Despite the room's nearly supernova heat--and my constant protestations--Mom would put an extra blanket over me when I was asleep. I woke up one time--my body drenched in sweat, naturally--to hear my mother telling the black nurse with the formal hat about my previous stay at St. Elizabeth's when I was only seven.
"He had salmonella," Honey stated in a conspiratorial whisper that was only slightly louder than a bullhorn. "You never smelled diarrhea like that. It was just pouring out of him. His stench practically seeped into the wallpaper."
"He ain't all roses now either," the nurse replied.
The two women shared a laugh.
On Day Two of my recovery, Mom was standing over my bed when I awoke.
"Remember this?" she said.
She was holding a stuffed Oscar the Grouch someone had given me during that salmonella stay. The green had faded to a light mint. She looked at the nurse. "This is Marc's Oscar," she explained.
"Mom," I said.
She turned her attention back to me. The mascara was a little too heavy today, crinkling into the wrinkle lines. "Oscar kept you company back then, remember? He helped you get better."
I rolled and then closed my eyes. A memory came to me. I had gotten the salmonella from raw eggs. My father used to add them into milkshakes for the protein. I remember the way pure terror had gripped me when I'd first learned that I would have to stay in the hospital overnight. My father, who had recently ruptured his Achilles tendon playing tennis, was in a cast and constant pain. But he saw my fear and as always, he made the sacrifice. He worked all that day at the plant and spent all night in a chair by my hospital bed. I stayed at St. Elizabeth's for ten days. My father slept in that chair every night of them.
Mom suddenly turned away, and I could see she was remembering the same thing. The nurse quickly excused herself. I put a hand on my mother's back. She didn't move, but I could feel her shudder. She stared down at the faded Oscar in her hands. I slowly took it from her.
"Thank you," I said.
Mom wiped her eyes. Dad, I knew, would not come to the hospital this time, and while I am sure my mother had told him what had happened, there was no way to know if he even understood. My father had had his first stroke when he was forty-one years old--one year after staying those nights with me at the hospital. I was eight at the time.
I also have a younger sister, Stacy, who is either a "substance abuser" (for the more politically correct) or "crack-head" (for the more accurate). I sometimes look at old pictures from before my dad's stroke, the ones with the young, confident family of four and the shaggy dog and the well-groomed lawn and the basketball hoop and the coal-overloaded, lighter fluid-saturated barbecue. I look for hints of the future in my sister's front-teeth-missing smile, her shadow self perhaps, a sense of foreboding. But I see none. We still have the house, but it's like a sagging movie prop. Dad is still alive, but when he fell, everything shattered Humpty-Dumpty style. Especially Stacy.
Stacy had not visited or even called, but nothing she does surprises me anymore.
My mother finally turned to face me. I gripped the faded Oscar a little tighter as a thought struck me anew: It was just us again. Dad was pretty much a vegetable. Stacy was hollowed out, gone. I reached out and took Mom's hand, feeling both the warmth and the more recent thickening of her skin. We stayed like that until the door opened. The same nurse leaned into the room.
Mom straightened up and said, "Marc also played with dolls,"
"Action figures," I said, quick on the correction. "They were action figures, not dolls."
My best friend, Lenny, and his wife, Cheryl, also stopped by the hospital every day. Lenny Marcus is a big-time trial lawyer, though he also handles my small-time stuff like the time I fought a speeding ticket and the closing on our house. When he graduated and began working for the county prosecutor, friends and opponents quickly dubbed Lenny "the Bulldog" because of his aggressive courtroom behavior. Somewhere along the line, it was decided that the name was too mild for Lenny, so now they called him "Cujo." I've known Lenny since elementary school. I'm the godfather of his son Kevin. And Lenny is Tara's godfather.
I haven't slept much. I lie at night and stare at the ceiling and count the beeps and listen to the hospital night sounds and try very much not to let my mind wander to my little daughter and the endless array of possibilities. I am not always successful. The mind, I have learned, is indeed a dark, snake-infested pit.
Detective Regan visited later with a possible lead.
"Tell me about your sister," he began.
"Why?" I said too quickly. Before he could elaborate, I held up my hand to stop him. I understood. My sister was an addict. Where drugs roamed, so too did a certain criminal element. "Were we robbed?" I asked.
"We don't think so. Nothing seems to be missing, but the place was tossed."
"Tossed?"
"Someone made a mess. Any thoughts on why?"
"No."
"So tell me about your sister."
"You have Stacy's record?" I asked.
"We do."
"I'm not sure what I can add."
"You two are estranged, correct?"
Estranged. Did that apply to Stacy and me? "I love her," I said slowly.
"And when was the last time you saw her?"
"Six months ago."
"When Tara was born?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Where did I see her?"
"Yes."
"Stacy came to the hospital," I said.
"To see her niece?"
"Yes."
"What happened during that visit?"
"Stacy was high. She wanted to hold the baby."
"You refused?"
"That's right."
"Did she get angry?"
"She barely reacted. My sister is pretty flat when she's stoned."
"But you threw her out?"
"I told her she couldn't be a part of Tara's life until she was clean."
"I see," he said. "You were hoping that would force her back into rehab?"
I might have chuckled. "No, not really."
"I'm not sure I understand."
I wondered how to put this. I thought of the smile in the family photo, the one without the front teeth. "We've threatened Stacy with worse," I said. "The truth is that my sister won't quit. The drugs are part of her."
"So you hold out no hope for recovery?"
There was no way I was about to voice that. "I didn't trust her with my daughter," I said. "Let's leave it at that."
Regan headed over to the window and looked out. "When did you move into your current residence?"
"Monica and I bought the house four months ago."
"Not far from where you both grew up, no?"
"That's right."
"Had you two known each other long?"
I was puzzled by the line of questioning. "No."
"Even though you grew up in the same town?"
"We traveled in different circles."
"I see," he said. "And just so I have it straight, you bought your house four months ago and you hadn't seen your sister in six months, correct?"
"Correct."
"So your sister has never visited you at your current residence?"
"That's right."
Regan turned to me. "We found a set of Stacy's fingerprints at your house."
I said nothing.
"You don't seem surprised, Marc."
"Stacy is an addict. I don't think she's capable of shooting me and kidnapping my daughter, but I've underestimated how low she could sink before. Did you check her apartment?"
"No one has seen her since you were shot," he said.
I closed my eyes.
"We don't think your sister could pull off something like this by herself," he went on. "She might have had an accomplice--a boyfriend, a dealer, someone who knew your wife was from a wealthy family. Do you have any thoughts?"
"No," I said. "So, what, you think this whole thing was
a kidnapping plot?"
Regan started clawing at his soul patch again. Then he gave a small shrug.
"But they tried to kill us both," I went on. "How do you collect ransom from dead parents?"
"They could have been so doped up that they made a mistake," he said. "Or maybe they thought they could extort money from Tara's grandfather."
"So why haven't they yet?"
Regan did not reply. But I knew the answer. The heat, especially after the shooting, would be too much for crack-heads. Crack-heads don't handle conflict well. It is one of the reasons they snort or shoot themselves up in the first place--to escape, to fade away, to avoid, to dive down into the white. The media would be all over this case. The police would be making inquiries. Crack-heads would freak under that kind of pressure. They would flee, abandon everything. And they would get rid of all the evidence.
But the ransom demand came two days later.
Now that I had regained consciousness, my recovery from the gunshot wounds was proceeding with surprising smoothness. It could be that I was focused on getting better or that lying in a quasi-catatonic state for twelve days had given my injuries time to heal. Or it could be that I was suffering from a pain way beyond what the physical could inflict. I would think of Tara and the fear of the unknown would stop my breath. I would think of Monica, of her lying dead, and steel claws would shred me from within.
I wanted out.
My body still ached, but I pressed Ruth Heller to release me. Noting that I was proving the adage about doctors making the worst patients, she reluctantly gave me the okay to go home. We agreed that a physical therapist would come by every day. A nurse would pop by periodically, just to be on the safe side.
On the morning of my departure from St. Elizabeth, my mother was at the house--the former crime scene--getting it "ready" for me, whatever that meant. Oddly enough, I wasn't afraid to go back there. A house is mortar and brick. I didn't think the sight of it alone would move me, but maybe I was just blocking.
Lenny helped me pack and get dressed. He is tall and wiry with a face darkened by a Homer Simpson five-o'clock shadow that pops up six minutes after he shaves. As a child Lenny wore Coke-bottle glasses and too-thick corduroy, even in the summer. His curly hair had a habit of getting outgrown to the point where he'd start resembling a stray poodle. Now he keeps the curls religiously close cropped. He had laser eye surgery two years ago, so the glasses are gone. His suits lean toward the upscale side.
"You sure you won't stay with us?" Lenny said.
"You have four kids," I reminded him.
"Oh yeah, right." He paused. "Can I stay with you?"
I tried to smile.
"Seriously," Lenny said, "you shouldn't be alone in that house."
"I'll be fine."
"Cheryl cooked you some dinners. She put them in the freezer."
"That was nice of her."
"She's still the world's most godawful cook," Lenny said.
"I didn't say I was going to eat them."
Lenny looked away, busying himself with the already packed bag. I watched him. We have known each other a long time, since Mrs. Rob erts's first-grade class, so it probably did not surprise him when I said, "You want to tell me what's up?"
He'd been waiting for the opening and thus quickly exploited it. "Look, I'm your lawyer, right?"
"Right."
"So I want to give you some legal advice."
"I'm listening."
"I should have said something earlier. But I knew you wouldn't listen. Now, well, now it's a different story, I think."
"Lenny?"
"Yeah?'
"What are you talking about?"
Despite his physical enhancements, I still saw Lenny as a kid. It made it hard to take his advice too seriously. Don't get me wrong. I knew that he was smart. I had celebrated with him when he got his acceptance to Princeton and then Columbia Law. We took the SATs together and were in the same AP chemistry class our junior year. But the Lenny I saw was the one I desperately cruised with on muggy Friday and Saturday nights. We used his dad's wood-paneled station wagon-- not exactly a "babe trawler"--and tried to hit the parties. We were always let in but never really welcome, members of that high school majority I call the Great Unseen. We would stand in corners, holding a beer, bopping our heads to the music, trying hard to be noticed. We never were. Most nights we ended up eating a grilled cheese at the Heritage Diner or, better, at the soccer field behind Benjamin Franklin Middle School, lying on our backs, checking out the stars. It was easier to talk, even with your best friend, when you were looking at the stars.
"Okay," Lenny said, overgesturing as was his custom, "it's like this: I don't want you talking to the cops anymore without my being present."
I frowned. "For real?"
"Maybe it's nothing, but I've seen cases like this. Not like this, but you know what I mean. The first suspect is always family."
"Meaning my sister."
"No, meaning close family. Or closer family, if possible."
"Are you saying the police suspect me?"
"I don't know, I really don't." He paused but not for very long. "Okay, yeah, probably."
"But I was shot, remember? My kid was the one taken."
"Right, and that cuts both ways."
"How do you figure that?"
"As the days pass, they're going to start suspecting you more and more."
"Why? "I asked.
"I don't know. That's just how it works. Look, the FBI handles kidnappings. You know that, right? Once a child is gone twenty-four hours, they assume it's interstate and the case is theirs."
"So?"
"So for the first, what, ten days or so, they had a ton of agents here. They monitored your phones and waited for the ransom call, that kinda thing. But the other day, they pretty much pulled up stakes. That's normal, of course. They can't wait indefinitely, so they scale back to an agent or two. And their thinking shifted too. Tara became less a possible kidnapping-for-ransom and more a straight-on abduction. But my guess is, they still have the taps on the phones. I haven't asked yet, but I will. They'll claim they're leaving them there in case a ransom demand is eventually made. But they'll also be hoping to hear you say something incriminating." "So?"
"So be careful," Lenny said. "Remember that your phones--home, biz, cell--are probably tapped."
"And again I ask: So? I didn't do anything."
"Didn't do ... ?" Lenny waved his hands as if preparing to take flight. "Look, just be careful is all. This might be hard for you to believe, but--and try not to gasp when I say this--the police have been known to twist and distort evidence."
"You're confusing me. Are you saying I'm a suspect simply because I'm the father and husband?"
"Yes," Lenny said. "And no."
"Well, okay, thanks, that clears it up."
A phone next to my bed rang. I was on the wrong side of the room. "You mind?" I said.
Lenny picked it up. "Dr. Seidman's room." His face clouded over as he listened. He spat out the words "Hold on," and handed the phone to me, as if it might have germs. I gave him a puzzled look and said, "Hello?"
"Hello, Marc. This is Edgar Portman."
Monica's father. That explained Lenny's reaction. Edgar's voice was, as always, way too formal. Some people weigh their words. A select few, like my father-in-law, take each one and put it on a scale before letting it leave their mouths.
I was momentarily taken aback. "Hello, Edgar," I said stupidly. "How are you?"
"I'm fine, thank you. I feel remiss, of course, for not having called you earlier. I understood from Carson that you were busy recuperating from your wounds. I felt it best if I let you be."
"Thoughtful," I said with nary a whiff of sarcasm.
"Yes, well, I understand you're being released today."
"That's right."
Edgar cleared his throat, which seemed out of character for him. "I was wondering if perhaps you could stop by the house."
Th
e house. Meaning his. "Today?"
"As soon as possible, yes. And alone please."
There was silence. Lenny gave me a puzzled look.
"Is something wrong, Edgar?" I asked.
"I have a car waiting downstairs, Marc. We'll talk more when you arrive."
And then, before I could say another word, he was gone.
The car, a black Lincoln Town Car, was indeed waiting.
Lenny wheeled me outside. I was familiar with this area, of course. I had grown up scant miles from St. Elizabeth. When I was five years old, my father had rushed me to the emergency room here (twelve stitches) and when I was seven, well, you already know too much about my salmonella visit. I'd gone to medical school and did my residency at what was then called Columbia Presbyterian in New York, but I returned to St. Elizabeth for a fellowship in ophthalmology for reconstruction.
Yes, I am a plastic surgeon, but not in the way you think. I do the occasional nose job, but you won't find me working with sacks of silicone or any of that. Not that I'm judging. It just isn't what I do.
I work in pediatric reconstructive surgery with my former medical school classmate, a fireball from the Bronx named Zia Leroux. We work for a group called One World WrapAid. Actually, Zia and I founded it. We take care of children, mostly overseas, who suffer deformities either through birth, poverty, or conflict. We travel a lot. I have worked on facial smashes in Sierra Leone, on cleft palates in Upper Mongolia, on Crouzon's in Cambodia, on burn victims in the Bronx. Like most people in my field, I've done extensive training. I've studied ENT--ears, nose, and throat--with a year of reconstructive, plastics, oral, and, as I mentioned above, ophthalmology. Zia's training history is similar, though she's stronger with the maxillofacial.
You may think of us as do-gooders. You'd be wrong. I had a choice. I could do boob jobs or tuck back the skin of those who were already too beautiful--or I could help wounded, poverty-stricken children. I chose the latter, not so much to help the disadvantaged, but alas, because that is where the cool cases lie. Most reconstructive surgeons are, at heart, puzzle lovers. We're weird. We get jazzed on circus-sideshow congenital anomalies and huge tumors. You know those medical textbooks that have hideous facial deformities that you have to dare yourself to look at? Zia and I love that stuff. We get off on repairing it--taking what's shattered and making it whole--even more.