Maid of Murder

Chapter Eight

I turned the car into my parents’ driveway. They lived in a brick, L-shaped ranch with dark purple shutters and bright red front door that they bought after my dad’s accident. While trimming a sycamore tree on the property of Stripling Presbyterian Church where my mother was pastor, my father fell from his self-made rigging and broke his back. He was paralyzed from the waist down.

Roses and black-eyed Mexican sunflowers bloomed in full glory along the wooden ramp that led to the front door. Wearing a pair of overall jean shorts and a pink tie-dyed T-shirt, my mother waited impatiently on the ramp. She’d separated her long hair into thick gray pigtails.

“India, I don’t appreciate you hanging up on me. I was worried sick about Mark, and then I had to worry about you on top of that.” She said as I wrestled the car door open. Mark exited easily.

“And Mark, where have you been? Why the cryptic phone call? Honestly, both of you. Carmen would have at least called to tell me what was going on. I was waiting and worrying, afraid to leave for the church because you might—” She stopped abruptly. “Is that blood on your shirt? And you’re wet.”

Mark wrenched away and set Theo down on the driveway.

“What happened?” Mom demanded. She directed this to me.

I slammed the car door shut. “I’d tell you if you’d give me a chance.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. Is that your blood Mark? Are you hurt?”

She started toward my brother again, but he scooped up Theodore and sprinted into the house, a good move on his part.

“Just tell me if he’s hurt,” Mom said. This time I heard real fear in her voice.

“He’s not hurt, but Olivia is.” That shut her up and gave me a chance to tell her what had happened. “I’m going to head over to the hospital to see how she is.”

She waited, looking nervous, until Mark disappeared through the front door. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go to the hospital with you?”

“Yes,” I said a little too quickly. “I think it would be better if I go alone.”

“I’ll take care of Mark.” She was halfway to the front door by the time she’d completed her sentence.

The hospital in Akron’s proper is a city unto itself, and each year more of its outbuildings swallow parts of Akron’s downtown. The large state university in Akron was doing the same thing coming from the opposite directions. I wondered when the two finally met who would overtake whom.

I left my car in the parking deck closest to the Emergency Room entrance. I knew the layout fairly well because my father spent three weeks in the hospital after his fall.

As I stepped through the mechanical doors, the faint scent of antiseptic hit me, reminding me of my father’s accident. I had been in Chicago, finishing my freshman year of art school. Mom had called from the emergency room and told me to come home immediately. I told her I had one more exam to take the next morning and I’d drive home after the exam.

“I shouldn’t be surprised that you’d treat this family crisis the same way you’ve acted about your brother’s problems.” Before I could respond, or even think of a response, she hung up.

The next day with my car waiting outside the visual arts building, packed to the gills with clothes and dorm room trappings, I took the final, confusing the impressionists with the expressionists. I drove the six hours home, straight and alone. Choosing the wrong bank of elevators when I arrived at the hospital, I lost myself in its endless corridors and passages. A friendly, large-toothed nurse helped me find my father’s room, on the opposite side of the hospital, where he was attached to metal rods and plastic tubes.

Mom and Carmen hovered over my father with anxious chatter and didn’t even notice when I walked into the room. I didn’t call attention to myself. Instead, I focused on Mark who had huddled in a corner, his long arms wrapped around his body like a straightjacket. He was even thinner than he had been over Christmas, the last time I’d been home. I walked over to him, took his hand, and led him out of the room.

The rest of the summer, as Mom had shopped for a new wheelchair-accessible house and had dealt with hospital bills and dad’s rehab, I had taken care of my brother. I had driven him to appointments and to Martin where he was taking independent study courses in higher math. I had made sure he took his medicine everyday, and had even contemplated transferring to Martin for the next school year so that I could watch out for him, but Carmen had talked me out of it. And I had never thanked her for that.

Now, on the day after the Fourth of July, the emergency room was crowded with firecracker mishaps and holiday binges. The injured and families of the injured in varying degrees of pain and distress filled the main waiting room. No Blockens. A pair of old men watched a baseball game playing on a TV tethered high in the corner, and children squabbled over toys in the corner while their parents flipped through dog-eared magazines. A dishwater blond woman shot them dagger looks and bent over her dog-eared copy of The Bell Jar.

Glancing from face to face, I felt my first twinge of apprehension. It was instinct that had made me head to the hospital as soon as I could. I hadn’t wanted it to be like that last time when I had put something trivial by comparison first. But this was different. This wasn’t my family in crisis. I shouldn’t have come. I’ve never been a Blocken favorite, except to Olivia, and my family wasn’t too high on their charts either. In some way, I knew Mrs. Blocken would blame Mark for the accident.

Before I could flee, though, Bree appeared carrying a paper cup of coffee. “India?”

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s in surgery now to release fluid from her brain.”

“Oh,” I replied. If I said anything else, I would’ve thrown up on her sandals. Even paper cuts make me queasy. After a beat, I asked, “And the rest of her family?”

“A private waiting room down the hall.” She glared at the men who cheered the game on the television set.

“Did you see her?”

Bree shook her head. “They took her straight from emergency to surgery.”

I absentmindedly rubbed my left shoulder. My shoulders always ached when I was nervous or tense due to years of being hunched over a painter’s easel.

“I can take you to the waiting room. Olivia’s family will be happy to see you.”

“No, I don’t think that—”

“This way,” she said. She turned around and headed down the corridor. Just as she was about to disappear around a corner, I jogged after her.

“Down the hall” was almost the other side of Mars. I followed Bree’s brisk pace through the hospital corridors, weaving in and out of wards and around hospital staff in ugly white sneakers. I stared resolutely at the back of Bree’s trim ankles as she cruised down the hall, unable to stand the suffering lining the hallways. The deeper we traveled into the hospital, the more sterile the air became. I vowed never again to complain about the smell of moldy books donated by retired Martin professors.

We dodged a crash cart. “You seem to know your way around, Bree; have you been to this hospital before?”

Without breaking stride, her voice floated back to me. “No, but I’ve been in a lot of hospitals.”

Nearly toppling a food cart, I abandoned conversation.

After more turns than I could count, Bree halted abruptly in front of a heavy-looking forest green door. Through the door’s small window, I caught of glimpse of Dr. Blocken and Kirk filling an overstuffed loveseat, each crowded against an opposite arm, apparently in an effort not to touch each other. Although I couldn’t see her, I knew that Mrs. Blocken lay in wait, pacing the floor and undoubtedly accosting hospital staff anytime someone chanced by.

Bree eased open the door and entered the room, leaving it ajar for me. The occupants of the room glanced up expectantly, with equal parts dread and hope.

“Your coffee, Regina,” Bree said. “I’m sorry I took so long. I met India in the emergency room.”

Duly outed, I slid into the room. Dr. Blocken and Kirk blinked in disbelief. O.M., her hair now neon blue, didn’t look up from the rock star biography she read in the corner, and Mrs. Blocken jolted from her seat.

After sputtering for a few seconds, she managed a profanity-laced version of, “What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about Olivia,” I sputtered.

Mrs. Blocken pressed the heel of her right hand over her left eye as if blocking out my image and smearing her flawless makeup. Underneath her foundation, her complexion blotched. She removed her hand and seemed unable to speak. Dr. Blocken fidgeted, and then stood with phony assertiveness. A cuticle on his left hand was bleeding from being bitten to the quick. “India, we appreciate your concern for our daughter, but I think it would be better if you left.” His voice shook.

Mrs. Blocken’s naked anguish disconcerted me, and I merely nodded and backed out of the small waiting room. When the door clicked into the latch, I heard Mrs. Blocken’s first sob. I hurried down the hallway, unsure if I was heading in the right direction. I followed sign after sign pointing me to some unseen exit. After confusing twists and bends, I found myself outside in the humid air and burning sunlight. I was outside but on the wrong side of the structure. Rather than go back into the hospital and risk becoming lost again, I circumnavigated the building until I reached the parking deck. As I walked around the building, the corners of my eyes itched, and I bit the inside of my lower lip.