiosity piqued. It was unlike Gail to be so circumspect.

“Did you meet him at work?”

“No.”

“How
did
you meet?”

Casey felt Gail shrug, her nervous giggle returning.

“Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

“Because …”

“Because you
like
him, don’t you?” Janine pounced.

Casey felt the burn in Gail’s cheeks as if she herself were the one blushing. “I don’t know. It’s way too early. We’ve only been on one date. He probably won’t even call me again.”

“Why wouldn’t he call you again? Were you too easy? Did you sleep with him already?”

“Of course not. Honestly, Janine. Can we talk about something else?”

“You’re such a prude sometimes,” Janine said.

“I’m not a prude.”

“Are too,” Janine said.

“Am not.”

Both women laughed, the tension in the room immediately dissipating.

“Anyway, I should get going,” Janine said, jumping to her feet. “Maybe next time I come, I’ll bring a book so I can read to Casey.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Well, it’ll be better than that damn TV all the time. Think I’ll bring
Middlemarch
. She hated that book in college.”

“Then why on earth would you bring it?” Gail asked logically.

“Because maybe if she has to listen to it again, she’ll wake up, just so she can tell me to shut up.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No argument there. Anyway, I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow, Casey.”

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Gail offered, following Janine out of the room.

Casey listened to their footsteps as they retreated down the hall, replaying the details of their visit over in her mind. How strange it was to be a passive observer to their discussions, to be right there … and yet, not there at all. It made her sad, she realized, suddenly recalling an incident from when she was in college. Two students had been found going at it on the floor of the rare book section of the library. They were immediately hauled into the dean’s office. “Wouldn’t you just love to be a fly on that wall?” Janine had asked as they’d filed past, a wicked smile filling her face. And Casey had enthusiastically nodded her agreement. What could be better? she’d thought then, than to be invisible? To be able to come and go as you pleased, without anyone being the wiser, or indeed even knowing you were present. To be able to eavesdrop, to listen in on private conversations, to find out what people were really thinking, to discover their deepest secrets, witness what they did when they assumed they were alone.

Be careful what you wish for, Casey thought now.

Because invisible was exactly what she’d become. Despite all the wires and tubes and ventilators and casts and nuts and bolts that were holding her together, despite the doctors and nurses and hospital staff who hovered over her bed, despite all the machinery that was keeping her alive, nobody really saw her. Nobody knew she was there.

She was invisible.

And it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fun at all. Not even for a second.

It was hell.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you feeling today? Did you have a good sleep?”

Casey felt Warren’s velvety voice curling up against her eardrum, like a kitten in a basket. How long had she been asleep this time? she wondered, coming fully awake, her heart pounding wildly inside her chest as the familiar panic overtook her, although she remained outwardly still. She heard him moving restlessly about the room for several seconds before pulling up a chair beside the bed, clearly trying to get comfortable in a place that afforded no such luxury.

She tried picturing the room in an effort to calm herself down, deciding it was likely small and a sickly shade of green, with clunky Venetian blinds that hung precariously from a lone side window, and maybe one or two straight-backed, vinyl-upholstered chairs shoved into a corner. Perhaps a fading pastel sketch of a nondescript, bucolic landscape decorated the wall above her hospital bed, the bed itself overwhelmed by the latest in medical technology. There was undoubtedly a metal nightstand beside her, as well as the small television suspended from the ceiling.

“The doctors think you might be ready to start breathing on your own,” Warren said, his voice soft and reassuring. “They’re going to start trying to wean you off the ventilator this afternoon, which is really wonderful news.”

Is it? Casey wondered, settling uneasily into consciousness and trying to make sense of everything that was happening. But how could she make sense of anything when she didn’t
know
anything, when she didn’t know if it was night or day, dark or light, May or June, this year or next, when she had no idea how much time had passed since the last time she was conscious? And what difference did it make if she was breathing on her own or with the help of a machine, if she still couldn’t see or move or communicate?

“Everybody keeps calling. Friends, neighbors, business associates. You really have no idea how much everybody loves you.”

Except for one rather glaring exception.

“I think you’re single-handedly keeping the florists in this city in business.”

I have flowers?

“Janine and Gail send a fresh arrangement every week, of course,” Warren continued. “This week it’s a bunch of white and pink tulips. And there’s a vase of spectacular spring flowers from the partners at my firm. Unfortunately, the only flowers I know by name are the daffodils and irises, so I can’t be much help in that department, but there are a bunch of puffy white things I think you’d get a kick out of. Oh, and some pussywillows. I think that’s what they’re called. Not to mention a dozen red roses from yours truly, which are very beautiful, even if they don’t smell. Remember how roses used to smell? And now they don’t anymore,” he said sadly.