Die Before I Wake (23 page)

“Food will heal you, too. You need to eat, Jules.” I flushed slightly, grateful that he couldn’t see me because there was just enough doubt left in me to prevent that all-encompassing, absolute trust I’d once felt for Tom. Even though I was determined not to let fear control me, I still had doubts. Questions.

His wife had been murdered, and even if he hadn’t been a part of that murder—and I was sure he hadn’t—Tom should have pressed the police to investigate more thoroughly, should have done just about anything except what he apparently did, which was to blindly accept the ruling of suicide and continue on with his life. If it were me who died under the same circumstances, I would have expected him to leave no stone unturned until he found out the truth. The possibility that he might not do so was unsettling.

“Jules? Is everything okay?”

I reminded myself this was my husband talking, the man I loved, and that this strange otherworldli-ness that had come over me was a direct result of the medication I was taking, and not of any belief on my part that there’d been any wrongdoing on Tom’s.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just groggy. I’m getting up to unlock the door now.”

“Good girl. I’ll call Claudia and tell her to come back. Don’t forget to take your pill. Remember, every four hours.”

Good Lord. Was it time to take another of those awful things? I was barely able to function as it was.

“You know,” I said, “I’m not sure I should be taking them. They do really funky things to me.” In his I’m-the-doctor-and-therefore-you-should-listen-to-me voice, he said, “It’s crucial that you keep the medication in your system.”

“Why?”

Across miles of phone line, I heard his sigh of exasperation. “Because,” he said, as though explaining something to a very small child, “as long as it’s in your system, the pain won’t be as bad. But if the medication wears off and the pain comes back full force, it’ll take twice as long for another dose of medicine to relieve it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I understood, but wasn’t sure I agreed with him.

For all I knew, he was trying to poison me. Or keep me heavily drugged and therefore compliant. God knew, it was the only way anybody would ever see compliance from me. I wasn’t sure where these dark thoughts had come from, but they hovered, improbable yet real enough to sour my disposition. “I have to go now,” I said. “The door needs unlocking.” I disconnected, a little surprised to realize that I had just hung up on my darling husband, love of my life, the man I’d allowed only hours earlier to make sweet, hot love to me. What had gotten into me?

Thunderous of face and heavy of leg, I dragged myself to the kitchen door and unlocked it.

Tom was a fast worker. Claudia was already coming up the walkway, soup tureen in hand, my own little Florence Nightingale. “I thought you were dead,” she said cheerfully. “Or lying on the floor at the foot of the stairs again. I must have knocked for five minutes before I gave up and called Tom. Worst-case scenario, I figured, was that if you didn’t answer, he could zip home and unlock the door and we’d go in together. If we found you dead, at least we could console each other.”

I glowered at her as she breezed past me into the kitchen. “Gee, thanks.”

“For God’s sake, Julie, I’m kidding. What happened to your sense of humor? It must be the concussion. Or the pain pills. Certain medications used to turn my grandmother into a grumpy old goat.”

“Baa.”

She set the tureen on the counter and removed the cover. The smell that arose from it, while heavenly, wreaked havoc with my sick stomach.

“Trust me,” she said, “once you’ve tasted Aunt Claudia’s Famous Turkey Noodle Soup, your attitude will change. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”

“That’s false advertising. How can I get my money back if I’m not paying you for it?”

“Sit down and shut up. Where do you keep the bowls?”

“How should I know? I just moved here a few weeks ago. Jeannette usually doesn’t let me near the kitchen.”

“That’s all right, we’ll find them.” She opened and closed cabinet doors until she found the right one. With a pretty blue ceramic bowl in hand, she went to the silverware drawer and took out a soup spoon, then ladled a huge bowl of turkey noodle soup and placed it in front of me with a flourish.

“There you go, darling. Eat hearty.” I stared at the bowl of soup. My appetite had taken a powder, and nausea still roiled in my stomach. “I’m not hungry,” I said.

“Eat it anyway. You need to eat, or you’ll lose your strength.”

I glanced at the tureen, still steaming on the kitchen counter, then back at the bowl in front of me.

“You’re not having any?” I said.

“I already ate my lunch.”

“Really? How convenient.”

Claudia raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”

“How do I know you’re not trying to poison me?” Her laughter started out hearty, ended up a little shaky. “Good God almighty,” she said, studying my face. “You’re serious. Why would you think I’d do that?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. I really couldn’t imagine why Claudia would want to poison me. But once the thought had formed, I couldn’t seem to shake it. “You could put, I don’t know, maybe window cleaner, or Vanish—it’s highly toxic, you know—or even bleach, in my soup, and how would I know the difference?”

“Honey, my soup doesn’t taste like Clorox. I’d be insulted if I didn’t know you’d taken a hard blow to the head yesterday.” Claudia leaned over the table, picked up my spoon, and proceeded to eat a big mouthful of turkey noodle soup. “There,” she said, setting the utensil back down. “Are you happy now?”

“Utterly.You’ve set my mind at ease.” I picked up the spoon she’d so recently discarded and, to my astonishment, emptied the bowl in about three minutes.

“Yum,” I said when I was done. “That was delicious.”

“I thought you weren’t hungry?”

“I thought so, too. Is there any more?” I finished a second bowl before I was satisfied. It was the best soup I’d ever eaten. Leaning back in my chair with a sigh, I said, “Will you marry me?”

“After the way you insulted me? I have a little more self-respect than that.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s made me so paranoid. Maybe it’s the pills.”

“I don’t know about paranoid, but they certainly do make you sleepy. Knocking on that door was like trying to wake the dead.”

“You wouldn’t believe the dreams I have on that stuff. All psychedelic and Andy Warhol-ish. You should join me sometime. We could take a trip together.”

“No, thanks. I’m not into that kind of trip. Have you told Tom about this?”

“I keep telling him they do funky things to me.

And he keeps putting on his Serious Doctor voice and telling me why it’s crucial that I keep on taking them.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Men,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t kill

’em. Gotta run. Dylan has a dentist’s appointment at two-thirty, so you won’t be able to reach me between two and four.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll probably be sleeping anyway. Can’t seem to keep my eyes open. But do you suppose—” I eyed the soup tureen lustfully before turning beseeching eyes on her. “Could you leave the soup here?”

The next few days played out with little variety.

While I alternated between deep sleep and groggy wakefulness, Tom alternated between sweet concern and tough love, and my bruises ran the gamut of the color spectrum. Claudia continued to provide my meals. Jeannette remained at a distance, as though fearful I was contagious, and Riley stopped in at least once each day to check on my welfare and bring me a variety of reading materials.

Although I was grateful for the fresh entertain-ment, I knew better than to attempt anything as complex as a novel. In my drug-fogged state, even
Redbook
magazine (“Can This Marriage Be Saved?”) was a challenge. I couldn’t seem to follow a line of print to its conclusion. I’d lose comprehension—and interest—partway through. Whatever was wrong with me, whether it be the aftereffects of the concussion or side effects from the medication, it seemed to be getting worse. In my more lucid moments, I worried that Beth’s note had fallen into the wrong hands. What if it had been read by somebody who knew what Beth was talking about? What if that somebody now knew I had read it? Did it mean I was in some kind of danger?

But the lucidity alternated with the cloudiness, and when the fog rolled in, I simply couldn’t muster enough energy to care about anything. Jack the Ripper has read Beth’s note, you say, and he’s coming after me next? Cool. And would you mind moving over so I can lie down?

Riley finally said something to me about my vague-ness. He’d stopped in with a box of peanut brittle and made my day. I hadn’t even seen the stuff since I was a kid, when my mother used to have it around the house at Christmas. Riley sat down beside me on the couch, watching me blissfully tear into the box of candy.

“Julie?” he said. “When was the last time you saw a doctor?”

I took a bite of peanut brittle. The candy snapped with a crispness that was music to my ears. “In case you’ve forgotten,” I said, “I live with a doctor.”

“I’m not talking about Tom. I mean a real doctor.” He looked so sincere, with his shaggy hair and worn Led Zeppelin T-shirt. Over a slice of rock-hard caramel and peanuts, I gave him the evil eye. “Tom is a real doctor.”

“That’s not what I meant. You have a concussion.

A fairly severe one. Tom specializes in the other end of a woman’s anatomy. He’s not an expert on head injuries. Have you considered seeing a neurologist?”

“A neurologist? Why on earth would I want to do that? Here, have a piece of peanut brittle.” I held out the box. “It cures all ills.”

“No, thanks. For a second opinion, if nothing else. Just to make sure there isn’t something that’s been missed.”

“I’ve already had a second opinion. Dr. Jankowski examined me in the E.R. She advised me to lay low until I’m better. That’s what I’m doing.”

“You aren’t yourself.You sleep all the time.You’re confused and disoriented. That’s not normal behavior.”

“Tom says it is normal after a concussion. And you know I’m taking the pain pills Dr. Jankowski gave me. The side effects are bizarre.” He scowled. “That’s another thing. Those pills.

How long have you been taking them?”

“Ever since I fell.”

“Yes, but how many days has it been since you fell? I bet you don’t even know.”

“Uh—well…let’s see. I’m sure it’s—” I tried to mentally calculate the number of days I’d spent lying on the couch in a stupor. “Three, maybe?”

“Try six.”

“Six? That’s not possible.” He had to be wrong.

I took count again. There’d been turkey noodle soup day. Swedish meatballs day. Club sandwich day.

The day we ate croissants and jam. No, wait. That was breakfast. That was the same day as…I sat there, stupefied and totally clueless. “Six days?” I said. “Are you sure?”

“At the very least, it might be a good idea for you to call up Dr. Jankowski and ask her if you can stop the medication. By now, your pain should be manageable without it.”

Six days. Maybe Riley was right. I’d lost the better part of the last six days of my life, and it was impossible to retrieve them. Tom might not appreciate my interfering, but on the other hand, I was the patient.

And Tom might believe he was the be-all and end-all of existence, but he wasn’t my primary care physician. He wasn’t even the doctor who’d written the prescription. I had every right to speak directly to Dr.

Jankowski about my medical care. Those pills were anathema to me. Controlling pain was one thing.

Being zonked out to the point where I couldn’t recite my own social security number was going a little too far.

I called the hospital and, after working my way through a series of underlings, I finally reached Jankowski. “I was in six days ago,” I told her. “You treated me for a fall down the stairs.”

“Yes, of course,” she said pleasantly. “I remember you. Tom Larkin’s wife. What can I do for you, Mrs. Larkin?”

“Those pills you prescribed. I’m experiencing some pretty bad side effects, and I wondered if I should stop taking them.”

There was a moment of silence. “I’ll have to check my records,” she said, “but I don’t remember writing any prescription.”

“You gave them to us,” I said. “For the pain. You sent them home with us from the hospital. Maybe that’s why you don’t remember writing the prescription. I’ve been taking them every four hours, and the side effects are just—”

“Mrs. Larkin? I’m certain that I sent just six pills home with you. Enough to get you through two days.

If you’ve been taking anything else, it wasn’t me who prescribed them. Are you sure Dr. Larkin didn’t write you some kind of prescription?” It was my turn to hesitate. Was it possible that Tom had written the prescription for the pills I was taking? “I suppose that’s possible,” I said. “These pills are blue. Huge cylindrical tablets. They taste awful.”

“Well, I didn’t prescribe them. The pills I gave you were round and white. Tell me about the side effects.”

“Headaches, nausea, upset stomach, excessive sleepiness, lack of appetite, memory problems, brain fog, bouts of paranoia—”

“Hmm. Some of that could be due to the concussion, but the rest definitely sounds drug-induced.

My recommendation would be that you stop taking them immediately. Then, if the symptoms persist, I’d recommend a full medical workup.”

I thanked her and disconnected the call, slowly lowering the cordless phone to the coffee table.

Riley’s face was somber, his eyes troubled. “Those pills,” I told him. “The ones I’ve been taking?

They’re not the ones Dr. Jankowski gave me.”

“Now.”

“Jules?” Concern sharpened Tom’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

I studied the pill bottle that sat in solitude on the end table. “There’s something we need to talk about,” I said, “and I’d just as soon not discuss it over the phone.”