I wake up with a jerk from a nightmare of someone choking me. I know I am in a hospital bed from the white ceiling to the white walls and the crisp white sheets' clean chemical smell. I breathe in, long and steady and thank God the horror is over. I turn sideways and regret doing so. My body is sore from my head to my toes, and I find it hard to move. I have never felt anything like this.
The white plastic side panel to my left contains various buttons to move the bed. I press the button showing the upper part of the bed lifting, and my head and upper body rise slowly. I stop to a semi-reclining position and examine the room. To my left, on a small, wooden coloured overbed table, sits a lovely white vase containing my favourite flower, yellow daisies. The sun rays filtering through the window stores land on the petals and gives them an almost magical glow. Under the sheets, my fingertips brush the nurse's call button. I grab it and put my thumb over it, ready to press it, but then a familiar, husky voice speaks.
"Sweetie?"
I turn my head to my right, and Michael is sitting on a chair next to my bed. Thick, dark circles underline his eyes, and I gather he must have slept there all night. Keeping watch and worried sick. The sight of him releases a flood of tears. He stands up, comes near me, and caresses my hair back, kisses my forehead, and ever so gently rests his forehead on mine and consoles me.
"It's alright, honey. You're safe! You both are!" he says, his voice quivering.
"Nat? Where is she? Is she ok?" I ask him.
My voice is hoarse, and my throat hurts. I grimace every time I speak. Michael hands me a cold bottle of water with a red straw in it that was placed on the little bedside table. I sip just a small quantity of it, and the tickling of the cold liquid making its way down my throat is soothing.
"She's on the pediatric floor. She wouldn't sleep, so the doctors had to sedate her, so she could get some rest. She's not physically hurt, thank God, but the doctor said she was in a heightened state of shock. She's at risk for severe symptoms of PTSD. So, he recommends therapy after her hospitalization. She—uhm—she didn't say a single word before she was sedated, even after seeing me. The doctor says it's not uncommon after such a traumatic event. As soon as my mother got to the hospital, I came to see you. She's with her right now," he says.
And the sorrow written all over his face does a poor job of masking his anger.
"I tried, Michael! I tried to get us out of there earlier. I tried!" I tell him.
I need him to know I fought. I need him to know I would not go quietly into the night. I need him to know I fought tooth and nail to get us out of there. Disregarding my pain and anger, which are overwhelming me right now, guilt decides to show up and join the party. Tears stream down my face and turn into sobs. My husband cups my face in both his hands. I tried, Michael! God, I tried so hard!
"Hey, hey, hey, no, no, no. This is not your fault, honey! You hear me? It's them! It's all of them! It's…her!" he tells me.
The mention of her makes me catch my breath hard, and it sends a numbing pain shooting down my left side. Steadying my breathing again and waiting for the pain to subside, I want to ask my husband what he knows. But the doctor walks in, a tall, thin man with salt and pepper hair and metallic coloured glasses. He enters with a light stride, wearing a soft smile and bearing a green medical file.
"Well, Mrs. Arnold. How are we feeling today? You've had quite a night, I hear. I'm your doctor, Dr. Kevin Millard. I'll be the one in charge of your treatment during your stay with us," he informs me.
"Uhm…when can I go home?" I ask him.
I hand the bottle of water back to my husband. This doctor is under the impression I am here for a while. He needs to know I need to see my daughter, and I am leaving tonight.
Michael moves around the bed and puts the water bottle on the overbed table next to the daisies, and stands on that side close to me, giving the doctor space to approach the bed himself. The doctor opens the green file, examines it, and answers my question.
"You were admitted last night, Mrs. Arnold. In a serious condition. I know you're eager to see your daughter, but you have a few concerning issues we need to deal with before we let you go home," he tells me.
His tone is calm but decisive, and I can tell he is not discharging me anytime soon. But maybe he is overly cautious.
"Concerning issues? I just got knocked around a bit. My body is just sore. I feel like I can go home," I tell him, nodding my head like that gesture alone will suffice to convince him.
He closes the file, pushes his glasses back up his nose and, with the same soft smile he came in wearing on his face, informs me of my issues.
"Knocked around a bit? You have a concussion. A three-centimetre head laceration to your right temple. A four-centimetre head laceration at the base of your skull. You have two broken ribs, one that pierced your spleen and for which you needed emergency surgery to remove it before you bled to death. You also have two bruised knees and a laceration on the palm of your right hand that needed 12 stitches. Mrs. Arnold…You have a long recovery ahead of you. You went through hell last night. Your body needs to heal, and you need to give it time to do so," he responds.
I give him a blank stare like he just spoke to me in another language. The list of my injuries shocks me. I felt pain throughout the night, but the types of injuries he described should have kept me down. They should have prevented me from carrying my daughter. How could this be? Reading my mind, Dr. Millard answers my unasked question.
"Adrenaline is a powerful drug, Mrs. Arnold. Its effects never cease to amaze me on an otherwise beaten down body. But I suspect being a mother is what kept you alive as well. Nothing is fiercer than a mother protecting her child. Now, if you will allow me, I need to examine your incision. Have you experienced any discomfort?" he asks, snapping on some white examination gloves.
"I'm just sore, that's all," I answer in a small voice, still in shock of the state of my physical condition.
"Well, that's to be expected after what you went through. Are the pain medications helping?" he inquires.
"I guess," I tell him.
If I do not move around too much, I do not feel that numbing pain. Again, he reads my mind or sees through my bullshit.
"There are no medals to be won here, Mrs. Arnold. Recovery is no picnic, but we can at least make the experience as comfortable as possible," he tells me.
"I don't want to be too loopy. I want to be me when I see my daughter. Do you think I'll be able to see her today?" I ask.
There is this annoying begging tone in my voice. Maybe it is a residue from last night. I spent all night begging and pleading for our lives. Perhaps it takes a while to shake it off, that pitiful, victim tone. I clear my throat, prepared to speak with a more determined voice, but Dr. Millard beats me to it. He lifts one finger up, indicating that I need to wait. I sigh in response.
He takes out a black stethoscope from his white coat pocket and listens to my heart and lungs. He then informs me he will pull up my hospital gown just enough to check my surgical wound, and his soft smile leaves his face and is replaced with a frown and a focused, pensive look. The sight that greets my eyes, looking down at my abdomen, horrifies me. Almost all my mid-section is just one big, purple-blue bruise. There is a bit of normal colour here and there, and if I did not know any better, I would say I was dying. Dr. Millard palpates my belly, and I wince, and the tears come rolling down the sides of my face. I avert my eyes from the horrendous spectacle and shake my head in rageful disbelief. Dr. Millard was correct. I am gravely injured.
My husband, who has not let go of my left hand all this time, squeezes it to reassure me. To alleviate the situation, Dr. Millard apologizes for his cold fingers, pretending that is the reason for my discomfort. Unlike John, the paramedic, Dr. Millard knows every little detail of what happened to me last night. It is written all over my body and my face. There is no hiding from it or downplaying this. The unfairness of it all clenches me, and it is all I can do not to scream out in an outburst of pure rage.
"How long—How long will it take to recover?" I ask, my voice breaking.
I will not be able to see Natalie today, and for who knows how long. It will be awful to only receive daily reports on her. She needs her Momma to get through this, and I need her by my side too.
He pulls my gown back down and moves to my head. He takes out a light pen and flashes it across my eyes. He then helps me sit more upright to examine the back of my head. Easing me back to my reclining position, he lifts my right hand. He looks at my palm laceration through the transparent medical tape covering my ugly stitches. I am getting annoyed he has not answered my questions, so I just stare at him. Sensing my discontent, Dr. Millard finally speaks.
"Conservatively, six weeks. Six weeks to make a full recovery from injuries such as yours. But don't focus on the wrong thing," he announces.
I frown at him, not understanding.
"Most patients get hung up on the time of recovery and not on the fact that I said they will make a full recovery. You are alive, Mrs. Arnold. Both you and your daughter are. That's all thanks to you, and that's all that matters for the moment. I know all you want right now is to see your daughter, but please, trust me when I say she is in good hands. Like I said before, your body needs to heal. Moving you right now down to the peds floor to see Natalie will only put you at risk for complications, which will only prolong your stay with us. And I know that's not what you want. Get some rest now. I'll see you tomorrow," he says.
He gently pats my shoulder and gives me his warm smile again, and turns and leaves the room. It is my turn to smile now. His words have the combined effect of a sedative, a pain killer, and a warm, comforting blanket. Having lived through a night of utter terror at the hands of a couple of strangers and to have another stranger showing compassion and concern is like coming up for a breath of fresh air after you have been drowning. You cling to it for dear life. To be safe and secure and knowing Natalie is too makes me want to lay down and sleep, but the image of her creeps back into my head. With the wide-eyed expression I just gave him, my husband anticipates my question.
"The police say she had planned this for months! She had been concerned about Natalie the moment she started drawing dark rooms with what looked like a little girl in the middle. Apparently, Nat had been drawing those images for some time now. She misinterpreted that as being Natalie and not you. She thought Natalie was being mistreated, neglected, abused? I—I don't know what the heck she thought. But she apparently called social services, and when that didn't pan out, she plotted to kidnap her, kill us both and make it look like a murder-suicide. The police say she developed an obsession with Natalie. They ransacked her apartment last night, after her arrest, and Luce, they found hundreds of pictures of you and Natalie. At school, grocery shopping, at the park, during Nat's swimming lessons. They say she probably had been following you for months tracking your every move," he informs me shaking his head.
"What?! That doesn't make any sense! The police would still be looking for Natalie if her parents were dead, and she was missing!" I tell him.
I do not know if it is the shock of this revelation, or my body starting to get tired, or my injuries starting to hurt again. But a headache is creeping up from the back of my head. I close my eyes and rest my head on my pillow.
"She was planning to get out of the country. She had false documents and passports for Natalie and for herself," he informs me.
I open my eyes and stare at my husband. Disbelief and shock are still present in his voice and face, and I do not blame him. Tiffany Brooks was a well-liked teacher. A gem amongst pretty, polished stones. She was kind, polite, young, and beautiful. Excellent with the kids who raved about her. She had the voice of a Disney Princess, for Pete's sake! Maybe still hanging on to my last shred of denial, I remember the icy blue eyes.
"But the person I saw had blue eyes! It couldn't have been Tiffany! Tiffany is a brown-eyed girl!" I insist.
"According to the police, she was wearing contacts. She was afraid you would recognize her—
"—so she kept her distance," I interrupt him, remembering Mummy's strange behavior.
My husband looks at me, puzzled.
"The men. Who were those men?" I ask.
I am starting to put together the pieces in my mind, but I still cannot picture sweet Tiffany being acquainted with such brutes.
"Her boyfriend and her brother. Both are ex-convicts, apparently, both with a heavy, violent past. They're saying the only reason you lasted that long was because they were waiting for me. You killed the brother, and the boyfriend was initially brought here for surgery. But he got transferred early this morning, after his procedure, to a different hospital for obvious security reasons. Two policemen were guarding your door for half the time you were here. That's how I could allow myself a bit of shut-eye," he says, his voice trembling, and the guilt weighs heavily on those last few words.
He grabs my hand and manages a weak smile, but his eyes fill with tears, and he lowers his head. I close my eyes, fighting back the tears myself, and the strain sends shooting pains down my skull. I take a deep breath, let them flow, and open my eyes again. Michael is wiping his tears with the back of his sleeve. I have never seen him in such pain. Natalie and I went through the trauma, but I can only guess what he went through these last few hours. Once again, my tears, like oil on a fire, set the flames of anger ablaze.
"How could that school have missed that? Didn't they check her background?"
It is a rhetorical question, said out loud, in anger, to the world, but my husband answers.
"Apparently, 'Tiffany Brooks' isn't her real name. Her record was clean. She had impeccable references. There was no way for them to know," he says in a soft voice meant to ease me.
"What about us? How come we didn't notice anything? She called me to a meeting on Friday. To show me one of Natalie's drawings. She wanted me to explain it to her. She was very insistent about it! I should have known! I should have seen then that something was amiss! I should have—"
I start sobbing again. My husband just takes me in his arms, shushing me like a child. His warm, safe embrace envelops me, and the fire ceases. All that is left is the smoke of confusion, burning my eyes and making it hard for me to breathe. In the state I am in, it is painful to cry. Every muscle in my body is complaining in agony, begging for me to stop. But the release, to be able to let go and cry it out, is so good.
The smoke clears, and the sobbing stops. I lay back on my pillow, and even though my body is aching, for this one moment, my mind is at peace. Sleep is creeping up on me, and my eyes close, but my husband asks me an unexpected question.
"Want to hear a funny story?" he tells me with an amused grin.
I look up at him, confused but also curious. What possible funny story could he have to tell me?
"What?" I ask.
"Timmy, from the vet's office. Apparently, he was also up to no good last night!"
He lowers his voice and leans towards me, his grin still hanging from his lips. I cannot help but grin myself. He reminds me of a school kid who brought his pet frog in his lunchbox and is dying to tell someone.
"What do you mean?" I egg him on.
"He and some buddies tried to rob his dad's clinic for some drugs! They got caught because his dad was still in his office with one of his young assistants working late hours if you know what I mean. Word out in the streets is that the good doctor and his assistant were in the middle of doing the deed when his kid and his buddies walked in on them! Needless to say, they were both pretty surprised to see each other," he says with a wink, but then his amused grin turns into a snorted laughter.
Forgetting the pain I am in, I laugh, and I regret it immediately. The soreness on my body does not allow me to take the deep breaths I need to laugh, and so the pain is worst, which I find silly, which makes me laugh more.
"Don't—Don't make me laugh!" I manage to tell my husband in between breaths.
"Oh! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, babe!" he apologizes, failing to contain his own laughter.
The laughter subsides, and we look at each other. Without a word, we appreciate we are both fortunate to laugh again. Michael takes my face in between his hands.
My thoughts go back to Timmy. Poor Timmy, who I wrongly accused of being the ringleader of those psychopaths.
"Where is Timmy now?" I ask.
"Still at the police station, from what I heard. He and his buddies were questioned all night about the robbery at the clinic. And about what happened at our house," Michael informs me.
My cheeks flush red. What have I done? I was convinced it was Timmy under those bandages. How could I have been so wrong?
"But he won’t be accused of anything concerning what happened to Natalie and me, right? I mean, Officer Bryson must have cleared all that out by now, right?" I ask.
"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. But since you mentioned Timmy’s name, I guess they just wanted to be thorough with their investigation. He’s only been accused of the robbery now. Apparently, his dad wants to give him a lesson," he explains.
I sigh in relief, but this new information does not help with the awful guilt that just crept up on me. Sensing my discomfort, Michael changes the subject.
"I'm happy you're both ok. And I'm sorry I wasn't there."
His voice is breaking, and I know he is fighting like hell not to cry in front of me. His eyes swell up with tears, and it is my turn to cup his face.
"No, honey. No. If you had been there, we would both be dead, and Natalie would be missing," I tell him.