The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (9 page)

“Bertram. I’m not comfortable with this. I didn’t agree to this. Whatever I told you, I didn’t intend it—and, frankly, I’m not happy about this whole conversation—” I wasn’t articulate, but he got the point.

“Relax, Zoe. People don’t submit to hypnosis unless they want to. And once they’re under hypnosis, people don’t do or say anything they don’t want to. Clearly, you wanted to be hypnotized. And you must have wanted to say what you said. I didn’t force you to talk to me; you volunteered.”

What the hell had I talked about? Nick? Molly? The baby? My father? What?

“Don’t worry.” He scratched his thinning hair, shedding some flakes. “I’m a doctor. You can trust me; what I’ve heard is confidential. And seriously, let me know if you want to continue. If we work in conjunction with your obstetrician, we should be able to ease your pregnancy and, down the road, your delivery. Meantime, we can reduce the effects of all this job stress.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. Oh, right. The memo. I’d forgotten. We might all lose our jobs.

Somehow, in the light of our career crisis, Bertram’s efforts to reduce my stress seemed helpful and well-intentioned. I stifled my anger about having been hypnotized unwittingly. In fact, I thanked him and told him I’d think about his offer. Then, already late for my session, I hurried to the art studio, wiping away tears I couldn’t remember shedding and didn’t understand.

I
N THE STUDIO, ON
my own turf, I kept thinking of Bertram and what had just happened in his office, trying to remember what I’d said under hypnosis. At the same time I couldn’t stop worrying about the memo and my career, picturing what would happen to the patients I worked with if the art program was suddenly eliminated. One by one I saw them, their hands bound, their mouths gagged. Art, for some patients, was the most effective mode of expression, and without my program they’d be virtually cut off from communicating. I told myself to focus, to get to work. I couldn’t do anything about the Institute’s policies at the moment, and I set out materials for my first session, telling myself to keep my mind on my patients.

In moments, orderlies arrived with group members, and before I knew it, the session was under way. The first group worked on collages made of a zillion small colored paper tiles I’d cut up the week before. Kimberly Gilbert, a thirty-two-year-old schizophrenic, had her usual difficulty with organization. With determination and focus, she glued paper bits in patternless, random positions without borders, both on and off her poster board. I worked with her, urging her to attach the pieces onto the board, but as soon as I left her she’d wander, gluing tiles onto the table, her clothing, her chair, and the back of Frank DiMarco, the person sitting beside her.

Frankie was a muscled twenty-nine-year-old, the lone survivor of a gas explosion that had killed his co-workers. He suffered severe depression and chronic post-traumatic stress disorder. As usual, he didn’t react to Kimberly or the papers she’d glued to his body or clothing. He stared silently at his blank poster board for a long time before attaching a single black splotch to its middle. Meantime Hank Dennis, a handsome forty-year-old, recently readmitted for a setback in his compulsive disorder, looked on. A few weeks ago, he’d have been distracted, frantic about Kimberly’s disorganized behavior. Now, he repeatedly glanced her way, but without comment or disruption he managed to return to his own project, arranging pieces of paper into groups by color, gluing red ones side by side in an unbroken, perfectly even line. The pieces were unevenly cut, so his effort was tedious and frustrating. Still, Hank worked diligently, trying to fit incongruent edges seamlessly together.

Samantha Glenn, twenty-three, arms coated with scars, wrists healing from her most recent suicide attempt, concentrated quietly on creating what seemed to be a pink oval cloud, occasionally gazing up at Frankie, eternally trying to catch his eye. Gloria Swenson, her features and body distorted by an addiction to plastic surgery, created a simple, puny flower—a skinny, disjointed stem with an asymmetrical red-and-purple blossom. And Jeremy Wallace, schizophrenic and new to the group, unable to focus for any length of time, alternately sat in his chair and marched around the table in circles, his body still adjusting to his medications.

The session passed unremarkably, even calmly. I moved from person to person, observing their work, talking to them, jotting down case notes. But as I made the rounds, before my eyes Kimberly’s spatter of blotches transformed, became the clutter of a dark, neglected basement. Hank’s row of red began to run like the straight trail of Beatrice’s blood. The dark spot in the middle of Frank’s poster stared like an eyeball in shock, unblinking. And Samantha’s pink oval lay swollen like my belly, bursting with child.

Knock it off, I told myself. You’re a professional. You’re supposed to look at patients’ work in the context of their lives and problems, independent of your own. Still, images emerged from poster boards, reminding me that, without question, my father was back in my life. I saw him, felt his presence everywhere I looked. I’d hoped to escape him by delving into familiar routine, but pretending that nothing had changed was like ignoring an earthquake. The upheaval was internal, but the ground under me shifted, and my world shimmied and shook. I told myself not to overreact. I would adjust. My father would be cared for, and life would proceed normally again. Meantime, I had to get a grip. But I couldn’t. Worries juggled in my brain. My father. My job. The baby. Molly. Beatrice. Nick.

By the end of my first session, my head was swimming, and the muscles in my lower back were twisting like wringing dishtowels. I went to my cubicle of an office, light-headed, needing a break, and saw a pink envelope lying on the blotter. Pink? I stared at it, hesitating to touch it. Did they really write pink slips on pink paper? Slowly, I picked it up and opened it. My hands trembled as I read it. Then I set it down, looked out at the studio, the tables and easels, the creations of patients on the walls. In a haze, I canceled the rest of the day’s sessions and started to leave. But I stopped at the door, came back to call Bertram and make an appointment. Hypnosis might not solve my problems, but it couldn’t hurt.

U
NTIL FURTHER NOTICE, MY
job had been cut to half-time. Half a job. At half a salary. Treating whom? Half-patients? Stunned, I drifted past colleagues in the hall, seeing them as if they were memories. I wandered past Agnes’s desk without a glance, unwilling to face her smug expression. I left the Institute, but I didn’t know where I was headed. I didn’t want to call a friend, didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t face going home, wasn’t ready to sit alone and mope, thinking about my patients, the impact the program cuts would have on them.

When the cab pulled up, I got in without knowing what my destination would be. But my voice surprised me, announcing without hesitation where it wanted to go. Great, I thought. Visiting my father would be the perfect way to continue this already miserable day.

By the time the driver deposited me at Germantown Hospital, the dark clouds had expanded, ready to burst. I stood outside in chilling air, regretting that I’d come, hesitant to go in. Raindrops were starting to fall, but I stayed at the curb, watching the doors slide open and shut, simultaneously swallowing and belching people, fighting something that felt like panic.

Go inside, I told myself. It’s about to pour. But my feet didn’t budge. My pulse raced, ringing out alarm. Why? I’d never been afraid of hospitals before.

Are you kidding? I asked myself. Get real. You know why. It has nothing to do with hospitals.

It didn’t?

Think. Why are you here?

Oh. Of course. Obviously. My nervousness and hesitation were about my father.

Thunder rumbled; wind picked up and the cold raindrops thickened. The storm was here. Go in before you get drenched, I told myself. Get the visit over with. So, drawing a last deep breath of wet, raw air, smelling traffic and tasting soot, I closed my eyes and thrust myself forward through the hospital doors.

Instantly, the flesh contracted all over my body. The air felt frigid, refrigerated. I was damp from the rain, shivering. Nurses walked by, looking greenish under neon lights. People in aqua scrubs conversed, parading past. I bit my lip, smelled antiseptics. Keep going, I told myself. It’s just a damned visit.

At the information desk the receptionist fiddled with her computer. I cleared my throat, but she didn’t look up. I wondered about receptionists, why they seemed to ignore me. Did they communicate among themselves about whom they liked or didn’t? Had Agnes phoned ahead?

“Excuse me,” I interrupted.

The woman rotated to face me. Her long black lashes were probably false, and they rose gradually, revealing large brown irises outlined with irritation.

“I’ll be with you,” she drawled, “in a minute, ma’am.”

I breathed hospital air, throat tightening, fingers fidgeting, and waited. Doctors walked by in crisp white coats draped with stethoscopes. A man hobbled by on crutches. A woman and a young boy passed with a bouquet of balloons. An orderly approached, pushing a wheelchair carrying a woman and her tiny new baby.

And, boom. My mouth got dry. My heart threw itself against my ribs, and I pivoted, watching her chair rolling to the door. Studying her. Wanting to ask her questions I couldn’t voice. Her hair was limp, matted. Her posture slumped. Her eyes outlined in dark circles. Oh, God. Five more months. In just five months, I would be her, the woman in the wheelchair. Would my hair be matted like that? Would my eyes be hollow with exhaustion, devoid of joy? An image flickered in my mind—someone, a woman I knew, her eyes hollow. Who? But it was gone before I could define it.

Outside, lightning flared and thunder rattled, a spotlight and drum roll introducing the truth. The dread I’d felt outside the hospital hadn’t just been about my father. It hadn’t merely been a delayed reaction to the news about my job, either. More than anything else, it had been about the delivery—about having the baby. I hadn’t admitted it even to myself. But here, in the hospital, there was no denying it: I was afraid. Don’t be a wimp, I scolded myself. Settle down and deal with it. But questions and unknowns battered my mind. What would labor be like? How bad would the pain be? Would it come and go, or persist? Would it be sharp and jagged? Searing? Would medications help? And Nick—was he too macho to be patient? Could I count on him as a childbirth coach? I felt helpless, out of control. And I wondered who the baby would be? Would it be healthy? Oh, God, what if something went wrong—

Stop it, I scolded myself. Women and children have made it through childbirth since the dawn of time; the baby and I would, too. Still, there were no guarantees. What if the umbilical cord wrapped itself around the baby’s neck? What if the baby had some congenital heart problem? Or difficulty breathing? Or a complication of any kind? The possibilities were endless, terrifying. I studied the woman at the desk, her sculpted nails clicking briskly on computer keys, gold rings sparkling on each of her slender fingers, bracelets clinking on her long tawny arms. I watched the jewelry scamper and hop as she typed, and I rubbed my own arms, shivering, scolding myself. It was only a hospital, and I was not here to give birth, but to see my father. I had to deal with one issue at a time. Focus. But I couldn’t help imagining the hospital nursery. A row of cribs filled with pink or blue bundles, one of them labeled “Hayes-Stiles.” Oliver? Leah? Oh, Lord. How would we ever pick a name?

Finally, the woman swiveled her chair around and faced me, smiled warmly as if seeing me for the first time. Some machine to the left buzzed and whirred contentedly. I asked for my father’s room number. In an eye blink, the woman wrote it down and drew a map of the shortcut through the old section to the new wing.

I followed the map to the elevator and got in. The doors began to close, but an arm shoved itself between them, pushed them apart. They opened, and an orderly rolled a gurney into the car. I stepped back into the corner.

A young woman lay on the gurney, withered and open-mouthed, staring at the lights. An IV bag swung from its pole, dripped into its tube. Backed against the wall, closed in by the gurney, I ignored a bothersome tightness in my belly and reminded myself that, despite the upheaval at work, nothing was irreversibly wrong. The baby was fine. I would be, too. I’d see my doctor in a couple of days. I drew a breath, repeating the mantra. I am here to see my father, just to see my father.

T
HE CORRIDOR WALLS OF
the new psychiatric unit were beige and covered with oil paintings, the windows large to give people a view. I rang a bell to be admitted, and walking down the hall, heard my father before I saw him. His voice resounded, listing complaints. But when I entered his room, I saw that he was alone, talking to no one. His head and one hand were bandaged. He was standing near the closet, his hospital gown hanging open in back, a catheter tube swinging between his legs. Why did he need a catheter? I had no idea. But there it was. He held the catheter bag in one hand, his IV stand in the other. Apparently, he was on his way out. Leaving.

“Dad?”

“Thank God. You’re here. Where the hell are my pants?” The question was general, not directed to me. “Someone’s taken my trousers.” He eyed the empty closet, began hobbling toward the door.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m getting out of here. I have responsibilities to take care of.” He kept walking.

“But—let’s call a nurse—”

“What?” He glared. “Why? These people here—they talk baby talk to me. Do I look like a baby? They’re idiots.”

Dad was wild-eyed, unshaven, his silver hair standing in disheveled clumps. His dark eyebrows formed an angry V.

“I want my pants,” he went on. “And then I’m getting the hell out. Jack’s got to be looking for me.” He stopped at the dresser and yanked drawers open, searching.