Authors: A. Meredith Walters
“So tell me about this guy.” I scanned the rest of his information and didn’t see much. The police found him under Seventh Street Bridge a little before three thirty in the morning. I stiffened marginally at the name of the familiar Lupton landmark, but then forced myself to relax.
“He appears to be homeless. One of the police officers recognized him from that burned out warehouse out on Summit Avenue. The one that had that horrible fire years ago. You know, the place people say the homeless congregate—”
“The Pit,” I corrected sharply, cutting him off. “I know the place. They don’t congregate there. It’s where they sleep. It’s dry, for the most part, if not the safest.”
Jason frowned, clearly confused by my tone. “Right. Well, one of the officers had spoken to him several times in the past for possible solicitation, though he couldn’t be sure of the man’s name. When they found him he was already unconscious and bleeding badly.”
“They didn’t ask around to find out who he was?” I asked incredulously, staring down at lines of facts about the nameless man.
Jason shrugged. “They were called out to a car accident minutes after dropping the guy off, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t important to them at the time.” His words were hateful, but also true.
A beat up homeless guy would be far down on the Lupton City PD’s list of priorities.
“So I get the honors of figuring out who he is, huh?” I deduced.
Jason leaned over and patted my hand. “There’s no one better for the job.”
“You mean no one else wanted it,” I amended.
“Tess’s case load is high right now and I know you just closed Ryan Sinclair’s file,” he explained.
“That’s fine. I’ll take it. Someone needs to find out who he is and whether someone’s looking for him,” I said softly, flipping through the pages in the folder.
Internal hemorrhage. Scalp lacerations. Broken ribs. Whoever he was, he had been badly abused then left for dead. The least I could do was find out the man’s name.
“Speaking of your former client, I received a call yesterday from Samantha Sinclair. She wanted me to know how much she appreciated your support during Ryan’s stay. She said it was important that your superiors knew what a fantastic member of the hospital staff you are,” Jason said and I had to smile.
Ryan Sinclair was one of the few cases that I could feel good about. Being a social worker didn’t lend itself to many warm, fuzzy moments. But Ryan’s case had been special.
The five-year-old child had been rushed to the hospital two months ago with severe head trauma after a car accident involving his mother and ten-year-old sister. Mrs. Samantha Sinclair and little Kelsie had made it out with only bumps and bruises.
Ryan wasn’t so lucky. The little boy was taken into surgery on arrival to relieve the cranial pressure he had endured. He remained in a coma for almost a week afterwards.
The doctors hadn’t been sure if he’d make it. The prognosis had been iffy at best. And if he did pull through, his grief stricken family had been told that he would most likely be a vegetable. That decisions would need to be made.
I was assigned the case to start coordinating support services for his parents in preparation for the boy’s probable death.
It was hard. Incredibly so. I spent a lot of time consoling a destroyed mother and placating a very angry father. I had been both punching bag and shoulder to cry on. But that was my job and I bore everything the family threw at me.
I worked with grief services to coordinate counseling. I talked with Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair about their options for Ryan’s on-going care.
We discussed instituting a
Do Not Resuscitate
plan.
But Ryan didn’t die.
And he didn’t remain a vegetable either.
I visited with his parents day after day while the little boy fought with everything he had.
One of my fondest memories would always be the morning they pulled the tube out of his tiny, little throat and he began breathing on his own.
I had been standing beside his bed, Mrs. Sinclair had been holding onto her husband. All of our eyes were trained on the tiny body lying in the bed. The doctor slowly, carefully pulled the tube from his mouth.
And we waited.
And waited.
The minute his chest began to rise and fall, his mother fell to her knees sobbing. His father covered his face and wept.
And I stood there; smiling so wide that my cheeks ached for hours afterwards.
Ryan eventually woke up. Remarkably, with no long-term brain damage. His recovery had baffled his doctors, but not his family.
“He’s the strongest person I know. Of course he’ll be fine,” his father had said proudly just after Ryan had finally opened his eyes for the first time since before the accident.
Ryan Sinclair had been discharged from the hospital two weeks ago. Happy, healthy, and ready to go back to school.
“They’re an amazing family. I’m just glad I could help them in whatever way I could,” I said simply, embarrassed by the compliment.
Jason shook his head. “You give yourself too little credit, Imogen.”
I cleared my throat and shuffled through the new paperwork again. “I guess I should go check on the new patient then.”
“The police were back an hour ago and took a picture of him. They’re going to start trying to ID the man. Or at least get a name. They already notified the homeless coordinator so I’m expecting a busy day for you.”
“I should get a jump start on it then. Tracey gets a little territorial over these cases. If I want to get a leg up I don’t have any time to waste.” I got to my feet and grabbed the folder.
Tracey Higgins was the local homeless coordinator and we had worked together a lot over the years. She proclaimed herself the knight in shining armor for the city’s homeless. Her ego made it impossible to like her. Her self-indulgent savior complex made physical violence a very real possibility. But I had perfected the art of smiling politely all the while thinking of very horrible names I’d like to call her if given the opportunity.
“Don’t let her push you around. We all know how Tracey gets when she feels self-righteous and entitled,” Jason said firmly.
I patted my well-meaning boss’s arm as I passed by him on my way out of my office. “I can handle Tracey. I’ve dealt with worse people than her.”
“I know you can, Imogen. You’re one tough cookie. After everything you’ve been through lately with Chris—”
“I’ve got to get upstairs,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want to talk about my ex-husband. Or my upcoming divorce. Or how I
should
be dealing with the end of my five-year marriage.
I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit to Jason Valerio that I felt very little about any of it. It wasn’t like I was numb. I was just indifferent.
The truth was that had been what killed the marriage in the first place.
My overall lack of
interest.
Jason frowned, but didn’t push me. He knew better. “Okay, well I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks, Jason,” I said sincerely, closing the office door behind us. With a final wave, I headed towards the elevator.
Up in the ICU, I stopped just outside of room 102 where the homeless man was moved. A nurse was leaving as I arrived.
“Hi, Jill,” I said, stopping as she closed the door behind her.
Jill, an older woman with eyes entirely too close together and an unfortunate abundance of facial hair, gave me a smile. “I heard you were given this case. I’m glad. I feel so bad for him.”
I peered through the window into the hospital room, but couldn’t see much beyond the monitors and a lump under a white blanket.
“What can you tell me about him?” I asked, opening the file and looking again at the details about my new mystery client.
Jill sighed and pulled out the chart that hung beside the door. “He came in pretty roughed up. He hasn’t really woken up enough for anyone to speak to him much. He had a CAT Scan around seven and it showed some swelling on the brain, but Dr. Howell thinks it will go down quickly, then he should regain consciousness. Though from what I’ve heard about how he was found, maybe he doesn’t want to wake up.”
I made notes on my pad of paper and nodded. “I heard he was found underneath the Seventh Street Bridge,” I said lightly, hoping Jill didn’t pick up on the tightness in my voice.
Seventh Street Bridge.
Like a sledgehammer, the memories always came. Fifteen years and they still hit me with a crushing weight.
“I’ll meet you under the bridge. I promise. Wait for me, Imi…”
Jill finished her notations and handed me the patient’s chart. I read through the medical jargon quickly and didn’t see any further information that I hadn’t already been given.
“He’d been beaten pretty badly. The police seem to think he had been attacked by a…” Jill leaned in close and dropped her voice into a scandalized whisper. “By a john. He’s some sort of male prostitute.”
She sounded horrified. Her disgust erased her earlier sympathy.
“Well, it’s a good thing it’s not our job to judge him then, isn’t it?” I remarked sharply, though I understood her censure too well. I had shared her revulsion once upon a time.
Jill’s eyes widened. “I didn’t mean—”
I lifted my hand and waved away her words. “I was told that the police came by to take a picture. So they know he’s a hustler, but they don’t know his name?”
Jill bit down on her lip, looking contrite by my reprimand. “No. The detective that was here earlier said so many of them hang out by that bridge and near the river, they can’t keep track of them all. He thought he had spoken to him in the past though. So obviously this man has been out there doing whatever he was doing for a long time.” Jill made a face. “I just don’t get how people can do that sort of thing. To be used like that for money. It’s awful!”
“You have no idea what people are willing to do to put food in their belly or drugs in their body. A life on the streets makes people desperate,” I snapped.
“Oh, well, that’s true. But anyway, the detective left his card so you can call him.” She handed me a small white business card, which I promptly tucked into the case file.
They didn’t know his name. Only the sordid details of his obviously tragic life. The man had been thrown away. Discarded. Forgotten.
I felt my anger flare and my stomach knotted uncomfortably.
“Are you running blood tests to check for STDs?” I asked.
“Of course. We should get the labs back soon,” Jill answered.
I handed her the patient’s chart and turned towards the closed door. “Well let me go see Mr. Mysterious.”
Jill put a hand on my arm. “Just be prepared, he looks really bad.”
I didn’t need the warning. I had seen some awful things in my seven years at the hospital. I was positive I could handle it.
“I’ll be fine.” I twisted the doorknob and walked inside, clutching the client file to my chest.
“But you can tell he’s a looker. Such a waste,” Jill muttered.
Don’t smack the nurse. That would be bad, Imogen,
I reminded myself. Instead of commenting, I shut the door in Jill’s face.
The room smelled sterile. Too clean. Even though I was used to the hospital stench of cleaning products and sickness, it was anything but pleasant.
The constant drone of the beeping monitors filled the silence. I barely noticed them. I walked towards the pale blue curtain that separated the patient from the rest of the room.
I was already thinking of possible line items to include in the patient’s service plan. I was in social work mode. I plastered a professional smile on my face and griped the curtain in my hand, giving it a hearty yank. The body on the bed didn’t move. Not a twitch or a muscle spasm. I let the smile drop now that it seemed unnecessary.
I focused first on his feet. I slowly made my way up the length of his obviously thin body. His hands rested on either side of him and were all skin and bones. Long, knobby fingers. Knuckles raw and scabbed over. He appeared almost emaciated. Finally my eyes settled on a very battered and swollen face.
Jill hadn’t been lying. The man was hardly recognizable as a person. His mouth was puffy and split. His right cheek was black, blue, and yellow from the marrow bruising, and his head was covered in stark white bandages.
His eyes were of course closed, but I got the impression of long, thick lashes on abused skin.
How would the police ever be able to identify him looking as he did? No one would be able to tell who he was. He barely looked human.
“You poor man,” I murmured, pulling a chair up to the side of the bed and sitting down.
I stared long and hard at his beaten face. “What happened to you?” I whispered knowing he wouldn’t answer me.
I lifted my pen and started to fill out the social work assessment sheet that I had brought with me. Until he woke up, I wouldn’t be able to do much for him. I needed his history. His story.
I needed his name.
He had been found underneath Seventh Street Bridge.