Family Storms (5 page)

“I have a slight concussion, too. And my neck hurts, so
it's hard to raise my head.” I don't know why I wanted to tell her everything. Maybe it was because there was no one else really asking me.

“Oh, dear, you poor, poor child.”

Poor is right,
I thought.

I watched her look around the ward. Some of the others were looking our way and listening. She didn't smile at anyone. She pulled herself back a little and blew a small breath through her nearly closed lips.

“Well, this won't do,” she said. It seemed to be something she was saying more to herself than to me. “It won't do at all.” She turned and walked out quickly.

“That your mother?” the woman nearest to me asked.

“No way,” I said. “My mother is prettier.”
Was prettier,
I thought, and then argued with myself. This woman was beautiful, there was no denying that, but Mama had that exotic look, and she was natural. She wasn't just beautiful; she was different. In Los Angeles, women like the one who had just been to see me were not unusual. Mama used to say, “It's the only place where women don't care that beauty is only skin-deep. Few want to go any deeper.”

Mrs. March didn't return for nearly half an hour, and when she did, the ward nurse and a male nurse's aide accompanied her. The aide pushed a gurney right up to my bed. Mrs. March stood back to watch.

“We're moving you,” the nurse said.

“To where?”

“A room. A private room,” she added, the corners of her lips dipping.

She and the aide guided me carefully onto the gurney.

“Does she have any possessions?” Mrs. March asked the nurse when they turned to roll me out.

“Possessions? No, nothing,” the nurse said. “What would she have?”

Mrs. March smirked. “A watch, maybe? Any jewelry? These people carry everything they own on them.”

“She had nothing I know of, and there's nothing listed anywhere.”

“I hope not,” Mrs. March said. “Anyone who would steal from this child should be shot.”

I looked back at the other patients in the ward. A few watched with curiosity and amazement.

“Just relax,” the nurse said, and I lowered my head and waited as I was rolled along.

We went to an elevator. Mrs. March followed us all the way and stood quietly in a corner of the elevator as it rose to a much higher floor. She kept her head high and looked forward, not looking at me at all now. She said nothing to the nurse or the aide.

The door opened on a quiet corridor with walls that looked freshly painted and a floor that glittered in the sunlight pouring through one of the windows. I saw the nurses' station, with at least a half dozen of them busy with their duties. The nurse on the far side sat watching monitors. I could see that she was doing some needlepoint. There was none of the frenzy here that I had seen in the emergency room.

I was rolled down to a doorway and then into the room, which was nicer than any bedroom I had ever had. There was a light maple armoire on the left, a closet on the right,
small tables beside the bed, and a television on a metal shelf across from the bed. The room had two large windows that looked toward the Hollywood Hills. The bed was wider than the one down in the ward, and the blanket and pillows looked brand-new. The nurse and the aide gently transferred me. The aide started out with the gurney, and the nurse turned to Mrs. March.

“I'll get her paperwork to the desk,” she said.

“Thank you,” Mrs. March said.

The nurse left, and Mrs. March stepped up beside the bed and looked at me. “Now, this is better, isn't it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I have a private-duty nurse arriving within the hour. Her name is Jackie Knee.” She leaned toward me to whisper. “She's younger than most of the nurses here, more tuned in to girls your age. She actually worked at a plastic surgeon's clinic in Brentwood but now freelances on private-duty assignments. I think she makes more money.”

She straightened up and just stared at me for a few moments.

“I've arranged for a well-known orthopedist, Dr. Milan, to examine you.”

“Dr. Milan?”

“You know who he is?” she asked with a slight smile.

“He was supposed to fix my leg last night but didn't come because I have no medical insurance, so Dr. Decker did it.”

“Really? Is that what happened? Well, he's coming today,” she said firmly. “You can be sure of that.”

“Who's paying for all this?” I asked.

“I am. Well, I should say my husband and I are.”

“Why?” I asked, expecting her to tell me they were in charge of some charity.

She looked as if she wasn't going to answer. She turned away, looked out the window a moment, and then turned back to me.

“It was my daughter, Kiera, who hit you and your mother,” she said.

3
Kiera's Mistake

I
didn't know what to say when Mrs. March told me her daughter had hit Mama and me, so I just watched her as she began to pace back and forth, moving her hands as if she were speaking. I think she was trying to find the right words. Were there right words?

She turned, pressing her lips together. Then she took a deep breath and continued. “She was high on one of her recreational drugs. X they call it.” She paused and turned to me. “Do you know what that is?”

I nodded.

“But you don't use that stuff, do you?”

“No,” I said, but what difference would that possibly make to her?

“Good. Kiera has been more than a handful for us. She has everything any girl her age could possibly want. My husband, Donald, is one of the most successful builders in Southern California. Half the malls you see are malls he built, and he's busier than ever. He gives everything he can
to our daughter. Kiera has her own car. She's already been to Europe twice. She has a wardrobe that's even bigger than my own, not to mention expensive jewelry and watches that would choke an Arabian prince.”

She shook her head. “You would think any girl would be grateful for the life Kiera has, but this is not the first time Kiera's been in big trouble. Each time, my husband has bailed her out, pulled strings, saved her. The result is that she never learns a lesson. I told him. I warned him something bigger like this would happen, but he didn't listen, and now he's already busy saving her again. I told him this time he should let her pay the piper, but he won't have it. He's hired a top attorney, but this is not the first time. You can't even begin to imagine the money we've had to spend on attorneys because of her.”

She spoke quickly and excitedly, and her face turned crimson. Then she took a deep breath, looked out the window, and relaxed her shoulders. “Of course, I understand why he's like this,” she said. “And it's hard to blame him.”

She sat in the chair near the bed. For a few moments, she just sat there with her head lowered. Her words and actions had captured my full attention. I was holding my breath in anticipation of the next outburst, but she began in a low, soft tone.

“We lost our younger daughter, Alena, to acute leukemia three years ago. We took her to the best doctors and the best hospitals in the country, but we couldn't save her. You can have all the money in the world, Sasha, and still not be happy. Anyway, Donald doesn't want to lose Kiera, too. I don't, either, but I think that his always finding ways
to excuse her misbehavior will lead to us losing her. It's like a slow disease, just getting worse and worse. You're probably too young to understand all of this,” she added, and sighed. “Forgive me for throwing it all at you like this, especially at this time when you're soaked in your own horrible trouble.”

I didn't say anything.

She looked at me again, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe you're
not
too young to understand what I'm saying. Children who live harder lives grow up faster. I'm sure you've seen more than your share of the dark side, and now look at what's happened to you. I'm sorry. I really am, and I'm going to do whatever I can to make things better.”

“My mother's dead,” I said. “They told me she died instantly.”

Her whole face seemed to tremble. She understood that I meant there was no way to make my mother better, there was no nice room for her or expert doctors to fix her injuries. No one could promise her anything anymore, so Mrs. March couldn't make things much better for me. Mrs. March looked as if she would cry and did turn away to dab her eyes with her handkerchief.

I certainly didn't feel sorry for her. I didn't care how unhappy she was or what terrible things had happened to her. Maybe that was mean, but I didn't feel like feeling sorry for anyone else except Mama and myself at the moment. Did she expect me to say it wasn't her daughter's fault? Had she come here and done all this for me so I would forgive her daughter and help her feel better?

“It's terrible. I know,” she said, still looking away. “That
poor woman. On top of struggling just to exist.” She sighed and turned back to me. “How did the two of you end up living on the street? I see so many people pushing carts and sleeping in tents or just under something. Some of them look so young. I can't help but look at them and wonder how in the world they ended up the way they are, especially in this great country. Are there many children out there like you all over?”

“I don't know. We've been only here. We never left after we were turned out on the street. Mama said it would be the same for us no matter where we went, and at least it wasn't cold here so much.”

She blew through her lips and shook her head as she looked at me. “You should be in school, going to parties, not worrying about where your next meal is coming from or where you will sleep. What did you two do, just beg?”

“No, my mother wouldn't beg. She sold her calligraphy, and I sold lanyard key chains on the beach. I made them myself.”

“Calligraphy?”

“It's Chinese writing.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled.

We heard a knock on the door. A tall man in a black suit and blue tie stood there. He had thick gray hair and ebony eyes, a gray and black well-trimmed goatee, and a Hollywood tan. I thought he might be her husband. He looked just as wealthy.

“I received your message while I was still at the orthopedic convention at Shutters, Jordan. I came as soon as I could get away.”

“Thank you, Michael. This,” she said, turning back to me, “is the young girl I want you to treat, Sasha Porter.”

He nodded and showed Mrs. March a clipboard in his right hand. “I picked up her file on the way.”

“This is Dr. Milan, Sasha. Please, let him examine you.”

He stepped into my room and, without saying hello or even smiling at me, took the blanket off my right leg and looked at the cast. He shook his head.

“What?” Mrs. March asked.

“It's not set high enough. I see this sort of sloppy work all the time. I'll have to redo this. I'm sorry,” he told me.

“Did you see the X-rays, Michael?”

“Yes.”

“How bad is the break?”

“It's pretty serious, in a bad place, Jordan. I'll do the best I can, but nine times out of ten, for someone her age, there is a residual effect when it's that high up.”

“Do what you can, Michael. I mean it,” she said firmly. “Think of her as you would my daughter,” she told him.

I was surprised that she could speak to a doctor so sternly, but he didn't seem upset. He nodded.

“I have a private-duty nurse coming.” She looked at her watch. “She should be here any minute. I'm sure she can assist you.”

“I'll change my clothes and come back,” he said. He hurried out.

I was quite impressed with how easily Mrs. March could order people to do things. I imagined she could get anything she wanted done.

“Do you know where my mother is?” I asked her.

“I'm sure she's in the hospital morgue, dear. I'm sorry.”