Last Call (2 page)

He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. After giving the address to the dispatcher, he ran into the restaurant to fetch his older brother.

* * *

After Trish handed over the cash for the Jetta—eighteen hundred dollars’ worth—and the old man gave her the keys, her mother drove her downtown to the Ministry of Transport, where Trish had to take a number and sit on her behind until some bored clerk got around to serving her; but in spite of her impatience, when her turn came around she put on her most solicitous smile and handed the clerk the required information, along with a bogus receipt in the amount of nine hundred dollars she’d managed to wangle out of the old man. And when the clerk returned her smile along with the receipt, Trish smiled even wider and handed it back, saying, “Don’t you need this? To figure out the sales tax?”

“No,” the clerk said. “It’s all based on book value now.”

And that was how Trish ended up paying twice as much tax as she’d anticipated, and the true, ongoing misery of car ownership began to dawn on her.

But she got her official ownership, and her new plates, and left the ministry feeling like a grown-up. A totally broke grown-up. Her mother drove her back to the old man’s place, which now looked abandoned, and helped her attach the plates. There was a bad moment when Trish turned the key and was rewarded with only a high-pitched
whiz!
...but after a few more tries the engine caught, belching black smoke, and Trish giggled with delight.

She backed the car out of the driveway and pulled up next to her mother at the curb. As she shifted into Park, the car emitted a thunderous backfire and both of them flinched as if shot. Then Trish rolled down her window and smiled. “Thanks, Mom,” she said. “For everything.”

Her mother only shook her head.

* * *

Sally stood by the idling Jetta, watching her daughter secure her seatbelt—and in that moment such a frightened, sinking feeling came over her that she could barely disguise it. Wrapped up in that feeling was perhaps her first true comprehension of the fact that her little girl was a young woman now, and that she, Sally, was getting older. The fear came at her in a dozen different guises, but ascendant over all of them was the fear of loss. This car symbolized her inevitable loss of control, the abrupt cessation of her ability to shield her child from the world any longer.

Trying to shake it off, Sally said, “So where are you headed, little Miss?” and managed a brittle smile.

“Stacey’s place right now,” Trish said. “Then, who knows? L.A., maybe. East Texas.”

Laughing, Sally said, “Wise ass,” and thought,
Don’t say it
. But she did. “Be careful, sweetheart, okay?”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I will. You taught me how to drive, remember?”

Laughing, Sally said, “That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” and her anxiety abated just a little. She said, “Okay, kiddo, I gotta run. I’m already late for work. I’ll see you and Stacey there at four o’clock sharp. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

As she headed for her car, Sally heard her daughter say, “Hey, Mom. Can I borrow some money for gas?” and thought,
And so it begins
.

* * *

Dean Elkind heard the approaching siren and took a deep breath, feeding oxygen to an upwelling of adrenalin. It was only his third week working here in the ER at the Toronto General Hospital and already he was being called upon to perform tasks well beyond his simple portering duties. It was the main reason he accepted all the extra shifts they threw his way and strove to make himself both visible and useful in the department. He knew that if he could prove himself here, when it came time to apply to the emergency medicine residency program—still five years away, but it never hurt to plan ahead—he’d be able to collect some solid letters of reference.

He parked the supply cart he’d been pushing and joined the trauma team in the receiving area. When the stretcher rolled in through the automatic doors, he fell in behind the team as they took over from the paramedics, catching a glimpse of the victim now: male, long-haired vagrant, filthy and unshaven, grimy hand-me-downs, knotted lengths of twine serving as laces for the trashed-looking boots on his feet.

Dean craned his neck for a closer look, seeing the blood-soaked pressure dressings on the man’s abdomen and chest now. Another of his jobs involved wheeling fatals to the morgue, and he didn’t believe he’d ever seen anyone so pale who wasn’t already dead.
Poor bastard.
That was one of the scary things about living in a city the size of Toronto, the crazies that roamed the streets unobstructed, the random violence they inflicted only to walk away unscathed.

The trauma suite doors opened and Dean slipped in ahead of the stretcher, positioning himself at the foot of the examining table.

“Okay, Dean,” Dr. Isaac, the team leader said, “grab his feet. On three...one, two,
three
.”

Then the patient was on the table and a blood pressure cuff was applied, chest leads attached, the tube in his throat hooked up to a mechanical ventilator and the IV bags hung and opened wide.

Leaning over the man now, Dr. Isaac said, “Alright, he’s got a pulse. Let’s get some O-neg up here and prep arterial and central line trays.” He nodded at Dean. “Get these rags off him, chum. He’s going to need a chest tube.”

Dean went to work on the patient’s clothing, hacking through the rain- and blood-soaked fabric with a pair of heavy-duty scissors. He was tugging off the last layer, a moth-eaten Jim Morrison T-shirt, when he noticed the elaborate tattoo on the man’s bony chest.

Dean stopped breathing, his adrenalin buzz turning sour.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “I think I know this guy.”

* * *

Trish pulled the Jetta into the lock-stone driveway at Stacey’s house and hit the brakes, eliciting a high-pitched screech that triggered a volley of barks from the neighborhood dogs. She rolled down her window and leaned on the horn, be-bopping in her seat to “Move Like Jagger” on the tinny car radio. She and Stacey had been best friends since grade school, and Trish was eager to show off her new wheels.

A moment later Stacey came down the steps of her parents’ white Colonial, gray eyes fixed on her iPhone, pink ear buds in her ears. Stacey was nineteen, fair-skinned and athletic, with the most amazing head of naturally red hair Trish had ever seen. The girl was decked out in her usual summer attire: faded jean cutoffs, blood red halter top, amber
No Fear
shades and a Toronto Blue Jays ballcap. She stopped partway across the manicured lawn, popped out the ear buds and squealed, “You
got
it.”

Trish shrugged like it was no big deal, then let out a squeal of her own.

Stacey scooted around to the passenger side and jumped in, saying, “Cool.” Now she bounced on the seat and wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yuk. Smells like bean farts and butt sweat.”

Trish turned down the music and laughed. “You should see the fossil we bought it from. But hey, it gets you where you’re going, right?”

“Speaking of which,” Stacey said, eyes on her phone again, thumbs busily texting, “can we cruise past Randy’s place? Please, please, pleeeeease?”

“Girl, you are a glutton for punishment.”

“Is that a ‘yes’?”

“Affirmative,” Trish said. “Just wanna swing by my place first and check the mail.”

“Still haven’t heard from vet school?”

Trish shook her head and smiled, but she was concerned. It didn’t make any sense. All through high school and undergrad she’d been at the top of her class, and the other two kids she knew of who’d applied to Guelph had already got their replies.

Stacey said, “Well, don’t sweat it, babe. I sent them some Polaroids from that pajama party we had in the sixth grade. Remember? You? Topless? You’re a shoe-in.”

Laughing, Trish backed the Jetta into the street.

* * *

Dean checked his watch, then dialed her number again.

* * *

Trish steered the Jetta into the driveway of the small brick bungalow she shared with her mom and parked beside the porch. She said, “Cover your ears,” and shifted into Park. Stacey said, “Why?” and the car backfired, a crisp pistol shot ripping through the tranquil neighborhood. Stacey shrieked and dropped her phone. Trish said, “That’s why,” and switched off the ignition. The engine ran on for a few beats, then chuffed and quit. “Wanna come inside?”

“Sure. Race ya.”

The girls bailed out and tore up the steps, Trish reaching the stoop one long stride ahead of her friend. She unlocked the door and Stacey followed her inside.

The house was full of cool shadow and smelled of sandalwood.
Mom
, Trish thought,
you old hippie chick
. She scooped the mail off the vestibule floor and the house phone rang. As she moved into the family room to answer it, she plucked a plain white envelope out of a stack of junk mail and waved it at Stacey, who smiled and crossed her fingers.

Trish picked up the receiver and said hello. In the brief silence that followed she opened the envelope.

“Trish,” a familiar voice said, and Trish’s smile collapsed. “It’s Dean.”

She set the envelope on the phone table, a bitter wash of anger rising in her throat. Anger at herself. She’d believed she’d put this all behind her six months ago...and yet here she was, flushed and trembling at the sound of his voice.
Damn it.
She hated feeling this way.

She said, “I know who it is. I asked you not to call me anymore.”

Dean said, “I know, Trish, and I respect that. But this is important.”

Stacey came into the room now and picked up the envelope, keeping her eyes on Trish.

“Look, Dean,” Trish said, “there’s no way I’m going through all this with you again. There’s nothing more to say.”

Stacey said, “Is that Dean? I can’t
believe
that dick. Tell him to go hump a goat. Come on, Trish, just hang up. Let’s see what the college has to say.”

“This isn’t about us,” Dean said. “It’s...about your dad. I think he’s here, at the hospital.”

Trish’s knees buckled and she stumbled into the phone table, almost toppling it. One of her mother’s figurines wobbled off and shattered at her feet; Trish gazed at it numbly, thinking,
It’s about your dad
. She’d waited her whole life to hear someone say those words.

Dean’s voice: “Trish? Are you alright?”

She said, “How...?”

“The tattoo. Remember? You told me about it that night.”

I remember.
“You saw the tattoo?”

“Yeah, and it’s just like on the album you showed me. The snake swallowing its tail. Break on Through. Bad ’n Rude. It’s all there, right on his chest.”

Excitement began to eclipse Trish’s shock. “Oh my God. Are you sure? Where did you see him? Is he still there?”

She heard Dean inhaling now, felt his tension through the phone, and her excitement withered into wariness.

He said, “Trish, he’s been stabbed.”

Trish took a ragged breath. She’d never met her dad. The only evidence she had that he even existed was a rock album he and her mom had recorded before she was born, and a dog-eared photograph of the band, both of which she’d discovered last fall in a trunk in the attic, dusty treasures her mother had somehow overlooked in her stubborn campaign to eradicate all traces of the man’s involvement in her life. For years before that discovery Trish had tried repeatedly to find out about him from her mom, but the only response she ever got was, “You don’t have a father.” Until the night of her fourteenth birthday, when her mother finally relented, tossing her a few bitter crumbs: “He’s a bum, Trisha. A selfish, junkie bum. And I hate to have to say this to you, but you’re better off without him. We both are.” Her mother’s eyes had softened then, just a little... “He was an incredible musician, though, I will give him that. He could have been one of the greats.” Glad to have her talking, Trish said, “Can you at least tell me his name?” and her mom said, “Mud,” and lit the candles on the cake.

Now Trish said, “How bad is it?”

“It’s pretty bad,” Dean said. “They’re taking him to the OR right now. Doctor Peale’s working on him, though, and she’s the best trauma surgeon in the city.” He said, “Look, why don’t we give it a couple of hours. I’ll see if I can find out how he’s doing and call you back. I tried your cell before, but...”

“The battery’s charging.”

“Will you be at home, then? So I can call you?”

“You’re sure about the tattoo?”

“Positive.”

“Then I’m coming down. Toronto General, right?”

“Yes, TGH. You want me to meet you?”

“No, Dean, thanks. Thanks so much for letting me know.”

“Trish, there’s something else. He’s been living on the street—”

“No,” Trish said. “Please. I want to make up my own mind about him. Goodbye, Dean, and thanks again.” She cradled the receiver and turned to Stacey with tears in her eyes. “It’s my dad,” she said. “I think he’s found my dad.”

“I heard,” Stacey said, embracing her friend. “Is he going to be alright?”

“Dean said it doesn’t look good. They’re going to operate on him now.”

“You weren’t serious about going down there, though...were you?”

Trish pulled free of her friend’s embrace and headed for the front door, her mind made up.

Stacey went after her, saying, “Come on, Trish, take a minute to think this through. You’ve never even met the man, that’s number one. And what if Dean’s wrong? You’re going to drive all the way to Toronto on the word of
that
cheating asshole?”

Trish was rooting around in the hall closet now, looking for a jacket, Stacey’s words failing to sway her. Couldn’t she understand that choice wasn’t a factor here? She
had
to go, even if Dean was wrong. She had to know for sure.

Stacey said, “Look, we start our new jobs at four—the jobs your mother had to beg to get for us, remember? She’ll crucify you if you don’t show up.”

“I’ve waited my entire life for this day, Stace. You know how I feel. I
have
to go.”

“Yeah, I get that, but what about...? Oh, screw it, then. I’m coming with you. It’s a four hour trip and you’re in no shape to drive.”