A Faint Cold Fear

  “And?” Cathy tersely repeated.

  Sara cleared her throat, trying to distance herself from her feelings. She spoke to them as if they were just the parents of a patient. “She had a grand mal seizure about a minute before the helicopter came. I did what I could to help her.” Sara stopped, remembering how Tessa’s spasms had felt under her hands. She stared at her father, realizing he had not looked at her once since they’d arrived.

  Sara said, “She had two more seizures during the flight. Her left lung collapsed. They put a tube in her chest to help her breathe.”

  Cathy asked, “What are they doing now?”

  “Controlling the bleeding. A neurologic consult was called, but I don’t know what they found. Their primary focus is to stop the bleeding. They’ll do a C-section to remove—” Sara stopped, holding her breath.

  “The baby,” Cathy finished, and Eddie slumped against her.

  Sara slowly let the breath go.

  “What else?” Cathy asked. “What are you not telling us?”

  Sara looked away but told them, “They might have to perform a hysterectomy if they can’t get the bleeding under control.”

  Her parents were both quiet at the news, though Sara knew what they were thinking as clearly as if they were screaming it at her. Tessa had been their only hope for grandchildren.

  “Who did this?” Cathy finally asked. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know,” Sara whispered, the question echoing in her mind. What kind of monster would stab a pregnant woman and leave her for dead?

  “Does Jeffrey know anything?” Eddie asked, and Sara could tell the effort it took for her father to say Jeffrey’s name.

  “He’s doing everything he can,” Sara told him. “I’ll go back to Grant as soon as . . .” She could not finish.

  Cathy asked, “What can we expect when she wakes up?”

  Sara stared at her father, wanting to say something that would make him look up at her. If Eddie and Cathy had been anyone else, Sara would have told them the truth: that she had no idea what they should expect. Jeffrey often said that he didn’t like to talk to the relatives or friends of victims until he had something concrete to tell them. Sara had always thought this was a little cowardly on his part, but now she saw it was necessary, that people needed some kind of hope, some assurance that at least one thing would turn out all right.

  “Sara?” Cathy prompted.

  “They’ll want to monitor cranial activity. Probably do an EEG to make sure her brain isn’t damaged.” Sara grappled for something positive to say. Finally she told them the only thing she knew for certain. “There are a lot of things that could have gone wrong.”

  Cathy had no more questions. She turned toward Eddie, closing her eyes, pressing her lips to his head.

  Eddie finally spoke, but he still would not look at Sara. “You’re sure about the baby?”

  Sara found she had trouble speaking. Her throat felt as dry as the riverbed when she managed to whisper, “Yes, Daddy.”

  Sara stood at the vending machine outside the hospital cafeteria, punching the button on the snack machine until she felt a sharp pain in her knuckles. Nothing happened, and she bent down, checking the hopper, thinking she might have missed something. The bin was empty.

  “Dammit,” she said, kicking the machine. With little fanfare, a KitKat dropped down.

  Sara unwrapped the package, walking down the hallway to get away from the noise of the cafeteria. The food service had changed since she’d worked at the hospital. They served everything from Thai cuisine to Italian to juicy, thick hamburgers now. She imagined that it was a money pit for the hospital, but it did not make sense that a place dedicated to healing sold such unhealthy food.

  Even at close to midnight, the hospital was throbbing with people, and the constant noise made it like walking around a beehive. Sara could not remember the noise from her internship, but she was certain it had been the same. Fear and sleeplessness had probably kept her from noticing. Back before interns had gotten organized and started to demand more humane hours, shifts at Grady ran twenty-four to thirty-six hours long. To this day Sara felt she had yet to catch up on her sleep.

  She leaned her back against a door marked LINEN, knowing that she would never get up if she sat down again. Tessa had been out of surgery for three hours, and they had moved her to the ICU, where the family was taking turns staying with her. She was heavily sedated and had not yet woken up from surgery. Her condition was listed as guarded, but the surgeon thought the bleeding was under control. Tessa could still have children if she ever recovered enough from the ordeal in the forest to want one again.

  Being in the tiny ICU room with Tessa, feeling Eddie and Cathy’s blame though they had not said one word to Sara about it, had been too much. Even Devon had avoided talking to Sara, skulking in the corner, his eyes wide with shock over what had happened to his lover and his child. Sara felt very near her breaking point, but there was no one around who could help her put the pieces together again.

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, trying to remember the last thing her sister had said to her. In the helicopter Tessa had been post-ictal from the seizure and beyond communication. The last coherent thing she had said was in the car, when she told Sara that she loved her.

  Sara bit into the KitKat even though she was not hungry.

  “Evenin’, ma’am,” an older man said, tipping his hat to Sara as he walked by.

  She made herself smile, watching him go up the stairs. The man was around Eddie’s age, but what she could see of his hair was completely white. His skin was almost translucent in the artificial light of the hospital, and though his dark blue pants and light blue shirt were clean-looking, she could smell something like grease or machine oil in his wake. He could have been a mechanic or a maintenance man at the hospital, or maybe he had someone upstairs holding on to life, just like Tessa.

  A group of doctors stopped in front of the cafeteria doors, their scrubs wrinkled, their white jackets stained with various substances. They were young, probably students or interns. Their eyes were bloodshot, and there was something world-weary about them that Sara recognized from her own time here at Grady.

  They were obviously waiting for someone as they talked among themselves, their voices a low hum. Sara looked down at the chocolate in her hand, her eyes not really focusing on the label, as she heard them passing around hospital gossip, tossing out procedures they would like to get in on.

  A man’s voice said, “Sara?”

  Sara kept her eyes on the label, assuming that the man was talking to another Sara.

  “Sara Linton?” the voice repeated, and she glanced up at the group of interns, wondering if one of her patients from the Heartsdale Children’s Clinic was working at Emory now. She felt ancient looking at their young faces until she caught sight of a tall, older man standing behind them.

  “Mason?” she asked, recognition finally dawning. “Mason James?”

  “That’s me,” he said, pushing through the group of interns. He put his hand on her shoulder. “I ran into your folks upstairs.”

  “Oh,” Sara said, not knowing what else to say.

  “I work here now. Pediatric trauma.”

  “Right.” Sara nodded as if she remembered. She had dated Mason when she worked at Grady, but they’d lost touch after she moved back to Grant.

  “Cathy told me you were down here getting something to eat.”

  She held up the KitKat.

  He laughed. “I see your culinary tastes haven’t changed.”

  “They were out of filet mignon,” she told him, and Mason laughed again.

  “You look great,” he said, an obvious lie that good breeding and manners helped him pull off smoothly. Mason’s father had been a cardiologist, just like his grandfather. Sara had always thought that part of Mason’s attraction to her lay in the fact that Eddie was a plumber. Growing up in a world of boarding schools and country clubs, Mason had not had
much contact with the working class, beyond writing checks for their services.

  “How . . . uh . . .” Sara struggled for something to say. “How have you been?”

  “Great,” he said. “I heard about Tessa downstairs. It’s all over the ER.”

  Sara knew that even in a hospital as large as Grady, a case like Tessa’s stuck out. Any violence involving a child was considered that much more horrific.

  “I checked in on her. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Sara told him. “Not at all.”

  “Beth Tindall’s her doc,” he said. “She’s a good surgeon.”

  “Yes,” Sara agreed.

  He gave her a warm smile. “Your mother is still as pretty as ever.”

  Sara tried to smile back. “I’m sure she was glad to see you.”

  “Well, under the circumstances . . .” he allowed. “Do they know who did it?”

  She shook her head, feeling her composure slip. “No idea.”

  “Sara,” he said, brushing the back of her hand with his fingers, “I’m so sorry.”

  She looked away, willing herself not to cry. No one had tried to console her since Tessa had been stabbed. Her skin prickled at his touch, and she felt foolish for taking comfort in such a small gesture.

  Mason noticed the change. He cupped his hand to her face, making her look up at him. “Are you okay?”

  “I should go back up,” she said.

  He took her elbow, saying, “Come on,” as he led her down the hallway.

  Sara listened to him talk as they walked toward the ICU, not really paying attention to his words but liking the soft, soothing monotone of his voice as he told her about the hospital and his life since Sara had left Atlanta. Mason James was the type of man who seemed to take everything in stride. When she’d been fresh from Grant County, Mason had seemed so cosmopolitan and grown-up to Sara, whose only dating experience at that point had been Steve Mann, a guy who thought that a good date ended with him fondling Sara in the backseat of his father’s Buick.

  They turned the corner, and Sara could see her father and mother in the hallway, having what looked like a heated discussion. Eddie was the first to spot Sara and Mason, and he stopped whatever he was saying.

  Eddie’s eyelids were drooped, and he looked more tired than Sara had ever seen him. Her mother seemed to have aged more in the last hour than she had in the last twenty years. They looked so vulnerable that Sara felt a lump come into her throat.

  “I’m going to go check on Tess,” she said, excusing herself. She pushed the button to the right of the doors and walked into the ICU.

  Like most hospitals, the intensive-care unit at Grady was small and secluded. The lights were darkened in the rooms and corridors, and the atmosphere was cool and soothing, as much for the few visitors who were allowed in every two hours as for the patients. All the rooms had sliding glass doors and afforded little privacy, but most of the patients were too sick to complain. Sara could hear the beeps of heart monitors and the slow breathing of ventilators as she walked to the back. Tessa’s room was directly across from the nurses’ station, which said something about how critical her case was.

  Devon was in the room with her, standing a few feet from the bed with his hands tucked into his pockets. He leaned against the wall, though there was a comfortable chair right beside him.

  “Hey,” Sara said.

  He barely acknowledged her. His eyes were red-rimmed, and his dark skin looked pale in the artificial light of the room.

  “Has she said anything?”

  He took his time answering. “She opened her eyes a couple of times, but I don’t know.”

  “She’s trying to wake up,” Sara told him. “That’s good.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

  “If you need a break . . . ,” she began, but Devon did not wait for her to finish. He walked from the room without a backward glance.

  Sara pulled the chair over to Tessa’s bed and sat down. She had been sitting most of the day waiting for news, but she felt exhausted.

  Bandages covered Tessa’s head where they had stitched her scalp back into place. Two drains were attached to her belly to draw off fluid. A catheter hung from the bed rail, only partially full. The room was dark, the only light coming from the various monitors. Tessa had been taken off the ventilator an hour before, but the heart monitor was still attached, its metallic beep announcing every beat of her heart.

  Sara stroked her sister’s fingers, thinking that she’d never noticed what small hands Tessa had. She could still remember Tessa’s first day of school, when Sara had taken her hand to walk her to the bus stop. Before they left, Cathy had lectured Sara to take care of her little sister. The theme was a familiar one throughout their childhood. Even Eddie had told Sara to take care of her sister, though Sara later figured the real reason her father had always encouraged Tessa to tag along on Sara’s dates with Steve Mann: Eddie knew about the Buick’s large backseat.

  Tessa’s head moved, as if she sensed someone was there.

  “Tess?” Sara said, holding her hand, gently squeezing. “Tess?”

  Tessa made a noise that sounded more like a groan. Her hand moved to her stomach, as it had a million times over the last eight months.

  Slowly Tessa’s eyes opened. She looked around the room, her eyes finding Sara.

  “Hey,” Sara said, feeling a relieved smile come to her face. “Hey, sweetie.”

  Tessa’s lips moved. She put her hand to her throat.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  Tessa nodded, and Sara looked for the cup of ice chips the nurse had left by the bed. The ice had mostly melted, but Sara managed to find a few slivers for her sister.

  “They put a tube down your throat,” Sara explained, sliding the ice into Tessa’s mouth. “You’ll feel sore from that for a while, and it’ll be hard to talk.”

  Tessa closed her eyes as she swallowed.

  “Do you have much pain?” Sara asked. “Do you want me to get the nurse?”

  Sara started to stand, but Tessa did not let go of her hand. She didn’t have to vocalize the first question on her mind. Sara could read it in her eyes.

  “No, Tessie,” she said, feeling tears stream down her face. “We lost it. We lost her.” Sara pressed Tessa’s hand to her lips. “I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

  Tessa stopped her without saying a word. The beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room, a metallic testament to Tessa’s life.

  “Do you remember?” Sara asked. “Do you know what happened?”

  Tessa’s head moved once to the side for no.

  “You went into the woods,” Sara said. “Brad saw you pick up a bag and put trash in it. Do you remember that?”

  Again she indicated no.

  “We think someone was there.” Sara stopped herself. “We know someone was in the woods. Maybe he wanted the bag. Maybe he . . .” She did not finish her train of thought. Too much information would only confuse her sister, and Sara was not sure of the facts herself.

  Sara said, “Someone stabbed you.”

  Tessa waited for more.

  “I found you in the woods. You were lying in the clearing and I . . . I tried to do what I could. I tried to help. I couldn’t.” Sara felt her composure slip again. “Oh, God, Tessie, I tried to help.”

  Sara put her head down on the bed, ashamed that she was crying. She needed to be strong for her sister, needed to show her that they would get through this together, but the only thing she could think about was her own blame in all of this. After a lifetime of looking out for Tessa, Sara had failed her at the one time she was needed most.

  “Oh, Tess,” Sara sobbed, needing her sister’s forgiveness more than anything else in her life. “I’m so sorry.”

  She felt Tessa’s hand on the back of her head. The touch was awkward at first, but Tessa was trying to pull Sara toward her.

  Sara looked up, her face inches from Tessa’s.

  Tessa move
d her lips, not yet used to using her mouth. She breathed the word “Who?” She wanted to know who had done this to her, who had killed her child.

  “I don’t know,” Sara said. “We’re trying, sweetie. Jeffrey’s out there right now doing everything he can.” Sara’s voice caught. “He’ll make sure whoever did this to you never hurts anybody again.”

  Tessa touched her fingers to Sara’s cheek, just under her eye. With a trembling hand, she wiped away Sara’s tears.

  “I’m so sorry, Tessie. I’m so sorry.” Sara begged, “Tell me what I can do. Tell me.”

  When Tessa spoke, her voice was scratchy, little above a whisper. Sara watched her lips move, but she could hear Tessa speak as plainly as if she had shouted.

  “Find him.”

  MONDAY

  5

  Jeffrey leaned down to pick up the newspaper off Sara’s front porch before going into the house. He had told her he would be there by six this morning so she could call him with an update on Tessa. She had sounded awful on the phone last night. More than anything, Jeffrey hated to hear Sara cry. It made him feel useless and weak, two characteristics he despised in anyone, especially himself.

  Jeffrey switched on the lights in the hallway. On the other side of the house, he heard the dogs stirring, their collars jingling, their loud yawns, but they did not come out to see who had arrived. After spending two years racing around the dog track in Ebro, Sara’s two greyhounds were loath to expend any energy unless they had to.

  Jeffrey whistled, tossing the paper onto the kitchen counter, glancing at the front page while he waited for the dogs. The photograph above the fold showed Chuck Gaines standing between his father and Kevin Blake. Apparently the three men had won some sort of golf tournament in Augusta on Saturday. Underneath was a story encouraging voters to support a new bond referendum that would help replace the trailers outside the school with permanent classrooms. The Grant Observer had its priorities right in giving Albert Gaines top billing. The man owned half the buildings in town and his bank carried the mortgages on the others.