Still Life (16 page)

SEVENTEEN

T
hey came for her at ten o’clock the next morning.

“Well, this is a very big day for you,” one of the interns said, radiating the fake cheer they all seemed to adopt when talking to her, as if she were a not very bright three-year-old.

Casey thought the voice belonged to Dr. Slotnick, but she couldn’t be sure. A new batch of interns had arrived only last week, and she hadn’t had time to attach the names to their respective voices. I need more time, she thought.

“I bet you can’t wait to get out of here.”

No, you’re wrong. I don’t want to go. Please, don’t let them take me. I need more time.

But Casey knew it was too late for any last-minute reprieve. The arrangements had all been made. The finances had been dealt with, the releases signed. All morning, nurses and orderlies had been filing in to say good-bye and wish her well. Interns, residents, surgeons, and specialists alike had all dropped by to pay their respects.

As if I’ve already died, Casey thought.

“Good luck, Casey,” another intern offered, touching her arm.

“Well, I think that’s everything,” Warren suddenly announced, bounding into the room. “Everything is signed, sealed, and ready to go. They should be here any minute with the stretcher, and then we can be off.”

“You’ll keep us apprised of her progress?” Dr. Keith asked.

Has anybody called the police? Does Detective Spinetti know I’m about to be released?

“Of course,” Warren answered. “Every little improvement, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

“If there are any problems at all, if at any point you feel you’ve taken on too much …”

“I’ll get in touch with your office immediately.”

“Lankenau Hospital in Wynnewood has a wonderful rehab center, or there’s Moss Rehab over on—”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, but thank you. Thank you all,” Warren said, his voice cracking. “You’ve been so kind to Casey, and to me, and words can never adequately express how grateful I am for everything Pennsylvania Hospital has done for us during this extremely difficult time.”

Casey heard sniffling and realized people were fighting back tears.

“But now it’s my turn to take care of Casey,” Warren continued. “Here’s hoping that next time I see any of you, my wife will be standing beside me, and she’ll be able to thank each and every one of you in person.”

“Here’s hoping,” several voices agreed.

“Amen,” someone added.

Sounds like a full house, Casey thought, picturing the small crowd gathered around her bed. Was Patsy among the visitors? she wondered, the squeal of a stretcher racing down the hall, then banging up against the door to her room. The vibrations reverberated throughout Casey’s body, traveling up her spine and settling, like a dull cramp, in the pit of her stomach.

“Well, here we are,” Warren said.

“Make room, people,” Dr. Keith advised.

Casey felt the air in the room stir as people moved out of the way, jockeying for new positions. She felt bodies hovering above her head, and sheets being pushed aside.

“Be careful with her head,” someone cautioned, as strong hands gripped her ankles, hips, and shoulders.

No. Don’t move me. Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.

“On three. One … two … three.”

Casey’s body slid effortlessly from the narrow bed that had been her home for the last three months onto the even narrower stretcher. In the next second, she was being strapped in and wheeled from the room.

Maybe this is all a dream. Soon I’ll wake up and Drew will be sitting beside me watching
The Price Is Right.

“Good-bye, Casey,” she heard several of the nurses call out as her stretcher was pushed down the hall, the smell of the sick and the dying assaulting her nose, accompanying her to the elevator.

“Good luck, Casey,” more voices offered.

No, I don’t want to go. Please don’t let them take me.

And suddenly everything stopped. Had they heard her? Had she actually spoken those words out loud?

“These elevators take forever,” someone remarked.

So, they were simply waiting for the elevator to arrive, she realized. No one had heard her. Casey listened to the sound of distant wires being pulled and tugged and knew an elevator was on its way. Her hearing had become so acute in the last weeks, and her sense of smell was getting stronger every day. She knew when she was being touched. She felt pain and discomfort, could tell the difference between hot and cold. She recognized when her head ached and her muscles needed massaging.

Slowly, everything was coming back.

She just needed more time.

How much longer before her vision returned, before she regained the use of her arms and legs, before she was able to speak, before she could tell everyone what had really happened to her—that her beloved husband had hired a man to kill her, and that it was only a matter of time before he tried again?

And this time, Casey understood with sickening certainty, he’d succeed.

Unless she could find a way to get through to someone.

Please. There has to be a way.

“Here it is.”

“Finally,” Warren said as the elevator doors opened and several people filed out.

A man and a woman, Casey thought, judging by the cloying combination of aftershave and perfume she smelled as they brushed past. Had either of them noticed she was there, or had they instinctively turned their heads and averted their gaze, as most people did when confronted with their own tenuous hold on mortality? Were they even now whispering a little prayer—“Please let me stay healthy, don’t let anything like that ever happen to me”—as they hurried down the hall? Did they have any idea how lucky they were?

Because in the end it was all about luck, Casey decided as the elevator doors closed behind her. Some people were lucky; some weren’t. It was that simple. Some people enjoyed a lifetime of good fortune, others were merely afforded a few fleeting moments. Still others … how did that song go—if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?

She knew most people considered her one of the very fortunate few. Born into a life of great privilege, possessing both beauty and brains, she’d succeeded at everything she’d set her mind to. She had the Midas touch, as Janine had remarked on more than one occasion.

Until one afternoon on an unseasonably warm day in late March when her luck had suddenly run out, and the gold reverted to sawdust, and the sky went from radiant blue to hopeless black.

The elevator bounced to a tenuous halt on every floor, letting people in and out. “Sorry,” a man said as he lost his balance and fell against her stretcher. The apology was followed by a cough and a clearing of his throat. Casey imagined the man quickly righting his position and facing forward, gazing resolutely at the numbers above the doors, until the elevator came to its final, bumpy stop. He can’t bear to look at me, she thought, recalling Drew’s earlier remark. Where
was
her sister? Was she off on another mindless cruise? Or was she lying in some stranger’s bed, stoned out of her mind? Was she taking care of herself, of her daughter?

“Okay, clear some room, please, everybody,” the orderly instructed as he pushed the stretcher out of the elevator and down the long corridor toward the exit. “Will you be riding with your wife in the ambulance, Mr. Marshall?”

“Absolutely,” Warren replied, as a heavy blanket of heat and humidity descended on Casey’s head like a shroud.

“Whew,” the orderly remarked. “It’s a hot one today.”

“Over ninety,” another voice agreed.

“We can take it from here,” yet another voice announced.

Who were all these people? Casey wondered as her stretcher was transferred into the back of the ambulance. Warren was right beside her, his hand on top of hers.

“Good luck with everything, Mr. Marshall,” the orderly said as he closed the ambulance door.

“Thank you,” Warren said, settling in beside Casey.

A minute later, the ambulance was on its way.

“We’re going up to the Main Line, is that correct?” the driver asked.

The same voice that had commented on the temperature, Casey realized.

“Nineteen twenty-three Old Gulph Road,” Warren elaborated. “The town of Rosemont. Just past Haverford. About a half-hour drive. It’s probably best to go north on Ninth Street, then make a left on Vine till you get to the Schuylkill Expressway.”

“Let’s just hope it’s not the Schuylkill Parking Lot,” the second voice added, the one who’d told the orderly they could take it from here.

So there were two men in the front seat, Casey concluded.

“It shouldn’t be too bad this time of day,” Warren told them. “I’m Warren Marshall, by the way.”

“Ricardo,” the driver said. “And this here’s Tyrone.”

“Thanks for doing this, guys.”

“No problem. It’s what we do. Sorry about your wife, man.”

“Thanks.”

“How long’s she been in a coma?” Ricardo asked.

“Since the end of March.”

“Jeez. How’d it happen?”

“Hit-and-run.”

“Yeah? They catch the guy?”

“Not yet.”

“You know what I think, man? I think guys like that should be shot.”

“You think everybody should be shot,” Tyrone said.

“Yeah, well, you start shooting a few of these people, I’m talking now about people who drive drunk, and people who leave the scene of an accident, you start hauling them out of their cars and shooting them on the spot, you’re gonna see a lot less people drinking and doing bad stuff before they get behind the wheel. They’re gonna think twice. You know what I’m saying?”

“You really think people are thinking that clearly after they’ve had a few drinks?” Tyrone argued.

“I’m saying they’re going to think twice before having that drink in the first place. If they know there’s a good chance they’re gonna get shot, they just might call a cab instead of deciding to drive home themselves. All it takes is a little careful planning.”

A little careful planning.

“You give people too much credit.”

“Hell, man, if people are that stupid, they deserve to get shot. Of course, then half of Hollywood would be dead.”

They drove for several minutes in silence, Casey absorbing each bump in the road. She was amazed to discover she was actually enjoying the sensation, enjoying the fact she was out of the hospital, out of her bed, and speeding down the street. She felt her body take flight and soar above the traffic, at one with the air. For several minutes, she wallowed in the illusion of freedom. For several minutes, she surrendered to the possibility of happiness.

“Instead, what happens is that innocent people, like Mrs. Marshall here, are the ones getting hurt,” Ricardo continued. “Bet that guy who hit her is doing just fine. No injuries there. No, it’s always the innocent who suffer. How are you doing back there, Mr. Marshall?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Ricardo.”

“Somebody said you’re a lawyer. Is that right?”

“Guilty as charged,” Warren said. “Who told you that?”

“One of the nurse’s aides. Patsy something. Lukas, I think her name is.”

“The one with the big—” Tyrone began, then broke off, either because he realized such comments might be considered inappropriate, or because he felt no further words were necessary.

“That’s the one,” Ricardo said.

“She’s pretty hot,” Tyrone said.

“If you like that type.”

“What’s not to like?”

“Actually,” Warren broke in. “I’ve hired Patsy to help take care of my wife.”

“No kidding,” Tyrone said sheepishly.

Casey pictured Tyrone hunkering down in his seat, burying his chin inside his jacket.

“She’s been wonderful to my wife.”

You mean she’s been wonderful to you.

“She’ll be waiting for us at the house,” Warren said.

Oh, great. Something to look forward to.

The rest of the drive was relatively quiet, the men in the front seat obviously having concluded that silence, along with discretion, was the better part of valor. The ambulance transferred onto the expressway without incident, and Casey found herself mentally ticking off the exits. Montgomery Drive … City Avenue … Belmont Avenue … They passed the town of Gladwynne and continued on through Haverford to Rosemont, eventually approaching the exit onto Old Gulph Road.

Old Gulph Road was a wide, winding street lined with lots of tall, leafy trees, where stately mansions sat on several acres well back from the road, and meandering horse trails took the place of sidewalks. Between 1775 and 1783, Revolutionary soldiers had been lodged in many of the older homes, as they’d been in houses all along the Main Line. Later, Old Gulph Road became home to soldiers of an entirely different sort: soldiers of fortune, men of money.

Men like Ronald Lerner.

Casey’s father had purchased the house on Old Gulph Road over his wife’s strenuous objections. Alana Lerner had had no desire to leave her larger, even more palatial estate on Brynnmaur for the somewhat smaller residence on Old Gulph Road, and their arguments leading up to the eventual purchase were both numerous and heated.

“We’re not selling this house,” Casey remembered her mother shouting as Casey blocked her ears and tried to study for an upcoming exam. She’d come home for the weekend only at her father’s insistence. He’d entered them in the parent-child golf tournament at the club, where they were last year’s defending champions. Drew was away at boarding school.

“What’s your problem?” her father shouted back. “The girls are away at school. We spend more time traveling than we do here. We don’t need such a big house anymore. And I’d like to be closer to Merion.”

“You expect me to move so that you can be closer to your girlfriend?” Alana’s outrage all but shook the crystal chandelier in the main foyer.

“Merion Golf Course, you idiot,” her father roared, and Casey had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“I’m not moving,” her mother insisted, slamming the bedroom door behind her.

“It’s a done deal,” came her father’s final word.