Stealing Time

CHAPTER 17

J

ason looked through the window in Heather Rose's hospital room door before going in. Now he could see the reason for April's confusion. The patient showed some sign of movement. Two fingers moved back and forth across a small area of cotton blanket as if she were scolding or polishing it; and she almost seemed to be talking to herself. Apart from the moving hand, she was a bundle under the covers, an undefined shape, not very big. Jason's first thought was that Heather Rose was the size of a few standard pillows shoved together, not a fair sparring partner for a grown man.

The bed was cranked halfway up and the covers were pulled to her chin. Nothing of her could be seen but her face, which was a study of red and purpling bruises against the white sheets, the one arm that was outside the sheet, and her long, lush, inky-black hair. The way her thick and healthy hair fanned the pillow and framed her battered face was incongruous, shocking. The hair gave her a poignancy, an allure that seemed almost erotic even in the tragic circumstances and austere setting. It draped the pillow and looped over her shoulder, covering the curves of Heather Rose Popescu's chest almost to her waist. This surprised Jason, for hair so very long was an unusual feature for a woman living on the very edge of the twenty-first century. It was definitely a cultivated characteristic, like a huge mustache or a head shaved in patterns. It told Jason that Heather valued her tresses as one of her treasures, or that perhaps someone else, like her husband, valued a part of her that represented another time and place. In any case, the hair was a symbol, and like all symbols, had its profound meaning.

As Jason studied Heather Rose, the thick loop covering her left shoulder stirred just a little, like a snake shifting in the sun. It was as if her hair had an energy, a life of its own. Jason pushed the door open and went in.

"Hi, Heather, I'm Dr. Frank."

In the instant that the door opened and he spoke her body became still. No sound emanated from her. Her face was immobile in its swelling, and her uninjured half-closed eye showed no interest as he walked across the room, pulled up a chair, and sat close to the bed.

There were a thousand doctor things he could say and do: he could test her reflexes, talk to her, rub her hands, slap her wrists lightly.

Among all the possibilities, "Who's the president?" was what slipped out of his mouth first. It was something the doctors and nurses always said on rounds years ago when Jason had been an intern and a resident. It was what they said in emergency rooms and psychiatric hospitals. If a patient knew and could articulate the right answer, it meant he could hear, could understand, and was able to sort through the complicated circuitry of the brain and connect with reality.

Heather Rose did not tell him who was president, did not, in fact, respond to him in any clearly definable way; but he had not really thought she would. April had not been wrong about one thing, however. The woman on the bed seemed somehow to be present. He had the feeling that she had become watchful. Her two fingers stopped chastising the blanket. Now she seemed to be suspended on another level altogether, as if waiting for him to ask her the right question.

But Jason also knew it was not unusual for bedside visitors (even doctors and nurses) to have a wide range of feelings and beliefs about people who were unconscious. They seemed to be sleeping. They were sleeping, but sometimes they groaned, twitched, writhed, fought their tubes, and made other movements that could be interpreted as meaningful by those who desperately wanted evidence that their loved ones were still viable beings who could hear, could feel, and knew what was going on—and, most of all, that they could come back if only the open-sesame words, the correct stimuli, were supplied.

He said a few general things, then mentioned Heather's mother. April had told him Mrs. Kwan was coming from California. "Heather, you're not alone here. A lot of people are rooting for you. Your mom is on her way."

The hand with the IV in it twitched. Jason took it in both of his, examined the bitten cuticles and nails, turned it over and looked at the palm. Without realizing it, he had become like a cop. He was searching for some sign that she had resisted, had tried to fight off her attacker. Her nails were too short to be weapons, however. Her palm was soft and cool and the skin on it undisturbed. The arm above it told a different story.

"Look at these burn marks," he murmured, stroking her arm. "You've had a hard time. No one has to live this way. Come on back, Heather. Come on, talk to me. Your baby is out there."

Her eye flooded, but no tear spilled out. Interesting.

"No one can hurt you here. Not you, or anyone else. It's safe to wake up. If you wake up, we can protect you. We can help you get well. Whatever happened, we have to find the baby. He's a person. What happened to him can't be a mystery."

Jason squeezed her hand. It did not squeeze back. "Wake up now. It's over. You have to tell us about Paul. Heather, we need to find him. If someone took him, we need to know who and where he is. If something else happened to him, you can tell me. Please, wake up and tell me."

No sound, not a thing. He was having a solitary conversation, but he had the eerie feeling she was listening. He'd had that feeling with patients before. Sometimes he was right, and sometimes not. As a doctor he felt helpless more often than not. He wasn't being very doctorlike now. One look and he should have been out of there. Head case or not, baby killer or not, this was not for him. Still, he'd offer her the choice.

"I know you're coming up from a deep place. I know you want to come back. Come on, now's your chance to tell your side."

He squeezed her hand again. "Does your husband have Paul? Did he get mad and hit you? Is that what happened?"

Now a sound. Like a hiccup, a cough, a groan. Jason squeezed the hand. Still no pressure back.

"Here's your choice. There's the police, there's me, or there's your mom. Every minute you wait, everybody worries more about Paul. Give me a sign. If he's alive, squeeze my hand."

Nothing.

"Heather, I have to go now. I'll try to come back to see you later tonight." It was then he felt the fingers of Heather's hand tighten and release. Startled, he blinked. When he saw no change in her face and body, he wondered if he'd imagined it. In any case, he knew he'd have to come back.