Deficiency

SEVEN

Terri filled in a report for the police. The officers who arrived afterward wanted to know what she thought killed the woman.

"It's too soon to tell. The edema she suffered could have a number of causes, including kidney disease or some form of poisoning. It could also be the result of severe allergic reaction," she added. "We'll have to wait for the autopsy." The hard disc in her computerlike memory suggested another probable cause, but she rejected it instantly. She was tempted to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but then thought, what for? There was nothing left to do for this woman except invade her body and search for the story of her death. Instead, she went home and decided to take a hot shower. She knew of a Jewish custom that required people who had been to funerals to wash their hands before they entered their homes. It was so silly, a superstition that suggested death was on your hands and you could bring it into your home and infect your loved ones. And yet, she had to get the feeling off her. She had to wash away the morbid air, the memory of that cold glint that had come quickly into the young woman's eyes. Could it be that she did touch death, even for an instant? Did it pause to gloat and run itself through her just once, causing her to shudder and causing her heart to stop and then start?

You doctors, it said disdainfully, you think you will defeat me with yourchemicals and your electronics, but in the end, you will always bow your headsat the vain attempts, at the failures. I play with you. I let you think you havestaved me off, driven me back, and then I return, perhaps through a differentavenue, around some corner you did not anticipate, and I pluck the victory outof your hands repeatedly.

But keep trying. I so enjoy the contest.

She shook her head at her own imagination and made herself a cup of warm milk. I'm a twenty-first century physician and I rely on my grandmother's old remedies. It made her smile and she needed to smile just now. She sat at her kitchenette and thought about her grandmother, about the nights they sat and talked when she was only a little girl. She had a way of weaving her stories, her past, into a tapestry that enthralled, educated, and at times even frightened Terri a little, especially when she described the hardships. Her grandmother had been through very difficult times when she had arrived in America at the age of only five, holding onto her widowed mother's hand.

Her mother had agreed to come to America to marry a man she had never really met, a butcher in Brooklyn who had lost his wife to breast cancer and who had three sons to raise and no patience for it. All she had done was speak to him on the phone and look at some pictures. It was a way of solving her own desperate situation, for her husband had left her nothing and times were very hard in Budapest for a woman alone with a child.

How could people have been so selfless? Terri wondered when she thought about her great-grandmother. How could they be willing to make such great sacrifices and from what well of optimism did they draw so much hope after suffering so much tragedy and turmoil? Were people stronger back then? Were we now with all our miraculous medicine and wonderful technology really a weaker species? Were we rapidly letting go of the values that gave us the power to survive spiritually as well as physically?

I hate being this heavy and philosophical, she thought. I hate it, but it always happens after something terrible like this. It's as if death was there periodically to remind us how vulnerable we were and how silly we were putting any value on anything material. Everything we owned, possessed, would belong to someone else in one form or another some day. Our homes, our clothes, our cars, even our very money. It all might take some other form, be destroyed in one way and then used to build something else, but it would not be ours forever. Even our bones would not be ours.

What was ours then?

What did we take with us?

Should a doctor be so philosophical? Was it a weakness, something that would blind her at an inopportune time? Did Hyman ever stop and have thoughts like these?

There was a time when science and religion were antagonists, when doctors were thought to be challenging the will of God. There were sects like Christian Scientists and Jehovah's Witnesses who still believed in these old ideas. I am a doctor, she thought as if she was speaking before an assembly of such people. I have been educated and given the skills to repair and cure our bodies, not to defy God, but to do His bidding, to be a servant. Why else did He give us the ability and the desire to pursue?

In her mind, her musing, the audience was suddenly down to just two: Paige Thorndyke and this new young woman, Kristin Martin. They were sitting like corpses placed in a chair and they were staring at her with cold eyes and they were asking, "What about us?"

He heard them ask the old lady if she knew who her granddaughter had met tonight.

"Did she have a date or anything that she told you about?" the plainclothes officer asked.

"I have no idea," she said. "She never tells me anything about her love life anymore. I know she's been seeing too many different men.

"I warned her that wasn't good. I, myself, never went out with more than one man at a time for a period of time and only two before I met my husband. But young people are different nowadays. She don't listen," she concluded. She was talking about Kristin as though she were still alive and this dead thing was just a temporary, annoying condition.

The police listened politely, but from where he stood looking in, he could see their smiles behind their hands or when they turned away.

They asked her if she could come with them to identify the body. The way she looked at them, it was clear to him that she had forgotten what they had come to tell her. No wonder she was talking like that. The realization hit her again. She faltered a moment, caught her breath, and then excused herself to get dressed.

The moment she left, they began to snoop about the room. He wondered if they had any reason to do that. Not one of them had asked her if she had any guests. His car was around back so they hadn't noticed it. They're just nosy, he concluded. Their jobs and uniforms give them the right to enter into people's lives and violate their privacy. Nothing in the old lady's world was sacred. They would explore her small intestine if they wanted. They're just like insects or rodents. No place is off limits.

Suddenly he felt like defending the old lady, like rushing in there and demanding to know who the hell gave them the right to look in drawers and in jewel boxes? He might have done just that, too, but the old lady was back from her room quicker than anyone had anticipated.

She wore what he thought was a very silly-looking hat, the brim too wide and the hat a bit too large for her head. They took her out and put her in the rear of the car. He watched them drive off and then he went inside and hurried up the stairs to his room to pack his things. He started to take his clothes off hangers and then stopped and gazed at himself in the mirror above the dresser. What am I doing? he asked himself. Why am I running? Look at this place, these small towns. It's prime plucking, and it would be crazy for me to leave, he thought. Besides, the law enforcement here is vintage boondocks. They probably still think fingerprints are some form of mass-produced duplicated works of art.

He laughed and put the clothes back on hangers. He was in his Godself mode as he liked to call it. He always felt this way when he was restored and working on all cylinders. As confident as ever, he took a warm shower and then got into bed. A good night's sleep is what he needed and he could fall asleep at a moment's notice, if he wanted. No guilty conscience, no worries to keep him tossing and turning. He had truly forgotten what he had done. That irked him for a few moments. He recalled not knowing why the police had come to see the old lady.

It made him laugh. Then he remembered some of it, enough of it. How could I have forgotten getting into her vehicle and then running back here afterward?

He questioned the darkness. He wondered if he should be worried. What difference did it make? he concluded. It's not like I am keeping a journal. After that he did fall asleep quickly, but he also woke up when he heard a door close and footsteps on the stairway. He heard her sobbing as she ascended. He rose and went to the door, opening it first to peek out and then farther when he saw her pause at the top of the landing below to catch her breath.

"Is anything wrong, Mrs. Martin?" he called down to her. She jerked her head his way, her eyes refocusing under the dim corridor light. From the way her mouth twisted and her eyebrows lifted, he thought she had completely forgotten about him.

"Oh," she said, "something terrible. My granddaughter..."

"What about her?"

"She's dead. She was found dying in her car. Someone might have raped her."

"Oh my God," he said. "That beautiful young woman?"

"Yes. My only living grandchild. I have no one now, no one I care about," she said. "I wish I could lie down and die myself," she added. "Just go to sleep and die myself."

"Yes," he said. "I don't blame you."

"The doctor at the hospital gave me some pills to take to help me rest," she said plucking a packet out of her coat pocket. "I oughta take them all at the same time."

He nodded.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Mrs. Martin?"

"No," she said shaking her head. "Nothing. Thank you.

"Please don't hesitate to call me if you need anything," he said as she started down the corridor toward her room. She shook her head and continued. He watched her until she was in her room and then he returned to his room, closed his door softly and stood there, thinking.

What a depressingly sad person. She will never have a good day from now on, he concluded. And then he thought he could help her and help himself. Vaguely, he recalled an opportunity like this in the past, although the details were as faint and cloudy as the rocks at the bottom of that murky pond at the rear of the tourist house. Struggle as much as he wanted, he would still not get a clear view of them, but that wasn't important. He had the general idea and besides, he didn't like doing the same things repeatedly. A little originality made life so much more interesting.

He waited a good hour and then he left his room in stocking feet, descending the short stairway as softly and quietly as he would if the floor were made of marshmallows. He opened her bedroom door in increments, containing the smallest squeak. She had a small nightlight on, one of those that were plugged into a socket. It threw just enough of a glow to clearly delineate everything in her bedroom. He saw her head on the large, fluffy pillow. The light made it seem as if her face was carved out of white marble. Her whole head looked like it was slowly sinking into the pillow and she would soon be gone from sight, matter of fact. She was on her back and her hands were crossed over themselves and on her stomach just the way an undertaker might have put them. How convenient and how portentous he thought and entered her room. He stood by the side of her bed and watched her labored breathing. She was lifting her upper lip with every exhale. He couldn't imagine when, if ever, this old woman was attractive. She probably looked old when she was in her twenties, he thought. Time to start the process, he decided and tugged the big pillow out from under her head in one swift motion. Her head fell to the mattress and her eyes popped open.

"Whaaa. What are you doing in here?" she demanded.

"Helping you," he said.

He put the pillow over her face before she could reply. She started to struggle and gag and after a while, he let her breathe. She gasped eagerly, full of hope, and then he put the pillow over her face again and she fought again. Again, he let it up and again she gasped and heaved and choked for air. On and on the process continued: he bringing her to brink and she struggling, each time with less effort. What's more, each time she was free to breathe, it became more labored for her to do so.

Relentlessly, he put the pillow over her face. Her hands were barely pushing and pulling now. She was giving it so little effort that he had to stop sooner.

"Come on now," he urged, "you can do better than that." She gasped and choked and he did it again and again he released it until finally, while he had the pillow up, she waved her hand, fought for breath, and died. She died of heart failure, not asphyxiation.

It was his design. Someday soon after he was gone, she would be discovered and that was what they would believe. That was what the coroner would determine. Again, how he knew all this, he couldn't say, but he knew it. What difference did the how make after all?

He brushed down her face to be sure there were no traumas, no evidence of anything against her skin, no pressure, no blows. The pillow had been wonderful.

"Good choice," he told the corpse. "Soft, downy. I kind of like it. Do you mind if I use it tonight?"

He laughed.

Why not? He'll return it to her in the morning, and she won't complain. She won't complain about anything anymore and she had him to thank for that. Why couldn't they send thank-you cards back from the afterlife? he wondered. If they could, he would cover a wall.