What if they buried him in the tanks?
When I got to Robbie’s, I ran to the excavator. I was right: The lids for the tanks were under the mound of dirt, but the pipes out to the field were uncovered. One came up beside the mound. I heard something, a muffled sound from the end of a pipe. I focused on the sound, called, “Robbie?” Then I heard the noise again, a faint call for help.
I yelled down, “Hang in there,” and called 911, shouting directions.
I grabbed a shovel from the shop and began digging, yanking off my coat and tossing it to the side. It would take forever to move enough dirt to remove the lid. I looked at the excavator. Were the keys still in it?
I climbed onto the machinery and found the keys still in the ignition. In their haste, they must have forgotten them. I turned on the big machine, the diesel engine loud and drowning out the thudding of my heart. I hoped I still remembered how to run it. My hands sweaty on the levers, I tried to bring the bucket up, but I kept digging it farther into the ground, catching it on a boulder. Finally, I figured out how to lift the bucket, then scoop the dirt and move it to the side. When the hatch was in sight, I shut the machine off and ran over to the tank.
I began to try to tug and pull at the concrete lid, but it was almost two feet by two feet—and heavy. How was I going to get Robbie out?
I looked back at the excavator resting near me. Could I use it somehow? I caught sight of a heavy metal chain under the seat, with two hooks on either end. I dragged the chain over to the bucket, attaching one end on the teeth and the other on the hatch. Then I clambered back onto the machine, and jerking and bobbing, my hands still unsteady, I brought the bucket up. I lifted the hatch off, with a whoop of relief, and dropped it to the side. I shut the machine off and ran back to the opening, kneeling as I yelled, “Robbie, you okay?”
My brother’s voice floated up. “Brew—he’s hurt.”
“I’m coming down.”
I lowered myself into the tank, which didn’t look deep, bracing my arms on the sides of the opening, worried I would land on Robbie. But when he saw my legs he said, “I’m over here,” from the other end of the tank. I dropped with a thud and found myself in an area about four by eight. In the dim light from above, I noticed Robbie lying in the corner, his back propped up on the wall of the tank. Brew was lying beside him.
Now I also realized that Robbie’s shirt was off and he was holding it in a bundle against Brew’s shoulder. The animal’s breathing was rapid, his side rising and falling, air coming out in a chuff.
Robbie said, “Can you help Brew?” His voice was tight, rushed, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out.
I crawled over, saying, “Easy, boy,” when Brew whined. I checked his pulse, using the femoral artery on the inside of his thigh. It was weak and thready. The tank was filled with the scent of blood mingling with dog breath and fur. I could also smell Robbie’s body scent, sweat and dirt, diesel from his excavator.
Still speaking fast, Robbie said, “Brew attacked Joseph. I tried to stop the bleeding.”
I felt along Brew’s ribs and under his front leg. My hand was covered with warm sticky blood. I examined his gums. Even in the dim light, I could see they were pale gray. I pressed the flat part of my finger against them, checking his capillary refill time.
Five seconds. Far too slow.
The bullet had probably hit a small vein and he was bleeding internally. If it had been a main artery, he would’ve died in minutes. The heavy breathing was not so much pain as his body working hard to make oxygen. He’d just get sleepier and sleepier until he finally passed out, and then died. Likely soon.
I said, “It doesn’t look good, Robbie.”
“Fuck.” He rested his head on the back of the wall, looked upward. “Fuck. Fuck.” His voice was thick, like he was fighting tears.
My own eyes filling with tears, I said, “I called 911. They’re on the way.”
“Is Brew going to make it?”
I looked back down at the dog. His breathing had gone shallow. His eyes half-closed, his tongue lolling. “No, I don’t think he has long.”
“Shit.” Robbie took a deep breath, like he was trying to brace himself, then carefully lifted the dog up, so he was partway across his lap. Brew gave Robbie’s hand a small lick, then closed his eyes all the way. His breathing slowed.
“Good boy,” Robbie said. He bent down and pressed his lips to Brew’s head, gave him a hug. “You want to go for a walk? Let’s go for a walk, buddy.”
Brew let out a sigh. A few moments later, he was gone.
* * *
We sat in silence, my hand still on Brew’s side, while tears rolled down my face. I looked only at the dog, trying to give Robbie some space, but I heard him sniff a few times and clear his throat. There was a sense of emptiness in the tank now, a hushed soundless quiet that made every movement seem louder. Brew’s body was already cooling; his life was over. Still, I stroked his soft fur, mentally saying my own good-byes, thanking him for being a friend to my brother, remembering him trotting over, bumping his wet nose into my hand.
After a few minutes, Robbie wiped his face, leaned over, and whispered something in Brew’s ear. He then eased Brew’s limp body off his leg, gently resting his head down on the ground. He sat back up, with a groan.
I said, “Are you okay?”
He wheezed. “My ribs—I think some are broken.”
“I should have a look.”
In the dark, my hand touched Robbie’s side, but I couldn’t feel any blood, or protrusions.
He sucked in his breath. “Shit.” He rubbed at his chest. “I keep getting these fucking pains in my chest.”
Was he having an anxiety attack? “What does it feel like?”
“This pressure. I can feel it in my arms and jaw, around my back too. Like someone’s squeezing me. Hurts like shit—makes it hard to breathe.”
Oh, no.
“You could be having a heart attack. Are you feeling light-headed?”
Almost on cue, his head dropped forward, and he slumped down.
“Robbie!”
I quickly moved Brew’s body to the side and lowered Robbie so he was lying flat, checking his vitals. His breathing was shallow—then stopped. I started CPR immediately, saying in between chest compressions, “Come on, Robbie.”
Please, God. Please help us.
In the distance, I heard sirens.
* * *
I rode in the ambulance with Robbie down to Victoria. They had him on oxygen even before they got him out of the septic tank, and gave him chest compressions all the way to the hospital. They brought him back a couple of times, but they were still giving him chest compressions as they wheeled him into emergency. For the next while, I paced the hallway, waiting for news. All I could think about was how many years we hadn’t stayed in touch, how many years I’d thought it was just easier that way.
The police had sent cars to Mary’s, but I didn’t know if they’d made any arrests, or if Aaron was even alive. Finally, one of the doctors came out and told me that Robbie was stable and responding. They were going to move him to ICU while they ran some tests. I was allowed to visit with him briefly, but he was on pain control, which was making him sleepy, so we didn’t talk. I just held his hand, telling him he was going to be okay. His face was pale, but he managed a smile.
Kevin, worried about why I hadn’t shown up back at the hospital for a staff meeting, which I had completely forgotten about, called my cell when I was in the waiting room. Still in shock, I told him that my brother had had a heart attack. He came by to bring me coffee, and when he saw the police outside Robbie’s room, he knew there was more to the story. I filled him in, then he sat, flipping through a magazine, while I paced. My feet keeping time with my thoughts: Will Robbie make it? Is Lisa okay? What’s happening at the commune?
The doctor came to talk to me again. “Looks like he had a narrowing of one of his arteries. We’ll do bypass surgery in the morning a
nd put in a stent. If all goes well, you should be able to see him tomorrow evening, and he’ll be home in a couple of days.” Before the doctor left, he added, “He’s probably had this problem for a while—he’s lucky he was with you.”
After the doctor had gone, I held my hand over my own heart, sagging back in the chair.
Kevin reached over and rubbed my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Anderson’s one of the best cardiac guys in the country.”
I gave him a smile. “Thanks, and thanks for sitting with me.”
“Of course. Do you want another coffee?”
“I’m good. I’m sure you have appointments. I don’t want to keep you. I’ll probably be here for a while.”
He nodded, but said, “I can reschedule. I don’t mind staying.”
I said, “No, please. Really, I’m fine on my own.”
He looked at the magazine he was holding, ruffled a few of the pages with his thumb, then said, “When you told me what had happened, it scared me.”
“I’m fine. Little banged up, but I’ll be okay.”
“I know, but it made me realize something.”
“What’s that?”
“Even though I don’t want to lose someone again, I still want to have a relationship in my life. I think it’s worth the risk. I think you’re worth the risk.”
“I’m sorry, Kevin, but I told you. That’s not what I want right now.”
“You told me that, but I’m not sure if it’s true.”
“It’s true.” We held gazes for a moment, then I looked away. “I’ve had a lot happen in the last twenty-four hours. I need some time alone, to sit and think.”
“Of course. If you need me—”
“I know where you are.” I said it with a smile, but the message was clear.
He dropped his magazine on the chair, also gave me a smile, and then headed to the elevator. After he left, I picked up his magazine and flipped through it, then stopped and looked at the coffee he’d brought me, now cold. I thought of his offer. I’d wanted a fresh coffee, wanted his companionship, but I’d still said no. What was wrong with me? Why had I reacted so negatively to his kind offer?
Then I thought of Francine, a sad, elderly woman wandering the halls, lonely, speaking to people from her past. A life lived with many friends and travels, a successful career, but no one left to sit by her side.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The police called later that evening. They’d arrested Aaron at the scene, and, still in custody, he’d been rushed to the hospital for a gunshot wound. He’d lost a lot of blood and was recovering on the same ward as Robbie, but with an armed guard. Daniel and Joseph had escaped. The police weren’t able to search the commune without a warrant, and at the moment they didn’t have enough evidence that either of them might be hiding there to get one.
They were now contacting authorities in other countries to keep an eye out for Daniel and Joseph, in case they fled to one of the foreign communes. They’d also arrested Mary, but she was refusing to talk, still protecting her son. She did admit it was her car he’d made his escape in, after Joseph had taken the truck.
The next morning, Robbie had his surgery. I wasn’t working, but I tried to busy myself at the hospital, so I’d be around in case anything went wrong. Finally, Dr. Anderson paged me that Robbie was in recovery and starting to wake up. The procedure was successful, but he’d had another minor heart attack during surgery, so they wanted to keep him a few days, just for observation. I could see him now.
I walked into Robbie’s room and slowed as I neared his bed. His eyes were closed, and my pulse spiked when I noticed how pale he looked.
He opened his eyes when I reached his side. “Some nurse took my damn hat.”
He smiled at himself. Hating his vulnerability but knowing that I’d get the joke. Robbie had never liked to be without his baseball cap—only time I remember him not wearing one was at funerals. We’d had far too many of those.
“I’ll get you another one.” I smiled back, relieved to see he was in good spirits. I’d been worried about depression—something men often experience after a heart attack, especially because he’d just lost Brew. I felt a wave of sadness, thinking of my brother going home to an empty house. Almost like he’d read my mind, Robbie’s smile also faded, and we held gazes.
I said, “I’m sorry about Brew. The police brought his body out of the tank and Steve Phillips took him to the vet. Do you want him cremated?”
Steve had seen all the police cars going to my brother’s place and followed behind. I’d only spoken to him for seconds before climbing into the back of the ambulance, but he’d promised to look after Brew.
Robbie nodded and looked away, fiddling with the bandage on his chest. His voice thick, he said, “Can I have some water?”
I handed him his cup, helping him with the straw. When he was done, I set the cup back on the side table and sat down in the chair. Trying to pull myself together from the upset of seeing my brother with tubes coming out of him, I took a moment to unwind the scarf from around my neck, then stuffed it in my pocket.
Speaking low, almost in a mumble, Robbie said, “You did that in the ambulance.”
Thinking he might be groggy from pain medication, I said, “Did what?”
“Took off your scarf and shoved it in your pocket.”
I narrowed my eyes, tried to remember what he was talking about—the trip in the ambulance still a blur. The only time I remembered taking off my scarf was after he’d flatlined and they were giving him chest compressions. The stress and heat in the ambulance had made me feel like I was strangling.
“You were unconscious.…”
“It was more than that.” His voice was impatient. “You know I wouldn’t make this shit up. I saw you—like I was above you. You took the scarf off so fast you ripped your earring out. It’s under that stretcher I was on.”
Now I remembered the pinging sound, so focused on Robbie that I’d ignored it. I sat back in the chair, stunned into silence. How did he know that?
He said, “I don’t want to talk about this much—it scared the crap out of me, okay? And don’t go telling a bunch of people. They’ll think I’m nuts.”
Still trying to process what he’d just told me, I said, “Okay…”
“It was kind of like what Aaron described. I was outside, I could see you, and hear your thoughts. You were really scared—I tried to talk to you, but I couldn’t. I felt calm, though, and really peaceful.”
He had to have been hallucinating. I was about to explain that it was probably a neurological response to the lack of oxygen, then stopped when I realized that most hallucinations produced from an oxygen-starved brain would cause confusion or disorientation, not a calm, peaceful image. And I couldn’t explain how he knew my earring had fallen off. Even if he’d still had auditory response, there was no way he could’ve seen me remove my scarf.
Robbie stared back up at the ceiling, blinking hard. “Something happened to me in that ambulance. I don’t know what it was, or why it happened.” He met my eyes. “But I’m not afraid to die anymore.”
I thought of Paul, thought of my mother and father, about my own fears of death. Then I realized I’d climbed down into that septic tank without a moment’s hesitation. Being forced to conquer my fear in the barn had set me free.
I was overwhelmed by emotions and thoughts I wanted to take out and look at when I was alone. “Well, you’re not dying on my watch.”
He smiled, but then his face turned serious, the lines pulling deep around his mouth. “I should’ve protected you better when we were kids.”
“You did protect me—the best you could. You were only sixteen. Your job wasn’t to look after me. Our parents should’ve protected both of us.”
Anger washed across his face. “You’re always blaming them for everything that happened when we were kids. They tried their best.”
I wasn’t surprised at the disconnection between my memories and his. I’d seen it many times
in therapy, two siblings having a completely different opinion of their childhood. It was classic in a dysfunctional family, where the abuse was never discussed and the abuser always defended. But it made me sad. That the silence, and all things we don’t talk about, still separated us.
I said, “I loved them too—but they had a lot of problems.”
“You don’t even know what it was like. You were never around.”
And there it was: the resentment. I’d moved away, and he’d stayed.
I tried to calm down, fighting my urge to defend myself for breaking the cardinal rule of our family—unhappy or not, never talk about what was really going on. My trying to seek personal happiness, to rise out of the tears and black eyes, the screaming and crying, was the worst betrayal of all. I’d developed ideas, spoke the language of feelings, and worst, I’d been impatient and angry with them for not wanting more, for not trying to join me in my world. And they’d felt it.
I wanted to explain that leaving was the only way I could survive, that our family was mired in pain and denial, and that I couldn’t pretend anymore, couldn’t keep the silence. But Robbie had just had surgery and shouldn’t be getting upset, so I kept it all in, again, and said, “You could’ve left.”
“How, Nadine? How the fuck was I supposed to do that? So Dad could beat Mom to death? So he could fall down the stairs one night?”
Robbie’s face was red. The old anger finally coming to a head. My attempt to skirt the surface of our issues had failed. And it wasn’t the first time. In this intimate moment, death’s shadow still lingering between us, I realized that I always felt this in our conversations, had always done this. Thinking that I was holding back, but still my urge to push, to heal and fix, so people could be what I needed, was always there. In my tone, in the subtle way my tongue pushed the words out of my mouth. And my brother, the only person who’d shared my blood and my story, knew what I was really saying, even when I wasn’t speaking at all.