Derailed (29 page)

“So what'd you do then, Pops?”

“Well, me and Corky—”

“Harry Bentley! How's this boy supposed to learn proper English with you saying
me and Corky
. It's Corky and I.”

“Okay.” I rolled my eyes. “Let's just say, I freed Corky with a hand signal, and we backed off without those two even noticing. Then we went down to the vestibule and were the first to detrain when it stopped a few minutes later in Kalamazoo.”

I gave Estelle a wink. “Say babe, you got any more of that chicken and rice?”

She rolled her eyes and served me a small dab as DaShawn shoveled in his last couple of bites and passed her his plate. “Please.”

“Now you're learning.” She rewarded him with a much larger scoop and a smile. Oh well, my waist didn't need more.

“I didn't want to confront the couple near other passengers, so as soon as we got off the train, I headed for the station, which turned out to be nearly empty. Wanting to make sure the culprits saw my badge and service weapon straight off, I dropped my jacket, hat, and Corky's D-handle beside an old woman dozing on one of the benches and asked her to watch them for me. Her eyes got wide at
the sight of my weapon, so I made sure she got a good look at my Amtrak Police shield as I clipped it onto my belt.”

I was almost sorry I'd started this tale, but had to finish it now. “With Corky on her leash, we ran outside just as the couple who'd gone around the outside of the station crossed the street to their shiny BMW, which they'd parked in the Kalamazoo Gospel Mission's parking lot, no doubt without permission.”

“How'd you know that?” Rodney asked.

“Since this ain't no courtroom, I can tell you. Pure conjecture. But as soon as they opened the trunk of their car, I confronted them. Corky sat down immediately, indicating that their luggage was dirty.”

“Busted!” DaShawn punched the air above his head in triumph.

“Oh yeah, but they complained that I had no jurisdiction because they weren't on Amtrak property. Didn't make any difference. I insisted they open their bags, and there were the drugs: amphetamines and a baggy of weed. Oh, how they whined. ‘Why aren't you out arresting people with guns or catching rapists? We aren't bothering anybody. Besides, we've got prescriptions for these.' But when they couldn't produce any documentation, I called 9-1-1—”

“Wait a minute,” Rodney cut in. “What kind of documentation?”

I frowned. Was he looking for loopholes around the drug laws? “They didn't have a prescription for the pills or a medical marijuana ID card from the State of Michigan for the pot, so I decided to let the Kalamazoo police and a local judge sort out whether they were ‘legal' or not. As far as I was concerned, those are controlled substances and against the law.” I glared at Rodney.

Everyone was silent for a few moments, then DaShawn broke the tension. “So what happened to the old woman in the station?”

“Oh, I went back and thanked her for watching my stuff. Think she was in shock.”

I didn't explain that her shock was topped off by watching me disappear into the men's room and emerge a few moments later as an ol' blind man with a guide dog. Who would have believed her story anyway?

I was just as eager the next morning to report my exploits to Captain Gilson, but on my way to work, just as I got on the outer drive, my cell rang. When I saw the caller ID said Saint Francis Hospital, my heart jumped. “Hello.”

“Mr. Bentley, your mother's just had another stroke, and I think you need to get here right away. It doesn't look good. It doesn't look good at all.”

“Is she conscious?”

“No sir. We may have to put her on a ventilator, so we need you to get here.”

Ventilator
! I pulled off the outer drive at Foster Avenue and headed back north as fast as I could go, calling Estelle as I drove. I knew if this was it, Estelle would want to be there with Mom.

We'd had so much hope Mom could come home soon! But now . . .

It was cool enough in the Saint Francis parking
garage that I didn't have to worry about leaving Corky in her kennel. Besides, it had an automatic fan that would kick in if needed. “Stay, girl. You got plenty of water, and I'll be back to check on you soon as I can.”

By the time I got up to Mom's room, Estelle was already there. She reached out and pulled me close as I approached the bedside. The
beep, beep, beep
of the monitor was the only assurance Mom was still alive. For reasons I couldn't quite identify, she actually looked like she was gone. Her face was vacant, gray, and seemed to sag.

“What'd they say?”

Estelle shook her head as she stared at my mother. “Hardly anything. Just that they had to resuscitate her and they're about to take her down for a CAT scan.”

“
Resuscitate
? What about her DNR order?”

Estelle shrugged. “Don't know.”

“Has the doctor been in?”

She shook her head. “I just got here a couple minutes before you.”

A businesslike nurse bustled in and asked us to wait outside. “We need to get Mrs. Bentley ready for transport.”

I stepped aside but asked, “Where's she goin'?”

“Down for a CAT scan.”

“Last time they did an MRI. Why the change?”

Without looking at me, the nurse said, “You'll have to ask the doctor.” But I had the impression she knew more than she was letting on.

“Has the doctor seen her?”

“Not this morning, but I'll let him know you're here. He'll probably meet with you after the CAT scan.”

We stepped out into the hall and stood there in silence, staring . . . without seeing each other or the decorator prints on the wall or what was going on at the other end of the corridor. When the patient transporter finally arrived and wheeled Mom out and down the hall, we drifted aimlessly along behind like we were walking in a fog until we reached the nurse's station where Estelle leaned over the counter. “Would you let us know when Mrs. Bentley comes back up or when her doctor gets here? We'll be in the waiting room.”

“Sure thing.”

There was no one else in the waiting room, and Estelle sat down and bowed her head over folded hands. I picked up an old copy of
Car and Driver
and thumbed through it without finding anything of interest.

“You think they ordered that CAT scan 'cause it's cheaper? Maybe they've given up on her.”

Estelle raised her head and gazed at me thoughtfully. “I really don't know, Harry.” She bowed again over her clasped hands then abruptly looked up. “But ya know, hon, suspicion doesn't do much good at a time like this. I'd say, if you got that question, you should ask the doctor straight up, and put it to rest.”

I tried to flush the suspicion out of my mind, but the questions still niggled around the fringes.

Half an hour later, the doctor came in and sat down to give us his report. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, frowning as if he were trying to think of the best way to break hard news.

“I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Bentley, this was a massive bleed, a subdural hematoma, which we usually see in head injuries. But sometimes it occurs spontaneously as a form of stroke. We might take some heroic measures to relieve the pressure, but I seriously doubt whether your mother will ever regain consciousness. And even if she does, the damage from this incident on top of her previous strokes would leave her so impaired that she would be . . .”
He didn't finish his sentence, but I heard the word he was thinking:
vegetable
.

It made me angry. If Mom regained consciousness, she wouldn't be a vegetable, no matter how impaired. “Why'd you give her a CAT scan instead of an MRI? Was it because it's cheaper?”

He looked taken aback. “Uh . . . uh, yes, in one sense a CAT scan is cheaper, but they are also better for some things. Better in a case like this with a very recent bleed. The MRIs told us how extensive the older damage was, but this bleed is ongoing, and a CAT scan shows it very precisely.”

I glanced at Estelle. The gentle look on her face held no condemnation. I turned back to the doctor. “But you said there were some things you could do that might help. What?”

“Well, there's medication, of course, that might slow the bleed. But we're talking about a very delicate balance here. We don't want to create clots, which was probably the source of her first stroke. Beyond that we could drill one or more holes in her skull in hopes of relieving the pressure. However, this hemorrhage was so massive, I'm not sure we would succeed.”

“And if you don't do anything?” I asked.

He looked away and then back as he took a breath. “The pressure will increase on her brainstem until she expires. Her respiration's already suppressed, probably as a result of the increased pressure.”

I leaned back trying to absorb the horror of them drilling holes in my mother's head until the doctor broke into my nightmare with a further complication. “If that's the way you decide to go, we'd probably better get her on a ventilator as soon as possible. But you need to realize that mechanical ventilation does not insure her survival. And any meaningful recovery is highly unlikely.”

“But not impossible?”

“Mr. Bentley, how do I answer that question? I am a Christian. This is a Catholic hospital. I have witnessed what I would call miracles. None of us wants to see our loved ones pass, but even the Bible says we are all appointed to die at some point.”

My head fell forward so I was staring at my lap, but the doctor's confession of faith felt comforting. I glanced sideways at Estelle. She was looking steadily at me.

I finally realized the doctor was still waiting patiently.

“If this were your mother, what would you do?”

He drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in a silent whistle. “I would not put her on a ventilator. I would let her go.”

I felt Estelle's hand reach for mine. I turned and looked into her dark eyes. They glistened until they overflowed in a small trickle down her cheek, her lips pursed tightly together. I was not alone as the room swam and swirled amid my own tears. “I think . . . I think that's our decision too, right, babe?”

She nodded slowly and pulled me closer.

Mom passed peacefully three hours later, and we spent the rest of the day contacting family and friends and making plans.

The first person I called was Rodney. After several moments of silence, he said, “I had wanted to come up and see her.”

What could I say?
You could've if you wanted to
? Or,
She was unconscious and wouldn't even have known you were there
? But I got ahold of myself. “Yeah. That's too bad, son. Hey, we're gonna go get DaShawn out of school to tell him, but then we've got lots of other stuff to plan and do. Will you be home so he can stay with you?”

“I'll be here.”

I'm sure DaShawn knew what was up as soon as he got the message to report to the office. His eyes were wide when he walked in and saw us standing there in front of the counter. He ran the last couple steps to give me an unembarrassed hug. Estelle wrapped us both in her warm arms.

During the ride back to the house, DaShawn asked lots of questions about what had actually taken his great-grandmother's life. Maybe this was his way of objectifying it all so it wouldn't hurt so much. The four of us had sandwiches for a late lunch, and then
Estelle and I set out to take on the avalanche of decisions and plans we had to make.

After talking to Pastor Cobbs, we decided on a Saturday homegoing celebration, since there weren't but a couple of family members who might come from a distance. The whole process was something I'd never done before.

It had been nearly twelve years since my father died, and I hadn't even gone down to Atlanta for his funeral. I was still pretty angry with him for abandoning Mom and me when I was just a kid. Had seen him only a couple of times since he left us, and both times weren't my choice—at the wedding of a cousin and once when he looked me up and wanted to borrow some money. I was a hotshot rookie cop at that point and told him I'd throw him in jail if he ever showed his face to me again. Didn't have any idea what I would've charged him with, but it was enough to scare him off for the rest of his life.