Room 501 South, Boston City Hospital. In spite of the fresh white paint and the red and blue poppy-splattered curtains, I’ve seen prison cells a whole lot cheerier. It was a double room, the size of a large closet. Sliding curtains were ominously closed around the bed of the occupant who’d arrived first and copped the window view of the trash dumpster.
Margaret’s eyes were closed, too, one of them swollen shut, purpling nicely. Breath rasped through her nostrils. An IV bag dripped colorless fluid through a thin tube connected to the veins in her left hand by needles and tape. The elevated hospital bed dwarfed her. White lab coats surrounded her. All that white, all that machinery—the combination made my stomach quake.
A broken collarbone, abrasions, contusions, probably a concussion. An impossibly young and cheerful doctor said she was lucky she hadn’t broken a hip.
Hospitals and prisons both make me sweat. Maybe it’s the smell. More likely, it’s something about places that hold you against your will.
At least prisons don’t have doctors who tell you how lucky you are.
Margaret had briefly regained consciousness in the ambulance. In a shaky voice, she’d informed the EMT that she had a mess to clear up at home, and he could just stop at the corner and she’d be on her way, thank you very much. And all the time, you could see she was hurting like hell, barely able to squeeze the words out of her swollen mouth. I hope I’ve got half that much spunk when I’m her age.
I waited in a dismal antiseptic-smelling hallway while two cops I didn’t know tried to question her. A pimply blond teenager in hospital greens slid one of those heavy buffing machines in lazy arcs across the linoleum floor. Over the hum, I could hear the cops’ voices. I couldn’t hear Margaret. Every once in a while a loudspeaker would cough out a doctor’s name or a room number, “Code Red” or “Code Blue,” and a sudden rush of white uniforms and scuffling feet would follow. Otherwise it was just the floor-buffer man and me. We exchanged brief smiles.
When the cops came out, I introduced myself. One of them knew Mooney.
“He sends his best,” the guy said. He was long and lean and wore the uniform well. “Too busy to take the squeal himself.”
“Yeah,” echoed the second cop. He was older, short and potbellied, with a jutting chin. Didn’t do a thing for the uniform.
I nodded toward Margaret’s door. “She tell you anything?”
“Too woozy,” the fat cop said immediately, with a warning glance at his partner. He wasn’t the type to give information to mere civilians.
“Said she fell downstairs,” the lean cop said softly.
A hefty blond nurse breezed into 501 carrying a tray with a glass of chipped ice and a straw. I excused myself and followed.
The closer I got, the worse she looked, and believe me, the view from the doorway window had been bad enough. From two feet away, her skin, the part of her skin that wasn’t bandaged, or raw and red, or purple from the bruises, was gray. The bandage across her forehead was neat enough, but a brownish stain was seeping through on the left side. All the tubes and drains made her look like some helpless old marionette, controlled by the huge mechanical bed and the display of instruments on the wall behind her head.
The nurse addressed her as if she were awake. I wasn’t sure, but I figured the nurse ought to know.
“I hope those policemen didn’t upset you,” she said briskly, smoothing an offending wrinkle out of the top sheet. “They have to ask their questions, I suppose.” She glanced at her wristwatch, then at me. “I’m sure your, uh, granddaughter can help you with the ice water.”
I nodded obediently, and tried to look young and earnest. The beating had added years to Margaret’s appearance.
The tray also held a syringe. The nurse uncapped the needle, lifted it to the light, checked something scrawled on the chart at the end of the bed.
“What’s that?” Margaret was awake after all.
“It’s for the pain.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You’ll feel a little pinch, Miss Devens, that’s all.”
“I don’t—” She tried to turn away, but didn’t have the strength to resist.
“There,” the nurse said calmly, removing the syringe from the vicinity of Margaret’s hip. “The medication will take effect soon, so don’t worry if you start feeling drowsy. Maybe your granddaughter will stay with you till you fall asleep.”
I beamed her a sincere, appreciative, family-member smile. The cops got a grudging three minutes. I’d just been granted unlimited bedside time, albeit with a drugged client. Sometimes there’s a benefit to not looking like your typical cop.
“She’ll feel much better tomorrow, dear,” the nurse promised me as she left.
I maneuvered a chair close to the head of the bed, sat down, and waited.
“Go away,” Margaret whispered. I hadn’t seen her open her eyes since the nurse left, but she’d turned her head in my direction, so I guess she must have peeked.
“What did he want?” I asked.
She said nothing and kept her eyes shut.
“Did you know him? Them?”
Again nothing.
“Was it Gene? Did your brother do this to you?”
That forced her good eye open. “No.”
“Then why are you trying to cover it up?”
Silence. The eye closed.
“Margaret, listen to me, I’m not a cop. I’m on your side. You paid me. Maybe I can help. You didn’t fall downstairs. A tornado did not strike your house.”
No response.
“Did they get what they wanted?”
“No.” The single syllable came out with grim satisfaction. She repeated it and her voice cracked.
“Water?”
I held the glass while she made an attempt to suck at the straw through swollen lips. She winced at the feel of it, and waved the glass away.
“Listen.” Her voice was so faint I had to lean over the bed. She grasped my hand, which was chilled from the icy glass. Hers was colder. “Find Gene. Please.”
“I’m looking. I’ll keep looking.”
“If I die—”
“You’re not dying, Margaret. The doctor—”
“Doctors.” She practically spat the word. “Eugene … If I die, there’s nobody else.”
I thought she’d dozed off, but when I tried to release my hand, she drew me closer with surprising strength. “Hide it,” she whispered. “Hide it for me. Don’t tell.”
Whatever they’d given her, Demerol, morphine, was starting to take hold. Her one open eye was wide and vacant, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure she knew I was there.
“Hide what?” I said.
She gazed at me blankly, as if she’d never seen me before in her life.
“Hide what?” I repeated.
“Go … home,” she murmured. Each word was separate, disjointed, like the beginning of a new thought. “Home … attic … toy trunk.”
“A toy trunk in the attic?”
She stared at me intently, pleading out of that one wandering eye. “Home … behind … trunk … attic …” She talked the way a drunk walked, trying to toe a straight line, wavering uncontrollably. She couldn’t manage to get the right words out, only the urgency. “Home … hide the … hide it. Gene …”
“Margaret, what does Gene have to do with it? Did you see Gene?”
She gave up, sighed deeply, closed her eye, and slept.
I sat with her a little while. The IV dripped. The second hand of the big clock described steady circles. Her breathing grew soft and even, her hand warmer.
Before I left, I tucked her hand underneath the thin blanket, and smoothed a strand of white hair off her forehead. Like I said, I never met my grandmother.