Blessed Are Those Who Mourn (10 page)

 

Chapter 17

A
CUTE SUBDURAL HEMATOMAS,
severe bleeding on the brain after a head injury, are the deadliest of all head injuries. The injury can cause a person to lose consciousness and slip into an immediate coma. Sometimes, as in my mother's case, the doctor will maintain a medically induced coma to give the brain an opportunity to heal itself.

Treatment involves waiting for improvement and/or brain surgery to relieve the pressure on the brain. If the blood doesn't drain on its own, surgery is necessary. This surgery could involve drilling a hole into the skull and suctioning the blood off the brain. Or a large section of the skull could be removed, briefly or for an extended period, to relieve pressure on the brain.

Despite not-­great-­odds of survival, those who do survive have a chance of finding all symptoms disappear as soon as the blood disappears.

Only 50 percent of the ­people who suffer acute subdural hematomas survive.

After reading this, I tell Donovan that someone else has to answer the phone. We have to go see my mother.

Every minute with her has suddenly become increasingly precious.

T
HE CITY IS
muted and muffled in low-­lying fog. Our drive to the hospital is a slow crawl, with Donovan gripping the steering wheel and hunching forward, concentrating on trying to see the taillights of the car in front of us. I'm numb. I feel like a zombie. I feel disconnected from my body.

My mind wanders to memories of Grace and her first reaction to the fog. She still can't quite understand that she can't hold the mist in her hands. I glance at Donovan, and he seems lost in thought, as well.

Then I'm thrown violently forward, and my seat belt locks up as Donovan slams on the brakes. We come to a screeching halt, the sound mingling with shrieking horns. When I look up, the hood of another car is a few inches from my passenger side window. My heart is racing, but I sit back in a daze.

I barely register Donovan flinging open his door and rushing to the other car's driver's side window. Donovan's face is red, and I wonder idly if he's going to reach in and yank the man out of his car. Even though I keep my window up, I can hear him screaming at the driver, a man in a tie who is now out of his car, pointing this way and that. Donovan's face is nearly purple as he gets right in the guy's face and yells something about nearly killing us and running a stop sign or something. The man backs down. He is biting his lip, and then he must be apologizing, because he holds out his hand for Donovan to take. I look away. None of it matters to me. Not really. Finally, a line of cars honking behind us spurs Donovan back inside. He doesn't even look at me. Only starts the engine and we drive on.

Even the scare and Donovan's anger don't lift my brain from its own foggy state. I almost feel as if I'm still at home, dreaming. Everything is unclear, unfocused. Nothing seems to matter. Nothing except my mom getting better and finding Grace.

It is only when we pull into the hospital parking garage that I feel the pain I've been pushing down. My daughter is missing and my mother is in a coma. I make a choking sound, but Donovan doesn't notice the noise, only comes around to my side of the car to take my hand.

When we step off the elevator in the hospital, Donovan tells me he's going to grab a coffee and will meet me in a minute in my mom's room. He's doing this so I have some time alone with her. He knows I need it.

When I arrive, my aunt Lucia is in a chair pulled up to my mother's bed. She puts down the paperback she is reading and stands to hug me.

“Anything?” I ask when I pull back, glancing down at my mother, who could be sleeping instead of in a coma.

Aunt Lucia shakes her head. “I'm sorry.”

Fury spreads out from my core, making me clench my fists. I want to pick up that metal chair and hurl it through the window. My fingers open and close as I imagine clawing at Frank Anderson's face, gouging deep enough to draw blood.

“Gabriella?”

“What? Sorry,” I say, my aunt coming back into focus before me.

“I'm going to go get some coffee downstairs and I will be back,” my aunt says, leaving me alone in the room, which is silent except for the sounds of the machines and my mother's breathing. Tubes come out of her mouth and her nose. More lead from under her blankets to plastic bags on the side of her hospital bed. Seeing them fills me with a rising panic that I have to beat down.
Stay strong
.
Giovannis don't melt under pressure
.

I
TRY TO
swallow down the mass of flesh that is closing up my throat as I sit down in the seat still warm from my aunt's body. I lift my mother's limp hand and hold it to my cheek. Tears prick at my closed eyelids, but I swallow back my tears. I need to be strong. For my mother and for Grace.

“Oh, Mama. I'm so sorry this happened to you,” I whisper.

I gently lay her hand back down on the sheet and reach over to smooth back her silky black hair from her forehead. Besides the angry stitches, she could be peacefully asleep. The nurse told my aunt that it is good to massage her feet because it helps her circulation. My mother's also wearing compression socks, which inflate and deflate to keep circulation going and protect against blood clots. They are acting like she's going to be here awhile.

I lift the covers and massage her feet and calves for a few minutes. It feels weird to care for my mother in this way. When I was a child, my mother used to come into my room at night when I woke crying from growing pains. She would sit patiently on the edge of my bed and massage my calves until I fell asleep. Such selflessness. She must have been exhausted after working long hours at her flower shop and taking care of us three kids, but she never once complained and would sit there for an hour if it took that long.

When I'm done with her feet, I sit back near her head. I press my cheek to hers, resting there until I hear Donovan clearing his throat at the end of the bed.

 

Chapter 18

Wednesday

I
T'S 5:00 A.M.
Grace has been missing for fourteen hours.

I stare into the mirror at the deep black hollows nestled under my eyes. Donovan is in the shower. He's been in there for more than thirty minutes. I have to go to the bathroom, but I don't want to go in there because I'm afraid of what I might see. Is he crying? Is he punching the porcelain tiles? Is he on his knees praying and wailing and keening with the water pouring down on his face?

I can't go in there. If I see him like that, I will shatter into a million pieces.

As I stand in front of my open closet, my clothes blur in a smear of colors. What do you wear to have a polygraph done so the police can rule you out as a suspect in your child's disappearance? What do you wear to a press conference announcing your child's kidnapping?

There is a lump in my throat, a furry foreign something lodged there that makes it hard to breathe. When I walked by Grace's room earlier, it was all I could do to not throw myself on her bed.

I didn't sleep last night. Everyone left our place around two in the morning. I spent the night huddled on the couch, staring at the phone, willing it to ring with information on Grace. Every once in a while I dozed off for a few seconds. Once I woke, frantic, when I didn't feel my cell phone in my hands. It had slipped off my lap onto the couch.

Donovan paced the apartment all night long, back and forth, occasionally going onto our deck for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, coming back smelling like cigarettes. When he was outside, the noises of the house, the hum of the refrigerator and lights, seemed amplified and taunted me. Life without Grace summed up in an eerie silence.

All night I tried to stop my thoughts from going to the deepest, darkest territories in my mind—­the places where Caterina's murder lives. Memories of my mother being stoic when Caterina was missing remind me that I need to pull it together.
You'
re a Giovanni. You need to be strong for Grace
.
Get it together
. My mind shouts this, but my body disobeys, staying immobile.

The sound of the shower turning off nudges me out of my reverie—­one long nightmare that has seamlessly blurred into today. I don't know how long I've been standing in front of the closet.

Staring at the silky colors on hangers before me, I focus on a beige blouse.

L
AST YEAR A
woman wore a similar blouse at a news conference not long after a drunk driver killed both her children. She and her husband invited reporters to interview them at their million-­dollar house in one of the exclusive East Bay neighborhoods.

We gathered in her living room only weeks after she and her children—­her eight-­year-­old son and seven-­year-­old daughter—­had walked to the ice cream shop. Although they'd been on a wide path set back from a parkway, a drunken driver had gone off road and struck the children, killing them both in one fell swoop.

Along with the other reporters, I sat on the couch in this beautifully appointed home full of the best things money could buy and felt how empty this ­couple's life was without their children. When they finally came into the room, I couldn't stop staring. Both were impeccably groomed. The mother looked like she'd had her hair and makeup done for the red carpet. Her expensive outfit—­wool slacks, silk blouse, and gold jewelry—­gave her a chicness I couldn't achieve on my best day. I remember thinking that if I'd been her, I'd have been unwashed and in my pajamas, not graciously welcoming a bunch of nosy reporters who had invaded my home.

I
'M STARING AT
my clothes hanging so neatly, when Donovan's hands on my shoulder startle me. I jump slightly but go back to my immobile state. I want to turn to him, but I'm frozen, facing the open closet, staring into the void.

Donovan's hands travel over to the base of my neck. I'm still wearing my clothes from yesterday. He unzips the back of my dress from behind. Slowly, gently, gingerly. He pulls one arm out of one sleeve, then the other arm. The dress falls in a heap at my feet. He lifts my feet one at a time, helping me step out of the dress. Then he tugs my tights down. He lifts one foot to remove one leg of my tights. Then the other.

I stare at the closet. Goose bumps rise on my bare skin—­my arms and legs and back. The blacks and reds and pinks and greens merge, all swirling together. In front of me, Donovan reaches into the closet and unbuttons the back of a turquoise shift dress I wore to a wedding last year. I blink as his figure comes into focus before me. Distantly, I note he is dressed in slacks and a dress shirt and tie. His damp hair is sticking up in that sexy way I like so much.

He turns and nudges my arms into the air, slipping the dress over my head. He guides my head through the opening. He pulls my arm through one armhole. Then the other. He nudges the dress down around my chest to my waist. He shrugs it down around my hips and then stands behind me. He zips up the back, slowly, carefully, so it doesn't grab my bare skin. Then he kneels at my feet again, lifting each foot one at a time as he slips them into sandals. His fingers graze my ankles as he tightens the straps.

I stand, staring straight ahead. Not able to focus on anything in front of me except the blurry colors of the clothes in my closet.

He takes my hand and pulls me over to the pink velvet chair in front of my vanity. He gently bends my legs at the knees until I'm sitting, staring at a woman in the mirror I don't recognize. A pale-­faced woman with deep, dark hollows under her vacant eyes. The woman in the mirror's face crunches up, grimacing in a mixture of pain and sorrow and anguish. I close my eyes, not wanting to see any more. I keep my eyes closed as, slowly and tenderly, Donovan brushes my hair. When he stops, he kneels in front of me until I open my eyes and the only thing I see is his face. I want to meet his gaze but I'm too afraid to look into his eyes, so I close my eyes again. The kiss on my forehead is like a whisper, and then he is gone.

 

Chapter 19

I
T'S 7:00 A.M.
Grace has been gone for sixteen hours.

I've been sitting on my bed for an hour. Staring at the red numbers on my digital clock as the minutes pass. The doorbell rings, and like an alarm, it launches me off the bed and into the living room. I'm on autopilot, yanked out of my catatonic state, as I buzz in the officer who is going to monitor the phone while we are gone. A headache forming at the base of my skull is a welcome relief from the clawing panic that I'm barely keeping at bay. I hold my head for a few seconds, then open the door, looking right through the man before me. All I see is a uniform.

“I'm Officer Craig.”

I don't ask him if that is his first name or last.

He hands me a coffee. I take it with a jerky motion, like a robot.

Donovan opens the glass door to our back deck, stubbing a cigarette out in a soda can as he stands in the doorway. Our eyes meet and hold. It doesn't take more than a quick glance to see his eyes are bloodshot.

“Aw, geez, I'm sorry. I should've brought two coffees,” Craig says, seeing Donovan.

Donovan grabs his keys off the end table by the door and pats the officer on the shoulder. “No worries, man, it's all good. Make yourself at home. Watch some TV. We'll be back soon.” Without looking back at me, he heads out.

I linger behind for a few seconds. Even though the officer is here to catch any calls that come in, I'm reluctant to leave the house. If news comes in about Grace, I want to be here.

Casting a glance behind me at the cop hunched on the couch with the phone in front of him and the TV remote in his hand, I take a deep breath and follow Donovan.

D
ONOVAN AND
I
stand awkwardly in the lobby of the San Francisco Police Department's Central Station, waiting for Sergeant Jackson to come get us. I've got my hand under Donovan's blazer, resting on his back. I feel like I have to be touching him or I will freak out. The woman behind the desk is trying not to stare, but she keeps eyeing Donovan. He is bouncing lightly up and down on his toes, jaw clenching, eyebrows knit together, anger and fear and frustration coming off him in waves.

The door to the inner office opens.

“Who wants to go first?” Sergeant Jackson says, holding the door wide. He's not smiling, and a shiver of apprehension trickles through me.

Donovan clears his throat. “You're doing your job. I get that. But this is bullshit. And it's a waste of time when all your resources should be concentrated out there looking for my daughter.” His words taper off into a low growl. The way he's working his jaw, I know he's about to explode.

Jackson doesn't crack a smile. “Standard procedure, Detective. You know that.”

Any deferential treatment from last night is gone.

“I'll go first,” I say, squeezing Donovan's hand and stepping forward. “Let's get this over with.” I turn to face him. “Come get me if . . .” . . .
you hear anything
. He knows what I mean and nods without meeting my eyes. His fingers are clenching and unclenching in fists. He yanks a worn orange plastic seat away from the wall and straddles it backward.

Before the door to the lobby closes, I look back to see if Donovan is watching, but he has put his head in his hands, running his fingers through his messy hair, staring at the worn tile floor under his shoes.

I
N THE INTERVIEW
room, Sergeant Jackson introduces me to a slim man wearing a cardigan and Buddy Holly glasses. “I'm Corey Carter. I'm the examiner who will conduct your polygraph today.”

A laptop on the table has wires stretching out from it in a neat row. A video camera in the corner is on, recording everything that happens in the room.

“I'll leave you two to it,” Jackson says and leaves the room.

I glance at the big clock on the wall. Eight o'clock. Grace has been missing for seventeen hours.

As soon as the door shuts, Carter turns to me. “Don't be nervous. I'll walk you through this and get you out of here as soon as I can. Go ahead and have a seat.”

I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. “Thank you,” I say quietly and sit down across from him.

“Why don't we take a few minutes and get to know one another,” he says, giving me a smile. “I'm a dad. Have a fourteen-­year-­old son and twelve-­year-­old daughter. I grew up in San Mateo and went to San Francisco State. As a parent, I can imagine this is about the worst thing that's ever happened to you in your life, and I'm sorry about that. So let's try to make this go smooth and get it over with so we can get you out of here.”

He looks up at me over the screen of his computer but keeps tapping away at the keyboard.

I nod. But I'm not supposed to be here. This is not right. It's all a mistake. Every cell in my body wants to run far away from here. For a second, I imagine myself sprinting for the door and running down the halls of the police station until I'm outside, where I can breathe again. But then I focus back on the examiner's words and fold my hands under me on the chair to keep them from fidgeting.

“This is going to take a while,” he says, now glancing at a stack of papers. “If you need to use the bathroom, please let me know. Let's go over your medical history, your prescriptions, if you see a therapist and some other factors that might affect the results. We're going to talk about why you're here, and I'm going to go over all the questions I'm going to ask you before I hook the polygraph up. There aren't going to be any surprises. Feel free to ask any questions. I know this feels like you are being treated as a suspect, but I can tell you that sometimes this process jogs ­people's memories and helps them remember information that they didn't realize they had retained. It's a little tedious. We go over the questions several times. In addition, the blood pressure cuff inflates and deflates, and that causes discomfort for some ­people. So let me know how you are doing. Any questions?” He looks up at me.

I shake my head. He pushes a stack of papers toward me.

“Now, after you sign these release forms, we'll get started.”

I glance at the door, wishing with all my heart that Donovan would come rushing in and tell me they found Grace safe. This is all a mistake. Every tick of the clock takes Grace further away from me. I need to stop time. I need to slow it down.

I reach for the forms. My hands are shaking, and when I take the documents, they rattle loudly. Without reading anything, I sign them quickly, in a messy scrawl that will serve as my signature.

“Why don't you tell me a little bit about why you're here. Remember, this is just pre-­interview stuff,” he says when I hand him the signed documents.

I'm trying to form the words, but my throat feels clogged with mucus and I can't talk. I can barely breathe.

“You're hyperventilating,” he says. “Just take ten deep breaths in and out. I'll do it with you. First breath. Breathe in, one, two, three. Now breathe out, one, two, three.”

I do as he asks.

“Better?” He is untangling wires and peering under the table.

My voice wavers as I begin to speak. “My daughter. Grace. She's five years old. She was on the beach with my mother yesterday and someone came up and hit my mom on the head and took my daughter.”

My heart is pounding in my ears like I'm having a heart attack. He hands me an open bottle of water that has materialized out of nowhere and I gulp it down, splashing some on my lap.

“Do you know how a polygraph machine works?”

I nod. “It measures your sympathetic nervous system.” I researched polygraph exams once for a story about a woman who confessed to killing her infant son, when her boyfriend was the one who actually did it. The polygraph showed she was lying about the confession. It was inadmissible in court, but she retracted her confession before the trial when she found out her boyfriend was sleeping around.

His smile spreads across his face before he can stop it. Then he becomes serious again.

“Good, good,” he mumbles, looking down. “Then you know it is okay—­in fact, expected—­to be nervous during the exam, correct?”

I nod.

“Let's go over the questions. Remember, these are sort of like the practice exam. Do you know who took your daughter?”

I swallow. “No.”

“Did you take your daughter?”

Angry heat rushes to my cheeks and I grit out the word. “No.”

What a waste of time. The clock is ticking and I'm stuck here in an outer ring of hell. My muscles twitch, and I'm eager to leap up out of my seat. I have to go find my daughter.

Closing my eyes for a second, I remind myself that Donovan is waiting in the lobby for me. I have to pull it together. I take a few deep breaths and answer the next question. The more I delay, the longer I have to sit in this room instead of being out there trying to find Grace.

Be strong for Grace
.

Once I decide this, several more questions go by quickly. He asks if I've ever committed a crime. Then he asks this: Did I ever kill someone?

I wait until his eyes rise from his laptop and meet mine.

“Yes.” I know my eyes hold a challenge.
Judge me if you will
.

I almost feel his slight intake of breath. I surprised him. I have killed twice in self-­defense.

“Do the police know you've killed someone?” he asks in a monotone voice, but I can feel the tension in the air as he waits for my response.

“Yes.” I lift an eyebrow as I say this, and he quickly looks down. When he is done asking questions, he seems more flustered than when we began.

I explain the circumstances in which I stabbed Jack Dean Johnson and killed a former cop who shot at Donovan.

I have killed. I am a killer.

And there is no doubt in my mind that, if given the chance, I would kill the man who has Grace. If Corey Carter asks me if I would ever kill someone again, the answer would be an instant yes, and his machines would show I'm not lying.

He is chewing on his bottom lip a bit, looking at the screen. Then he looks up at me.

“I think we're nearly ready to begin. I'm going to place some rubber tubes around you at your chest and stomach to monitor your breathing, and I'll also put the blood pressure cuff on your arm to look at your pulse and fluctuations in your blood pressure. These monitors will be attached to your fingers to record changes in your skin glands, and pads under your thighs and feet will monitor and record any movement.”

After he hooks up all the recording and monitoring apparatus, he tells me to look straight ahead at a blank wall and not move during the exam.

An hour and a half later, I stand to leave and become so dizzy that a circle of black starts to close in on my vision. I clutch at the table so I don't pass out.

Carter helps me back to my chair. I sit with my head between my knees. After a few seconds, I look up and drink more from the bottle of water he hands me.

“You want me to call a doctor?” he asks with a frown as I stand on wobbly legs.

I haven't slept. I haven't had anything to eat. My daughter is somewhere out there—­just thinking this sends a wave of panic through me—­and my mother is unconscious in a hospital bed. I should be anywhere but here. I have to get out of this little room. Now.

I don't answer, only shake my head and walk out.