Live to Tell (5 page)

“Current theory, yes.”

“Based upon blood evidence.”

“Based upon preliminary exam of the blood evidence, yes.”

“It’s an impressive analysis,” she told him. “Very well done. I can tell that you’re hell on wheels in the classroom.”

Alex didn’t say a word, which confirmed that he was as smart as he looked.

“But there’s another major piece of evidence.”

“Which is?”

“The dining room.”

Alex and Phil turned toward the dining room.

Phil asked the question first: “What about the dining room?”

Alex, on the other hand, got it. “Crap,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s always slightly more complicated than we’d like it to be,” D.D. agreed. She looked at Phil. “We got five bodies, right? Four dead, one in critical condition. Five bodies for five family members.”

Phil nodded.

D.D. shrugged. “Then why is the table set for six?”

CHAPTER
FOUR

DANIELLE

You want to know what it means to be a pediatric psych nurse? Welcome to the Pediatric Evaluation Clinic of Boston, otherwise known as PECB. Our unit occupies the top floor of the larger Kirkland Medical Center. We like to believe we have some of the best views in Boston, which is only fair as we serve the toughest citizens.

Thursday night, I sat in the hallway of the pediatric ward observing our newest charge. Her name was Lucy and she’d been admitted this afternoon. We’d had only twenty-four hours to prepare for her arrival, which hadn’t been enough, but we did our best. Most of our kids shared a double room; Lucy had her own. Most of the rooms included two twin beds, bedside tables, and matching wardrobes. Lucy’s room had a mattress and a single blanket, that was it.

We’d learned the hard way that the shatterproof glass on our eighth-story windows didn’t always hold up to an enraged child armed with a twenty-pound nightstand.

Lucy was a primal child. That meant she’d been so severely and continuously abused that her humanity had been stripped from her.
She didn’t wear clothes, use silverware, or tend to basic hygiene. She didn’t speak and had never been potty-trained. According to her file, she had spent most of her life in a disconnected freezer unit with bullet holes for ventilation. Her time out of the freezer had been worse than her time in. The result was a nine-year-old girl who existed like a wild animal. And if we weren’t careful, she’d train us to treat her like one.

First hour she was admitted, Lucy greeted our nurse manager by defecating into her own hand, then eating the feces. Twenty minutes later, a milieu counselor—MC—observed her ripping out the insides of her pillow and stuffing it into various orifices. The pillow was removed; Lucy wouldn’t allow us to tend to the stuffing. An hour after that, she scratched open her arm with a fingernail, then drew patterns on the wall with her blood.

First observation of our new charge: Any form of attention seemed to trigger a need to debase herself. If Lucy had an audience, she had to hurt.

By four in the afternoon, we agreed to confine Lucy to her room and assign one staff member to monitor her. Rather than the five-minute check system, where an MC accounts for every child’s whereabouts every five minutes, one staff member would observe Lucy as discreetly as possible, noting every twenty minutes.

Tonight, that was lucky me.

It took until eleven for the kids to settle down. Some were sleeping on mattresses in the well-lit hall; these were the kids who were terrified of the dark. Others could only sleep alone in a pitch-black room. Others still required music or white noise or, for one child, a ticking clock simulating his lost mother’s heartbeat. We set up everyone accordingly.

For Lucy’s first night, I did nothing special. Just sat with my back to her doorway and read stories to the other children. From time to time, I’d catch Lucy’s reflection in the silver half dome mounted in the ceiling above me. The mirrored half domes dotted the broad hallway at strategic intervals—our version of a security system, as they reflected back activities from inside each patient room.

Lucy seemed to be listening to the story. She’d curled up on the floor, waving one hand through the air, the way a cat might study its
own paw. If I read faster, her hand moved faster. If I read slower, her rhythm adjusted accordingly.

Then, twenty minutes later, she’d disappeared. In the dome’s distorted reflection, I’d finally spotted her foot sticking out from beneath the mattress. When she didn’t move, I turned around to study her room directly. It appeared that she’d pulled the mattress over her body and had finally gone to sleep. From time to time, her foot would twitch, as if from a dream.

I settled in myself, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. There were over half a dozen other staff members scattered down the hall. Nighttime in the unit was paperwork time. Gotta catch up while you had the chance.

None of the kids would sleep for long. Some of the more manic ones required food every three hours, though you’d never know it to judge by their skeletal frames. Others just couldn’t sleep.

Nighttime meant old terrors and fresh fears. A subconscious buffet of every evil thing ever done to them. Kids woke up crying. Kids woke up screaming. And some woke up primed for battle. Fight or flight. Not everyone was born to run.

I flipped open the first patient chart, and felt my eyelids already getting heavy. I’d been working a lot lately. More and more shifts. Less and less sleep. I needed to keep busy, especially this time of year.

Four days and counting. Then it would be twenty-five years down, and one more to go. Keep on trucking, the duty of the lone survivor.

I wondered what Lucy would think, if she knew that for years I’d slept tucked beneath a mattress myself.

On my eighteenth birthday, I seduced Sheriff Wayne. I hadn’t started out with a plan. I’d run into him in Boston, three days prior. He’d brought his wife, grown daughter, and two grandkids to the Public Garden to see the Swan Boats. The sun was out, a beautiful spring day where tulips waved and children shrieked as they chased ducks and squirrels across the sprawling green grounds.

Sheriff Wayne didn’t recognize me. I suppose I’d changed in the past nine years. My dark hair was long, cut in a sleek line with overgrown bangs. I wore low-slung jeans and a yellow-striped top from Urban Outfitters. My Aunt Helen had turned her white-trash niece into Boston hip. At least we both liked to think so.

I recognized Sheriff Wayne from the back. It wasn’t how he looked; it was how he moved. The solid roll of his legs across the pathway as he corralled bouncing grandkids, herding them steadily back to the family fold.

Sheriff Wayne noticed me standing a ways off, staring at him. He turned back to the women on either side of him, then it must’ve hit him. The nagging sense of familiarity clicked and he whirled around, taking me in squarely.

“Danielle,” he said, and the sound of his voice again, after all these years of living in my dreams, the lone whisper of safety amidst so many images of blood and violence, finally released me. I took a step forward. Then another.

His wife and daughter had noticed by then. His daughter was confused by my approach. His wife—Sheila was her name—must have remembered me. She held very still, and I could see the quiet sympathy in her eyes.

Sheriff Wayne took over. Shook my hand, made the introductions between myself, his wife, daughter, and grandkids. He smoothed it over, in the way a man who broke up bar fights would know how to do. I might have been the daughter of an old friend, reacquainted after all these years. We made small talk of the sunny day and the beautiful park. He told me of his other child, a grown son who lived in New York. We marveled over his granddaughter, who hid behind her mother’s legs, and his grandson, who loved chasing squirrels.

I mentioned I would be starting college in the fall. Sheriff Wayne shook my hand again, all quiet approval. Look at me and how I had turned out.

Look at me, the lone survivor.

They continued with their day, following the curving path down to the Swan Boats. I studied the empty space where they used to stand.

And I knew, in that instant, I had to see Sheriff Wayne again.

I had to have him.

I called the next day. It had been nice to see him in the park. His daughter was lovely, his grandkids adorable. Listen, I had some questions. I didn’t want to put him on the spot, but maybe we could get together. Have dinner. Just once.

I could hear his reluctance. But he was a decent man, so his decency won out, brought him to me.

I gave him the address of the studio apartment I had moved into that fall, a baby step in my preparations for college. I implied he would pick me up and we’d go out to dinner. I already knew otherwise.

I folded up my futon bed. Pulled out the card table and topped it with my favorite floral print. I set a nice table, coordinating red and yellow stoneware plates set against a rich backdrop. A shock of purple flowers in the middle. Two long white tapered candles in the crystal candlestick holders my mother had once received as a wedding gift and probably opened with a sense of joy and optimism.

She couldn’t have known. I told myself that all the time. She couldn’t have known.

I wore low-rider jeans and a white buttoned top. I left my dark hair down. I liked how it looked, a jolt of dark against the light.

Beneath, I wore the world’s tiniest champagne-colored demi-bra and a lace thong. I’m not the world’s biggest-built girl, but I know how to use what I have.

When Sheriff Wayne arrived, I could tell he was dismayed by the scene. The pretty table in the middle of a very small apartment. The scent of bubbling spaghetti sauce and cooking pasta.

I didn’t give him a chance to think about things.

Come in, come in, I said at once, all bright smiles and youthful exuberance. Sorry for the small space. It’s different living in the city. I took his coat before he had a chance to blink, hung it on the coatrack as I prattled away. I know we’d talked about going out, but I was a little nervous about having our conversation in public, so if he didn’t
mind, I’d decided to throw together a little pasta and gravy. Not the best cook, still learning, yada yada yada.

What could the poor man say? What could the poor man do?

He assured me my apartment was very nice. The sauce smelled good. Of course we could eat in. Whatever made me more comfortable.

I sat him at the table, poured him a liberal glass of red wine. Nothing for myself; that would’ve been inappropriate. I added some music. He didn’t strike me as a Nine Inch Nails kind of guy, so I went with light jazz.

We started with dinner salad. He sat stiffly, not touching his wine, keeping his eyes on his plate. He had aged well. Squarely built, solid but not fat. Gray hair on top of a broad, mustached face. He moved concisely, with an economy of motion that appealed to me.

He asked about my aunt, my schooling, my plans for the future. I painted for him a light overview of my new and improved life. It was what he needed to hear; once, he’d carried me through my father’s house, his arms tight around my bony shoulders, his voice a warm whisper in my ear.
“Don’t look honey. You’re safe now, you’re safe.”

I dished up penne pasta. Covered it in red sauce.

Then I got serious.

I didn’t ask about my father. Instead, I dredged from Sheriff Wayne’s memory all the bright, shining moments of my mother’s laugh and Johnny’s mischievous ways and Natalie’s compassion for animals. Turns out, my sister had once adopted a wild bunny she’d found struck by a car and nursed it back to health. She wanted to work with animals. I learned that from Sheriff Wayne. And my brother liked to climb to the tops of trees, then call for my mother to come see, so she could raise her hands and shriek in mock horror.

The memories got to him, of course. Hurt him even more than me, because these people remained real in his mind, whereas they’d long ago become ghosts to me.

The wine went quickly. Who could blame him?

He offered to clear the dishes. I watched him move around in my tiny kitchenette, gestures less steady after two hours of intense emotions, plus a full bottle of Chianti. He stacked the dishes in the sink.
Rinsed each one. Placed them in a pile to soak. Then the pans. Then his wineglass. Then my water glass. Two forks. Two spoons. Two knives.