Run Away

Chapter Twelve

You often hear that a physician’s bedside manner is more or less irrelevant. The theory seems to suggest that you just want someone who coldly, mechanically, robotically does the job, who doesn’t get distracted by emotion, who lives by that old saw that you’d rather have a surgeon who cuts straight and cares less.

Ingrid, Simon knew, believed the opposite.

You want a real person — a caring, empathic person — to be your physician. You want a person who sees you as a fellow human being who is scared and hurting and in need of reassurance and comfort. It was a responsibility Ingrid took very seriously. When a parent brought their child to see her — well, step back and think about it: When are you ever more vulnerable? You’re stressed, you’re terrified, you’re confused. Physicians who do not understand that, who act as though you are an anatomical object in need of repair like a MacBook visiting the Genius Bar are going to not only make the experience more miserable but they will miss something in the diagnosis.

Sometimes, like right now, you are scared and hurting and stressed and terrified and confused as you take a seat across from a physician who speaks words that will change your life like no others. They could be the worst words in the world or the best words or, as in this case, somewhere in between.

So Ingrid would really like Dr. Heather Grewe, who oozed both exhaustion and empathy. Grewe tried to break it down, aiming for a combination of real-world terminology and medical jargon. Simon focused on the bottom line.

Ingrid was still alive.

Barely.

She was in a coma.

The next twenty-four hours would be crucial.

Simon nodded along, but somewhere the doctor’s words had untethered him. He was trying to hold on, but he was floating away. Yvonne, who sat next to him, remained firmly grounded. She asked follow-up questions, probably good ones, but they didn’t change the meaning or clarify the murky diagnosis. This is another thing you learn about doctors. We may think they are gods sometimes, but the limits of what they know or can do are both astounding and humbling.

They were closely monitoring Ingrid’s condition, but there was nothing to do right now but wait. Dr. Grewe rose and extended her hand. Simon rose and shook it. So did Yvonne. There were no visitors allowed yet so they stumbled back down the corridor toward the waiting room.

Fagbenle cut Simon off and pulled him aside.

“I need something from you,” Fagbenle said.

Simon, still reeling, managed a nod. “Okay.”

“I need you to look at something.”

He handed Simon a sheet of cardboard with six photographs on it, three in the top row, three on the bottom. They were all headshots and underneath each headshot was a number.

“I want you to study this carefully and tell me if—”

“Number Five,” Simon said.

“Let me finish. I want you to study this carefully and tell me if you recognize any of these men.”

“I recognize Number Five.”

“How do you know Number Five?”

“He’s the man who shot my wife.”

Fagbenle nodded. “I’d like you to make a formal ID in person.”

“This” — Simon pointed to the cardboard sheet — “isn’t enough?”

“I think it would also be better to do it in person.”

“I don’t want to leave my wife right now.”

“You don’t have to. The suspect is here too — recovering from the gunshot. Come on.”

Fagbenle started down the corridor. Simon looked back at Yvonne, who nodded for him to go. The walk wasn’t far, just to the end of the corridor.

“Did you catch Rocco too?” Simon asked.

“We brought him in, yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“You and your wife came into his establishment, he had his back turned, there were gunshots, he ran. He has no idea who fired or who got shot or any of that.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Really? Rocco, a leading drug dealer, is lying to us? Wow, I for one am shocked.”

“Did you ask him about my daughter?”

“Doesn’t know her. ‘White girls all look the same to me,’ he said, ‘especially junkies.’”

Simon didn’t wince. “Can you hold him?”

“On what charge? You yourself said Rocco never attacked you, right?”

“Right.”

“Luther was the one who pulled the trigger. Speaking of which.”

He stopped in front of a room with a uniformed cop sitting by the door. “Hey, Tony,” Fagbenle said.

Tony the guard looked at Simon.

“Who’s this?”

“The vic’s husband.”

“Oh.” Tony the guard nodded toward Simon. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s here to make an ID,” Fagbenle said. “Assume the perp is still out?”

“Nah, he’s awake.”

“Since when?”

“Five, ten minutes ago.”

Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Probably not a good idea to do this now.”

“Why not?”

“Protocol. Most witnesses are scared to be face-to-face with the perp.”

Simon frowned. “Let’s just do this.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he’ll see you?”

“He saw me when he shot my wife. You think I care?”

Fagbenle shrugged a suit-yourself and pushed open the door. A television played something in Spanish. Luther sat up in the bed, his shoulder wrapped. He gave Simon a scowl and said, “What’s he doing in here?”

“Oh, so you know this man?” Fagbenle asked.

Luther’s eyes shifted left and right. “Uh...”

Fagbenle turned to Simon. “Mr. Greene?”

“Yes, he’s the man who shot my wife.”

“That’s a lie!”

“You’re certain?” Fagbenle asked.

“Yes,” Simon said, “I’m certain.”

“They shot me!” Luther shouted.

“Did they, Luther?”

“Yeah. He’s a liar.”

“Where did they shoot you exactly?”

“In the shoulder.”

“No, Luther, I mean geographical location.”

“Huh?”

Fagbenle rolled his eyes. “The place, Luther.”

“Oh, in that basement. In Rocco’s lot.”

“So why did we find you hiding in an alley two blocks away?”

You could see the dumb stamped all over him. “Uh, I ran. From him.”

“And hid in an alley even when the police came searching for you?”

“Hey, I don’t like cops, that’s all.”

“Great, thanks for confirming that you were at the shooting scene, Luther. Really helps us wrap this all up.”

“I didn’t shoot nobody. You got no proof.”

“Do you own a gun, Luther?”

“No.”

“Never fired one?”

“A gun?” He got a cagey look. “Maybe once, like years ago.”

“Man, Luther, don’t you watch TV?”

“What?”

“Like every cop show.”

Luther looked confused.

“There’s always the part where some moronic perp says, ‘I never fired the gun,’ you know, like you just did, and then the cop says they ran a gunshot residue test — this ringing any bells, Luther? — and they find residue, usually in the form of gunpowder particles, on the moronic perp’s hands and clothes.”

Luther’s face lost color.

“And, see, once they have all that, the cops — that would be me — have the guy dead to rights. We have witnesses and gun residue and scientific proof our moronic perp is a liar. It’s over for him. He usually confesses and tries to cut a deal.”

Luther sat back and blinked.

“You want to tell us why you did it?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Fagbenle sighed. “You’re really boring us now.”

“Why don’t you ask him why?” Luther asked.

“Pardon?”

Luther tilted his chin toward Simon. “Ask him.”

Simon took deep breaths. He’d been blocking since he entered the room, but now it all came crashing down on him. Ingrid, the woman he loved like no other, was nearby, in this very building, clinging to life because of this piece of shit. Without conscious thought, Simon took a step toward the bed, raising his hands to throttle the useless turd, this nothing, this worthless dung who had tried to snuff out the life of such a wonderful, vibrant being.

Fagbenle put an arm out to keep Simon in check, more a mental blockade than a physical one. He met Simon’s eyes and gave an understanding but firm shake of the head.

“What should I ask him, Luther?” Fagbenle asked.

“What were they two doing at Rocco’s, huh? Let’s say I did do it. Not really, but like pretend, like what’s the word... hypodermically, let’s say I did it.”

Fagbenle tried not to frown. “Go for it.”

“Maybe Rocco needs protection.”

“Why would Rocco need protection?”

“Don’t know. I’m talking hypodermically.”

“So Rocco told you to shoot Dr. Greene?”

“Doctor?” He sat up, wincing. “What are you talking about? I didn’t shoot no doctor. You ain’t pinning that on me.” He pointed at Simon. “I just shot his old lady.”

Simon didn’t know whether he should burst out punching or laughing. Again the sheer outrage of the situation — that even this worthless slice of nothing has the power to destroy something as vital and cherished and loved as Ingrid — consumed him, making him realize that there was nothing just in this world, no control, no center force, just random chaos. He wanted to kill this punk, stomp him out like the bug that he was, except no bug could ever be this callous and harmful, so yes, stomp out this nothing for the good of mankind — much gained, nothing lost. And yet he suddenly felt exhausted by the notion, that in the end there was no point in doing even that. It was all a big fucking joke.

“I was just protecting my boss,” Luther said. “Self-defense, you know what I’m saying?”

Simon felt his phone vibrate. He glanced at the screen. It was from Yvonne:

When Simon first entered her room, when he first saw Ingrid on that bed, stiller than sleep, tubes everywhere, gurgling machines — when he first saw all of that, his knees buckled and his body fell toward the floor. He didn’t catch himself. He probably could have, probably could have reached out and grabbed the wheelchair accessibility bar on his right. But he didn’t. He let himself land and land hard and let himself have the silent scream, that moment, because he knew that he needed it.

When that was over, he rose and there were no more tears. He sat next to Ingrid and held her hand and talked to her. He didn’t will her to live or tell her how much he loved her or any of that. If Ingrid could hear, she wouldn’t want those words. She wasn’t big on melodrama for one thing, but more than that, she wouldn’t want him expressing thoughts like this when she couldn’t reciprocate or at least comment. Declarations of love or loss with no response were meaningless to her. It was like playing catch with yourself. It had to go two ways.

So he talked about general stuff — his work, her work, the remodeling of the kitchen that might one day happen (or more likely, not), about politics and the past and a few favorite memories he knew she liked to bathe in. That was also Ingrid. She liked when he repeated certain stories. She was the kind who listened deeply, with her entire being, and a smile would come to her lips and he could see that she was back there with him, reliving the moment with a clarity few people could experience.

But of course, there was no smile on her face today.

At some point — Simon couldn’t say how much time had passed — Yvonne put her hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “Everything.”

So he did.

Yvonne kept her eyes on her sister’s face. She and Ingrid had taken such different paths, and maybe that explained the rift. Ingrid had chosen something of a high life to start — the modeling, the travel, some experimentation with drugs that oddly made her less sympathetic to Paige, not more — whereas Yvonne had always been more the dutiful type-A daughter who studied hard and loved her parents and stayed on the straight and narrow.

In the end, Ingrid had discovered, as she put it, that searching the whole world just makes you find home. She’d come back and done a year of what was called “post-baccalaureate” at Bryn Mawr College, so as to cram in all her pre-med requirements. With the sort of determination and single focus that Yvonne would undoubtedly admire in another person, Ingrid excelled through med school, residency, and internship.

“You can’t stay here,” Yvonne said when he finished.

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll sit with Ingrid. But you can’t just sit here, Simon. You have to go find Paige.”

“I can’t leave now.”

“You have to. You have no choice.”

“We always promised...” Simon stopped. He wasn’t going to explain to Yvonne what she already knew. He and Ingrid were like one. If one of them got sick, the other was going to be there. That was the rule. That was part of the bargain in all this.

Yvonne understood, but she still shook her head. “Ingrid is going to wake up from this. Or she’s not. And if she wakes up, she’s going to want to see Paige’s face.”

He didn’t reply.

“You can’t find her if you’re sitting here.”

“Yvonne—”

“Ingrid would tell you that if she could, Simon. You know this.”

Ingrid’s hand felt lifeless now, no feel of blood pumping through it. Simon stared at his wife, willing her to give him some kind of answer or sign, but she seemed to be growing smaller, fading away, right in front of his eyes. This didn’t seem to be Ingrid in this bed anymore, just an empty body, as if her being had already fled the building. He wasn’t naïve enough to think the sound of Paige’s voice could bring Ingrid back, but he sure as shit didn’t think him sitting there would do it either.

Simon let go of Ingrid’s hand. “Before I go, I’ll need to—”

“I got the kids. I got the business. I got Ingrid. Go.”