The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (10 page)

Jack? What was he talking about. “Who’s Jack?”

“Move. Let me pass.” He shoved me.

I placed myself between him and the door. “Dad. You can’t leave. The police put you here.”

“The police? What the hell are you talking about?”

“The police sent you here. You’re in the hospital because of what happened to Beatrice.”

He looked baffled, as if I made no sense. “Beatrice? Why would I be here because of Beatrice? She didn’t hurt me—it was the other way around. I was the one who broke it off. She moaned and whined, but she knew why, believe me.”

I paused, trying to make sense of his response. Was he pretending not to remember that Beatrice was dead, or just avoiding the topic? I started over, trying to steer him back toward his bed. “Dad, tell me. What happened to Beatrice?”

“Never you mind. It’s not your affair.” He tried to move around me, but I took his arm, made him face me.

“She choked to death. On papers, Dad. On betting slips.” I waited, letting the words sink in. He frowned. “Do you have any idea where she would get betting slips, Dad? Or why they might be in her throat?”

“Beatrice choked on betting slips?” My father’s right eyebrow raised and his frown deepened. “For real? How would you know that?”

I met his eyes. “The medical examiner found them. A detective told me.”

He shook his head, digesting the information. “Beatrice was a good woman. But, to be candid, I’ve seen tree stumps that are smarter.” He removed my hand from his arm and headed toward the door again.

I stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “Dad, don’t play games with me. Don’t play confused, forgetful old man. I know you too well. You can’t fool me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Tell me the truth—are you gambling again? Did you have anything to do with those betting slips?” Shards of memory sprinkled my mind, echoes of my mother confronting him. Probably I sounded just like her.

He stopped again and stared at me, puzzling over the questions. “You seem to think you already know. So why don’t you tell me? What do you think? Twenty bucks says you think I’m gambling.” His eyes twinkled sadly.

“Tell me, Dad. I’m serious. What have you gotten into?”

He looked away, gazed out the window. “You know? It’s difficult to say. There’s so much to remember.” He stopped at the closet again, opened and slammed it. “Dammit. I tell you, somebody stole them.”

“Nobody stole them, Dad. They probably had to throw them out because of all Beatrice’s blood. I’ll bring you another pair tomorrow.”

“Never mind. Hell with it.” He grabbed hold of the IV pole and started for the door again. Tubes dragging, liquids sloshing, he tried to pass me. I stepped ahead of him.

“Dad. I told you. The police put you here. You can’t just leave.”

His mouth closed tight. “Can’t I? Ten bucks says I can.”

I stood in the doorway. He raised the fist holding his catheter bag like a club, ready to slug. “Get out of the way I’ll douse you if I have to.”

I still had bruises and a concussion from the scene in his kitchen; I remembered how he’d pounced and pummeled, and I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to pour a bag of urine on me. My eye on the bag, I took a step back. Holding on to his IV pole, my father made his way out of the room. I looked around for help. The hallway was deserted, the nursing station empty. I stayed beside him, jabbering, trying to slow him down, pressing him for information. “Tell me about the betting slips, Dad. Are you gambling again? Was Beatrice gambling, too?”

“For the last time, let me pass.”

“Did she owe her bookie money? Did he have her killed? And what about you?” I kept it up, hoping to distract him from his trek down the hall. “Are you in debt again? Are they going to come after you, too?”

He stopped for a fraction of a second. “You know what? If anybody kills me, it won’t be any bookie. It’ll be you.”

Me? How was any part of this my fault?

My father, unshaven, uncombed, undressed, yet still somehow remarkably handsome, peered at me with wizened, narrowed eyes. Smelling like the hospital, he leaned into my face. “I’m here because of you. Except for you, everything would have been fine. You couldn’t leave things alone. Showing up again, back from the dead. Bringing little Zoe into it. Putting her in the middle. I have my faults, but I’d never put that child in the middle of our troubles. Get out of the way, Louise, or I swear, when they kill me, I’ll come back and haunt you. I mean it.”

I faced him and met his eyes, determined to reason with him. “Dad. I’m not Louise. I’m Zoe. And you are completely safe here. No one is killing you.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“You? You never knew anything. Listen, Louise-who-thinks-she’s-her-daughter. You’re confused. It’s not the way you think it is. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

This was crazy. Why was I bickering with a stubborn, cranky eighty-three-year-old man who’d lied to and disappointed me all my life? And where was the hospital staff? Why wasn’t anyone stepping in to help me?

“If not for you,” he went on, “I’d be home in peace.”

No argument there. He was right. Again, I regretted that I hadn’t ignored Lettie Kinkaid’s call. I should have left him there, should have let our estrangement stand, even if it meant he’d have rotted in that house.

“I’m sorry that you feel that way.” Good, I congratulated myself. I wasn’t fighting with him anymore. I was responding like an actual adult.

“Who the hell takes a man’s pants?” he grumbled, clutching his pole like a walking stick. “Jack needs me,” he insisted. “Get out of my way.”

Father pushed past me, making his way down the hall, his gown open in the back, exposing thin white thighs and a pale drooping butt. I went after him, running interference, a basketball guard in slow motion. He dodged; I scooted. He scooted; I dashed. But my father was determined. Slowly but surely, he made it to the doors to the psychiatric unit.

“Nurse? Somebody?” My call was desperate.

Where was everyone? If I didn’t get help soon, my father could soon be strutting down Germantown Avenue waving his urine bag. Breathless, I blocked the doors with my body.

“You can’t get out. These doors are locked, Dad.” Where was the staff?

“Locked?” His eyes narrowed. “Okay,” he growled. “I get it. I see. I’m a prisoner here.” He stepped forward, pushing me against the doors. “Why don’t you just kill me yourself? That’s what you want, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Are you a sissy? You need them to do it for you?”

His eyes narrowed, furious, and the urine bag swung from his raised fist, ready to strike. “Move away.” He snarled.

I moved, but not by choice. Suddenly the doors opened behind me, and I stumbled backward into the sleeve of a white coat. The coat supported me while I regained my balance. Then it released me and, joined by two staff members, the doctor who wore it led my father back to his room.

Seething, I stormed to the nursing station, now fluttering with personnel. Before I could speak, a nurse raised an eyebrow and barked, “What do you mean, miss, taking Mr. Hayes out of his room? That patient is here by police authority—”

“But I didn’t take him out—”

“In fact, that patient has a head wound and is supposed to remain in bed.” The nurse puffed herself up, managing to look down at me, even though we were about the same height. “You can’t just waltz in and interfere with hospital policy—”

That was it. I’d had it. Emotions surged, and I blasted her, declaring that no one had been at the station, that I’d tried to get help, that if she’d been doing her job, my father wouldn’t have left his room. Lord knows what she said to me. Nose to nose, voice to voice, we ranted, neither listening to the other. I watched her jaws flap around her large, impressive mouth, slapping my words away, rebounding them right back at me. Still, I couldn’t stop. I exploded enthusiastically, with increasing volume and rapidity, spitting out my frustration, spewing my pent-up worries and despair. My voice was alive, a creature beyond my control.

Gradually, I felt my face heat up. Helpless, embarrassed, aware that people—staff members, nurses and visitors—were staring, I waited for my anger to exhaust itself. Finally, even as the nurse yammered on, I heard my voice cease its purging and collapse, silent and spent. Mortified, face burning, I hurried away, escaping the nurses’ station before my voice or my temper could gather a second wind.

I paced outside my father’s doorway, flushed and actually shaking. The nurse was a moron, but she wasn’t the problem. The problem was my father. I didn’t need to tolerate him or his hostility and accusations. With everything else going on in my life—the baby, my job, Molly, my upcoming marriage—I really didn’t need another responsibility. And after all he’d done to me, to my mother, did I have to deal with his irrational behavior? Worry about his gambling again? Get involved in his financial, legal and emotional messes? No, I did not. And I would not. In fact, I would not go back into his room. I was finished with him, finally. Finished. I’d have some ambulance service move him back home, and let him survive somehow on his own. Or not. I was done with him forever—

“Excuse me, madam? You are Mr. Hayes’s daughter?”

I nodded without enthusiasm. His nametag read “M. Habib.” He spoke with an accent, something Middle Eastern.

“I’ve given your father an injection that will make him sleep.” Dr. Habib took me aside and opened my father’s chart. He had a few questions for me. Here we go again, I thought. No, I had no idea when his symptoms first manifested themselves. Or what kind of diet he kept. Or how he slept. Or how long he’d had trouble with urination. Or what medications he was on. Or whether he’d ever had a stroke. The doctor looked puzzled, maybe shocked; once again, I was Zoe the irresponsible, neglectful daughter.

“My father has…kept to himself over the last several years,” I explained.

“Secretive?” he asked. “Would you say he’s been secretive? Possibly agitated or hostile?”

Why not, I thought. Clearly, Dr. Habib wanted me to agree. “I suppose. Maybe.”

“Well, that would make sense, actually. He’s most probably been deliberately hiding his symptoms from you. But I don’t think he has Alzheimer’s. As of now, although the results aren’t all in, I suspect that he’s suffered a series of small strokes, which have had the cumulative effect of temporarily and recurrently disorienting and confusing him. The symptoms are similar to those of dementia, and understandably he’s upset and most probably angry and frustrated. So it won’t be surprising if he behaves somewhat erratically, even irrationally, or even with bad temper at times. People often take out their anger on those closest to them, after all, which usually means on their family members.”

Dr. Habib went on, his words flowing past in a liquid stream. I caught phrases, chunks of information. Father’s condition was not unusual among people his age. The prostate problem could be managed; the other problem was more ambiguous. It was not immediately life threatening, but would undoubtedly worsen with time. Father should rest. He should not live alone. He would require only minimal care for now, and most of the time he’d be perfectly lucid. But that could change anytime, with further small strokes. So far, his vision had been slightly affected, as well as his short-term memory. Maybe other functions, as well. He might have incidents in which he became lost in time or space, when he would not recognize familiar people or even common objects. He might try to cover up his confusion, might lash out in frustration. But, inevitably, maybe rapidly, maybe not, he would continue to deteriorate.

After the doctor had left, I stood in the hall, absorbing what he’d said. It sank in gradually, but I finally got the message. Quite simply, my father was dying.

He was propped up in bed, his dark eyebrows contrasting with his shock of white hair, still striking even now. All the years of conflict and turmoil, all the bitterness and anger and loss had led us to this moment. The charming, elusive rogue was finally at his end. He lay in bed, growing helpless and dependent and slowly dying. Nothing had been resolved. Neither apologies nor truces had been made. The conflict had simply ended. Nobody had won.

I sat on the chair beside his bed. His dark eyes wandered in my direction and, seeing me, he raised a finger, motioning me closer.

“Zhoeee…”

Wait. Had he said my name? Did he know I was there, not my mother?

“Zhoeee…” He said it again, pausing, struggling to go on.

“What, Daddy? What is it?” I leaned forward, straining to hear, wondering what wisdom he was urgently trying to impart.

“Zhoee…gemmy…” He stopped to draw in some air and continued. “Pants…” he exhaled.

Then his lids dropped, and he drifted away.

N
ICK PULLED ON HIS
beer, rested his feet on the coffee table and released a belch. “In a way, half a job might not be a bad thing.” The part of his face that wasn’t paralyzed smiled, as if what he’d just said made sense.

But it didn’t. In fact, it stung. It felt as if he thought my job and career weren’t all that important. I didn’t know how to reply, so I didn’t. Instead, I leaned away from him, sinking into the cushions of my purple velvet sofa, staring at the flames that crackled in the living room fireplace. It was about nine o’clock on a rare evening when Nick wasn’t working; lately, he seemed to be out on cases half the night, every night. Molly was upstairs, sleeping, and we’d been talking. I hadn’t gotten to the part about my father’s failing health yet. I’d started with the Institute, the cutbacks, the impersonal mass notifications, the apparently arbitrary decisions about which jobs would be slashed, the insensitivity to patients and staff members alike, the frustration I felt at having no recourse. Nick sat beside me, watching me in the dim, glimmering light, listening without interrupting, and when I’d finished, he’d lifted his bottle of Yuengling and sucked more lager before making his comment that half a job might “not be a bad thing.”

Was he serious? “Are you serious?”

He swallowed, nodding. “Think about it.”