Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (32 page)

Noah's palms felt sweaty, even the area where he'd someday have a mustache had grown moist. He'd rehearsed his lines, but at the sight of Phoebe's mom returning from the ICU, he grew even more nervous than before.

She sat down on the adjacent chair and looked at him expectantly.

“Well, earlier today I, I … someone…uh,” he stammered.

“Yes?” she said.

He took a breath and continued, “I got some information today about this Shane guy, but I think I'd better check it out first. You know, make sure it's true.”

“What have you found out, Noah?”

“Well, that's what I'm trying to say, I don't know that I should tell you until someone can confirm it. Like my friend, the one who's really good with computers. You know?” He could see that she wanted to know what he'd discovered, but he was afraid to tell her. What if it wasn't true? That would be huge.

“If you weren't going to tell me, why—” she said, leaving the rest unsaid.

“I'm sorry, but I thought it would be helpful to know that I might be close to finding out.”

“I think I can handle it, even if the information turns out to be inaccurate. Why don't you just tell me?”

Sitting beside her, he realized just how rash he'd been to come here. In his eagerness to reassure her, he was actually making her more anxious. She was staring at him, waiting. “Where did you get this information, maybe we could start there?”

She wasn't going to let go of this, he could tell. Shit, shit, shit. Her eyes were piercing. Emma had encouraged him to tell.

“It came from Jessie,” he finally blurted out.

“Jessie Littleton?” she said.

He nodded.

“I see,” she said.

He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. “Yeah, that's why I thought I should double-check. ‘Cuz it could get really messy if she's wrong. Do you know what I mean, Mrs. Murrow?”

She took a moment to think, then she said, “I do. Thanks for telling me.” Pause. “And let me know as soon as you find out anything more. Okay?” She smiled and gave him an understanding look, which he didn't understand at all.

Sandy was afraid to open her eyes. Each time she did, there in the mirror, staring at her, was Phoebe. She closed her eyes again, and then she heard Phoebe speak. “Why'd you do it? I'm telling. I'm telling everyone what you did.” Then she disappeared and Sandy woke up, shaking, gasping for breath.

A few hours later, she sat at the kitchen table clutching her cup of coffee studying the dark brew. Yesterday, after her “date” with Ron, she thought she'd put an end to this nightmare, but the image of Phoebe in the mirror hovered in her mind like an apparition. She started at every noise. Several times, goose bumps rose on her arms. Get a grip, she told herself. She thought of calling Bill, but what could he say that would be helpful?

It wasn't until her third cup of coffee that an idea finally occurred to her.

She picked up her cell phone and tapped in Ron's new work number. He didn't pick up, and after briefly hesitating, she said, “Hi, Ron. This is Sandy. Just wanted to check on you.” She paused. “I'd like to bring your family dinner, would that be okay? Loved seeing you, call me.” She left her number and hung up.

Clutching the mug in both hands, she took another long sip of coffee. It made her feel better to have done that, to be doing something, anything to shake the image of Phoebe out of her head. That little idiot! Why'd she go and try to kill herself? For the life of her, Sandy couldn't fathom such a thing. “
Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words can never hurt you
,” she muttered under her breath.

She was feeling pretty rotten about what had happened, but her mind trotted out any number of excuses: She'd been cutting herself long before last Monday. The reason for that must have something to do with Isabel. Living with her! For that she actually felt sorry for Phoebe. Poor thing. And for Ron.

In that regard, she wished circumstances were different. Ron was good in the sack, but she knew their times together were numbered. It actually made her sad, except for that dumb question he'd asked. That hurt. Well, today was his lucky day; she'd cut him a break and reassure him when he called.
Of course, I promise not to tell
. And maybe, just maybe she'd turn him on again for good measure.

On Ron's way into the office – he'd just dropped off Jackson – traffic slowed to a crawl. A woman in the car next to his reminded him of Isabel. The way she held herself so upright when driving, the way she wore her long dark hair, and even her profile was stunningly similar. One big difference, however. This woman wore a smile. Of course, neither he nor Isabel had much to smile about, but it shouldn't be forbidden, should it?

Just before taking off this morning, Isabel told him what Noah had revealed the previous night. “I'm going to call Jessie and find out what she knows,” she concluded.

“Shouldn't you wait, like he said? What if it's nothing?” He wondered if this could be his excuse to call Sandy. And ask her what she knew.

Isabel began to respond, but then Jackson had walked in. To disengage from the conversation, Ron cracked a joke, and Isabel shot him a look. Poor kid, Ron thought. He was trying to keep things halfway normal. What was the point of such a morbid atmosphere? After all Phoebe was alive. With any luck, she would regain consciousness. She'd be okay.

Observing the woman's smile made Ron want to jump into her car and trade a few war stories. He felt weary of Isabel's attitude, and her need for “justice.” Why couldn't she spend more time bolstering his feelings of hopelessness instead of constantly attacking him? And this notion that Jessie knew something, well, maybe
he
should contact Noah.

He lifted his cell phone half-heartedly to check for voice mails at work. He clicked through the calls, saving or deleting them, when he heard the sound of Sandy's kittenish voice. Her offer to bring dinner. Relief flooded through him. All that worrying. For nothing. He couldn't help shaking his head and smiling to himself. She was something else. Then another call, a number he should write down.

He rifled through his jacket pocket for a slip of paper. He felt one and fished it out. The words “call me” were scrawled on it. Squinting at it, he could tell it wasn't his own handwriting. When he flipped it over he saw that it was Sandy's business card, the word
Slenderella
typed in an attractive cursive font. How the hell had that gotten there, he wondered.

Scrolling through his mind, he finally recalled last wearing this jacket on the night of the parents' party, and then he remembered Sandy curled up at his side flirting with him, and Isabel's angry, jealous reproach. Now she was offering to bring dinner. Pretty nice of her, he thought, considering how much Isabel detested her. Gutsy too, though, in light of yesterday. He had half a mind to accept the offer, only thing was Isabel couldn't know.

He jotted down the number he needed, still shaking his head at the strange coincidence of finding Sandy's card. A few moments later, believing that the universe was conspiring in his favor, he punched Sandy's number into his iPhone. His finger remained poised above the green “call” button and hovered there for several seconds before descending.

“Yes, there is brain activity, but not much has changed since we spoke on Saturday,” Dr. Bailey explained to Ron and Isabel in her straightforward manner. “That doesn't mean things won't change. You never know. Hopefully her brain is just taking a rest and repairing itself. But we can't be certain.” She took a breath and galloped on as several hyper-attentive interns listened nearby. “What we do know is her blood pressure and oxygenation are currently stable. Her kidneys appear to be working, she's producing urine, and her electrolytes are within normal limits; in other words, her fluid is essentially in balance.”

The doctor had been half an hour late and now it was two o'clock. Her words weren't as reassuring as they'd hoped, and Ron felt Izzy tensing up beside him.

“If I didn't know better, Dr. Bailey, I'd think you were trying to confuse us with all that medical talk.” Isabel managed a wry smile. The doctor responded with a slight apologetic shrug. “Can you give us some idea…I mean, how much longer do you think—” Isabel stopped, unable to finish her question.

“It's hard to tell when she'll come out of the coma. Everyone responds differently.”

“What I think Iz was trying to say,” Ron intervened, “is what happens if there's no improvement? How long should we keep her on life support?” He glanced searchingly at Isabel, who averted her gaze. Still, he knew that's what she'd meant. It was on his mind too.

Dr. Bailey's deep brown eyes probed Ron's, then Isabel's. “It's really premature to think about that. She is oxygenating, she is no longer bleeding, her fluid and pH are in balance. She still has a chance.”

Ron felt Isabel's hand squeeze his own. “A chance?” she said and turned away momentarily to hide her tears.

“Yes, absolutely.” Then Dr. Bailey added, “Perhaps it would help you to consult our chaplain or one of our social workers?”

These words shook Isabel. In the fashion of a litigator who intends to uncover the truth, no matter the cost, she turned back to the doctor and asked, “What happens when you remove someone from—from all this?” Isabel aimed at the tubes that slithered down Phoebe's neck, over her chest and along her arms.

The doctor explained in a low voice: “First, we would extubate her; that is, the breathing apparatus will go. Then, if she continues to breathe on her own, we have the option of inserting a feeding tube or waiting to see if she comes out of the coma.”

“So you're saying if she doesn't come out of the coma and we don't insert a feeding tube, she'll starve to death?” Isabel blurted out.

“Yes, but if she has no brain function, then—” Dr. Bailey stopped. Isabel could tell the doctor believed there was no point in being overly graphic; people could fill in the blanks. They weren't stupid. But Isabel pushed her, “
Then
what, doctor?”

“Then there's no sensation,” she said, speaking softly, “hence, no awareness of the pain.”

Ron wasn't at all sure it was a good idea to meet Sandy at the Georgetown Mall, but after the session with Dr. Bailey he needed a drink. And besides, he felt it was safer to see her in a public place than a remote one, where he could get into trouble again. But now, here at the base of the mall's vast three-story atrium, he knew he'd have to come up with a plausible alibi if he encountered someone familiar. The thought of wearing his sunglasses passed through his mind, but that was ridiculous. The Georgetown Mall wasn't that well lit to begin with.

While waiting, he sat at the bar of the Japanese restaurant on the lower level and ordered a pot of sake, nice and hot. He'd almost asked for two at once. The first shot went down easy, and he decided that if anyone saw him here with Sandy, he'd just say he'd come from the hospital to pick up some carry-out and by coincidence ran into her. It was pretty lame, but no one could prove it wasn't true. Especially since he was sitting here alone now.

He ordered a second sake, appreciating the way it slid down his throat and warmed him, the way it was beginning to anesthetize him to the news from today's meeting. As usual, the doctor had been maddeningly non-committal about Phoebe's prognosis. He could read between the lines though. It wasn't just
when
she might emerge from the coma, but
if
.

He poured himself another tumbler and stared at the clear liquid inside the miniature porcelain cup. He couldn't help returning to the scene that had indelibly etched itself into his mind, the one he most wanted to erase: the dreadful moment he'd found Phoebe.

If only he'd arrived a few minutes earlier, or if he'd raced upstairs the moment he came home. But no, he'd shouted up to her, assuming Isabel's frantic call had been an over-reaction. When there'd been no answer, he'd slowly climbed the stairs to her attic suite, thinking he'd find her on her computer, probably on Facebook. He checked her room and saw her stuff lying about. Only then had he knocked on the partially open bathroom door. “Phoebe?” he'd called, sensitive to her need for privacy.

He could tell someone was taking a bath from the mist curling inside the room, but it was dark, and that seemed strange. He waited another couple of seconds, seconds he now knew held an urgency he'd failed to recognize, then called Phoebe's name again. No answer.

He'd pushed the door open and stepped inside. On seeing her body floating in the tub, he'd cried out, “Oh, my God, baby!” He switched on the light and almost fainted at the sight of the redtinged water.

“Oh, my God, Phoebe! What—why?” Frantic, he'd grabbed a towel and lifted her out of the tub. She felt so light, a girl who'd worried about being overweight, and here she was a young woman, beautiful and blossoming, her blood everywhere. He gently laid her lifeless body on the bathroom rug and stabbed the numbers 9-1-1 into his cell phone. He was half-crazed by the time he got someone to understand what was happening, and they claimed an ambulance was on its way.