Still Life (7 page)

Casey vaguely recalled having read something about why roses no longer had any aroma, but she couldn’t remember what it was. Besides, what difference did it make if she had no sense of smell? No difference at all, she decided, her mind arranging the spring flowers along the windowsill and placing the odorless roses on the nightstand beside her bed.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Patsy apologized sweetly. “I saw you come in, and I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing.”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Warren said.

And now that you know, you can leave.

“You look a little tired.”

“Not getting much sleep these days.”

“I guess you’re not used to sleeping alone.”

Oh, that’s nice. Good one, Patsy. Nice and subtle.

“I guess not.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Yeah, right.

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.”

“It doesn’t get any easier, does it? Seeing her this way,” Patsy continued, as Casey felt the nurse’s aide edging her way into the room, the scent of lavender following her.

Did she really smell lavender? Casey wondered, sniffing madly at the air. Was it possible? Or was it just all that talk about flowers triggering her already overactive imagination?

“That Detective Spinetti was back again,” Patsy said, “asking a lot of questions.”

“Such as?”

“Who comes to visit, how long they stay, if we’ve observed anything unusual or suspicious.”

“And have you?”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I told the detective, that the only thing I’ve seen is a lot of really sad people with a lot of love in their hearts. Casey must have been a very special woman.”

“She still is,” Warren corrected.

“Of course. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean …”

“I know you didn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that this whole thing was bad enough when we thought it was an accident. To think that someone might have done it deliberately …”

“I can’t imagine….”

“It’s just so unbelievable, seeing her so still. Casey was always so animated, so full of life.”

“Tell me about her,” Patsy said, managing to sound as if she really cared.

No. Don’t tell her anything. This is just foreplay as far as she’s concerned.

Warren laughed softly, a tender sound radiating warmth and love. It encircled Casey like a pair of strong, comforting arms. “Well, she’s beautiful. You can see that, even in her condition. And I don’t mean just on the outside. On the inside, too. And she’s funny. We used to laugh so much.”

It’s true, Casey thought. We used to laugh all the time.

“And she’s sensitive,” Warren continued, as if a tap had been turned on in his brain, releasing a flood of adjectives. “Strong, smart, sexy. I miss her so much,” Warren whispered.

Casey felt Patsy approach, pictured her laying a gentle hand on Warren’s shoulder. “If she’s half as strong and smart as you think she is, she’ll find her way back to you.”

“Thank you,” Warren said.

“Any time. Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee? Something to eat?”

“Coffee would be wonderful. Here, let me give you some money.”

“No, don’t be silly. It’s my treat. Be right back.”

Casey pictured Patsy walking toward the door, an exaggerated sway to her hips. She wondered what kind of uniform Patsy was wearing, if the fabric flattered her figure, whether her hips were wide or narrow. She wondered how old she was, and if Warren thought she was pretty.

“Nice girl,” Warren said after she was gone. “Not bad-looking,” he continued, as if he understood what she was thinking. “Although I think you’d find her rather common. Maybe five feet four, a hundred and fifteen pounds, at least fifteen pounds of which is makeup. Reddish blond hair, brown eyes, and clearly, her mother never taught her the fine art of applying mascara, which she has an unfortunate tendency to lather on, like shaving cream. I would guess her age as mid- to late twenties. Oh, and I don’t think she wears underwear.”

Casey heard him swivel around in his chair.

“Let’s see. What else can I tell you? You’re missing a beautiful day. Sunshine, about seventy-four degrees. Everyone keeps trying to talk me into playing some golf. The course is open, and from what I hear, it’s in great shape. I haven’t been up there to see for myself. I can’t quite bring myself to go, what with you lying here like this. ‘You can’t stay at the hospital all day,’ everyone keeps telling me. But what am I supposed to do? Everything just seems so … frivolous. ‘You have to get out, live your life,’ they say. I keep telling them that my life is here, in this hospital.”

Casey felt her eyes fill with tears, although she doubted any tears actually formed.
I keep telling them that my life is here, in this hospital
, she repeated, trying to hold on to his exact inflection.

“Anyway, Ted Bates—you remember him, he’s a lawyer, we had dinner with him and his wife a few months back—he’s called a couple of times, trying to get me out to play a few holes, keeps telling me it’ll be a good distraction, that I have to do something to relax. Life goes on, that kind of crap. I said I’d think about it. God knows I could use the exercise. I haven’t been to the gym since … Shit. What am I talking about? I’m not going near a golf course until you can go with me. Although this would probably be a good time for me to practice,” he said, and tried to laugh. “That way when you wake up, I can surprise you with my newfound prowess.” The laugh scraped against his throat before emerging as a strangled cry. “God, Casey. I miss you so much.”

I miss you, too.

Another gentle knock on the door.

“I’m sorry,” Warren said, sniffing back his tears. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

“Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t want your coffee to get cold,” Patsy said.

So now even her most intimate moments with her husband were no longer hers alone, Casey thought, her mind absorbing this latest loss, her heart sinking with its weight.

I
will
find my way back to you, she cried silently.

I will. I will.

SEVEN

“I
can’t believe you told that cop you think I tried to kill my sister!” Drew cried loudly.

“I told him no such thing,” Warren protested.

“I get home from my holiday to find half the damn police force camped out in the lobby of my condominium. You’d think I was Osama bin Laden, for God’s sake. And then to be practically accused of trying to kill my own sister! My sister! How do you suppose that made me feel?”

“I’m really sorry….”

“How could you accuse me of such a thing?”

“Believe me, Drew. I didn’t accuse you of anything.”

Casey heard the resignation in her husband’s voice. You could never win an argument with Drew, she understood, thinking back to that day, three months shy of her fourth birthday, when her sister was born.

“What kind of name is Drew anyway?” Leslie had scoffed when they brought her home from the hospital. Leslie was the new baby’s recently hired nanny, a young woman with a strong English accent, round, ruddy cheeks, and spiky brown hair that was constantly falling into her eyes, so she always appeared to be peering at you from under a scrim.

“She was supposed to be Andrew,” came the knowing response from Shauna, the young Irish girl hired to take care of Casey after Maya’s abrupt departure. Casey wasn’t overly fond of Shauna, whose face was always vaguely pinched, as if she was in perpetual pain, and whose legs were heavy beneath her too-short skirts.

“Instead they got another stinking girl,” Leslie remarked carelessly, as if Casey weren’t in the room.

Shauna made a weird clucking sound with her mouth and nodded her agreement. “Boys are much better,” she said.

Casey stood between the two young women in front of the change table in Drew’s blue-and-white nursery, the baby fussing before them, waiting for a fresh diaper. “She isn’t stinky,” Casey protested.

“No? Then you can change her.” Leslie thrust the used diaper into Casey’s reluctant hands.

Casey quickly disposed of the diaper in the nearby wastebasket. “She smells better than you do.”

Leslie laughed. “You saying you don’t like my perfume?”

“It smells yucky.”

“It smells
musky
,” the nanny corrected. “And your father likes it just fine.” She giggled, winking toward Shauna as she maneuvered a fresh Pampers around Drew’s wriggling little bottom.

“Careful,” Shauna warned. “That kind of talk’s been known to get a girl fired.”

Leslie shrugged dismissively, lifting Drew into the air and carrying the squirming bundle to her crib, then laying her on her back. Casey watched two tiny arms and legs immediately shoot into the air, as if her sister were an insect someone had callously tipped over. The baby’s face contorted into a series of angry folds and furrows, and her mouth opened in a silent scream that quickly filled with rage, her shrill screams suddenly piercing the air, like shards of flying glass. “God, what an awful sound,” Leslie said.

“Maybe she’s hungry,” Casey volunteered.

“I just gave her a bottle.”

“Maybe you didn’t give her enough.”

“Maybe it’s time for your nap.”

“I don’t take naps anymore.”

“Too bad for you,” Leslie said to Shauna as the baby’s cries escalated. “God, what is the matter with this child? She cries all the damn time.”

“I was speaking to Marilyn,” Shauna said, referring to a nanny down the street, “and she thinks Drew might be suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome.”

“What’s that?” Leslie asked as Casey was about to.

“It’s something babies get when they’re still in the womb. From their mother’s drinking,” she whispered, although Casey had no trouble hearing every word.

“Yeah, that mother’s a real piece of work, isn’t she? No wonder her husband plays around.”

“Shh,” Shauna warned, eyes lowering toward Casey. “Little pitchers have big ears.”

Casey quickly scanned the room. She didn’t see any pitchers.

“Besides,” Shauna continued over the baby’s growing hysterics, “it’s hard to know which came first—the drinking or the playing around.”

“I think she wants to be held,” Casey said, pulling on the pocket of Leslie’s denim skirt.

“Oh, you do, do you? Do you want to hold her, then?” She lifted the screaming infant from her crib and handed her to Casey without further ado.

Casey carried her baby sister, whose wet face was now a furious red ball, into a corner of the room, and gingerly lowered herself onto the soft blue carpeting, Drew’s loud wails rising, like steam, toward the ceiling. “It’s okay, baby,” she said softly. “I’m here. You don’t have to cry.”

In response, Drew cried even louder.

“Way to go, kid,” Leslie said, and she and Shauna laughed, an irritating sound that scratched at the walls like fingernails. “You’ve got the magic touch.”

“Think you can manage in here for a few minutes while we go out for a cig?” Shauna asked.

Casey watched the two girls leave the room without waiting for her response. As soon as they were gone, Drew’s crying abated. “I don’t like them either,” Casey confided, rocking Drew back and forth until the baby’s roar dropped to a steady whimper. “That’s a good girl,” she whispered. “You feel better now, don’t you? Me too. My name is Casey. I’m your big sister, and I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to cry anymore.”

Except she did cry. Constantly. “Morning, noon, and night,” Leslie proclaimed wearily. And then suddenly Leslie was gone, and it was a dark-haired girl named Rosie who was doing the complaining.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard a baby cry so much,” Rosie said, large hands resting on wide hips. “Colic is colic, but this, this is …”

“It’s a syndrome,” Casey explained.

And Rosie had laughed, a loud guffaw that made Casey laugh with her. Casey felt happy that Rosie had come to live with them because Rosie had a kind face and big, dark eyes that Casey had overheard her father telling her were like two large pools of chocolate syrup. Rosie had laughed when he’d said that, and whenever Rosie laughed that wonderful, infectious laugh, Casey felt a brief surge of reassurance and well-being.

“What the hell is going on down there?” her mother yelled from the top of the stairs, Rosie’s laughter coming to an abrupt halt. “Can’t anybody do something about that damn caterwauling? Where is … whatever her name is?”

“I’m right here, Mrs. Lerner,” Rosie called back from the nursery door. “I’m just about to feed her.”

The response was the sound of a bedroom door slamming.

“I’d say somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed if …” Rosie began.

If she
got
out of bed, Casey finished silently for her.

“What’s her problem anyway?”

“It’s because she’s popular,” Casey explained, trying to recall what her father had once told Leslie. His wife was bipopular, he’d said, and that’s why she acted the way she did.

“How can somebody be popular when they never leave their room?” Rosie asked.

A few nights later, Casey heard strange noises in the middle of the night, and she got out of bed to see what was going on. Her room was in the west wing of the house, on the main floor, next to the nursery. (“So we don’t disturb your mother,” her father had explained.) Rosie’s room was farther down the hall, next to Shauna’s. Casey followed the succession of squeals and giggles to Rosie’s doorway, then pushed it open.

It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness, and even then it was hard to figure out exactly what Rosie was doing. She appeared to be sitting on something, and rocking violently back and forth as if she was having some sort of fit. The next second, she was bouncing up and down, and a pair of large hands were wrapping themselves around her naked hips. She seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time.

And then suddenly the room filled with light, and rough hands were pushing Casey out of the way, and her mother was behind her, screaming, and Rosie was jumping out of bed, struggling to cover up her nakedness and screaming every bit as loud as Casey’s mother, and her father was sitting up in bed, begging everyone to please stay calm. Just as Casey was wondering what her father was doing in Rosie’s bed, and why he, too, appeared to be naked, her mother was flying across the room toward him, crying and scratching at his face. And suddenly, Drew was screaming from the next room, and Shauna was lifting Casey into her arms and running with her down the hall, and the next morning both Rosie and her mother were gone.

“Rosie got another job,” Shauna said over breakfast. “Your mother will be away for a little while.” Nothing further was offered.

Two days later, a new nanny for Drew appeared. Her name was Kelly, and she was fired as soon as Alana Lerner returned from wherever she’d been, took one look at the girl’s long legs, seductive smile, and wavy brown hair, and sent her packing. Casey breathed a sigh of relief when the employment agency sent over Misha, who was older, shapeless, and “as mousy as they come,” according to Shauna. “There shouldn’t be any more changes for a while,” she’d proclaimed. Mistakenly, as it turned out, because Shauna herself was let go only a few weeks later for ringing up over three hundred dollars in overseas phone charges. Enter Daniela, who was fat, forty, and unflappable. She lasted the better part of two years and was the last of the Lerner family nannies.

“Whatever happened to Daniela?” Drew had asked many years later.

“They let her go when I started kindergarten,” Casey answered.

“I liked her.”

“How do you even remember her? You were what, two years old when she left?”

“I remember her,” Drew insisted. “She’s part of the first memory I have.”

Casey knew exactly the memory her sister was referring to: Drew running into her mother’s bedroom, eager to show her the new stuffed bear she’d received for her birthday, her mother angrily hurling the bear across the room and shouting, “Somebody get this child away from me.” And Daniela rushing in and scooping Drew into her arms, carrying her downstairs to Casey’s room, Drew crying loudly.

“I can’t believe you told that cop I tried to kill my sister,” Drew was crying now.

What?

“I specifically told Detective Spinetti that I didn’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to Casey.”

“Then what’s he doing snooping around, asking questions, insinuating that I skipped town …?”

“You didn’t return any of his calls. Nobody knew where you were.”

“I was in the Bahamas for a few weeks. Sue me.”

“You were in the Bahamas,” Warren repeated dully.

“I needed a break. Is that a crime?”

“Your sister’s in a coma, Drew.”

“Yeah, and she’s been in a coma for almost two months,” Drew reminded him testily.

“During which you’ve been here how many times?”

“I already told you, it’s very hard on me, seeing her like this.”

“It’s hard on all of us.”

“I thought the doctors said she was improving.”

“She
is
improving. As you can see, her casts are off. Her injuries have pretty much healed. They’re weaning her off the ventilator. They’ve even started her on physical therapy.”

“Physical therapy? Why, for Pete’s sake? It’s not like she’s going anywhere.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” Drew apologized. “I’m just upset. It’s that damned detective. I mean, what’s he talking about anyway? Who would want to kill Casey?”

“I don’t know. Do you have any idea?”

“Me? No. Why would I?”

“You’ve known her longer than anyone, Drew. Is there anyone from her past, anyone you can think of who …?”

“We didn’t exactly run in the same circles.”

“Is there anyone from
your
circle …?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“One of your friends, perhaps an acquaintance …”

“Perhaps an acquaintance?” Drew repeated mockingly. “You wouldn’t be referring to one of my scumbag, drug-dealing acquaintances, would you?”

“I’m just trying to figure things out, Drew.”

“Well, you figured wrong.”

“Look. I don’t want to argue. Especially in front of your sister.”

“Why? You think she can hear us?”

“No, of course not.”

“Can you hear us, Casey?” Drew asked, drawing closer, looming over her, her breath brushing against the side of Casey’s cheek like the prickly tongue of a cat. Was she imagining it? “Do you understand what we’re saying?”

Yes. Yes, I understand everything.

“Ain’t nobody home,” Drew pronounced, backing away.

“Watch your elbow,” Warren warned. “She’s bruised enough.”

Drew made a dismissive sound. “So, what happens now?”

“Well, hopefully, she’ll keep improving. Now that she’s started therapy, her muscles will get stronger. And the doctors will keep reducing the number of breaths the ventilator is providing. They’re optimistic that in another week or two, she might be able to start breathing on her own.”

“You’re saying she’ll regain consciousness?”

“No. Nobody’s saying that.”

“What
are
they saying? That she could be this way forever?”

No, no. That’s not going to happen. Warren, tell her that’s not going to happen.

Silence.

“So, I repeat, what happens now?” Drew pressed.

A long sigh escaped Warren’s lips. “Once Casey is able to breathe without the respirator, I can start thinking about taking her home, hiring the right people—”

“I mean, what happens to me?” Drew interrupted.

Casey might have laughed had she been able to. She found it strangely comforting that some things never changed, no matter what the circumstances. A rose is a rose is a rose, she thought. And Drew was Drew was Drew. She always would be.

Could she blame her?

Her sister had learned from a very early age that the only person who would be there to take care of her was herself. Occasionally, Casey had tried to fill the parental role, but Drew had reminded her vehemently, “You’re not my mother.” And so she’d backed off.

Casey was, however, the trustee of their parents’ estate, the one who made the decisions, the one who signed the checks.

“What happens to
you
?” Warren repeated.