Lynn Osterkamp - Cleo Sims 03 - Too Many Secrets (12 page)

Gayle’s face reddened. “The thing is,” she said,
“we’ve all seen enough abuse of women. And society isn’t doing much to
stop it. In Moxie, we spent years trying to let go and rise above our angry
feelings, but finally we began to ask ourselves whether overlooking and letting
go was the best way. We kept coming back to the idea that rising above and
almost ignoring the behavior of an abusive man is like accepting their
behavior, which in turn sounds like giving them permission to carry on. We
decided we weren’t willing to tolerate it any more. So we had to act.”

“But some of you have had regrets since?” I asked.
“Some of you want it to stop?”

A battle took place on her face. Then she squared her
shoulders and looked straight at Diana and Hana. “Yes,” she said.
“Sabrina and I realized that being involved in this illegal activity was
risky for us and for our children, even if it was for a good cause. She planned
to do what she could to stop it. Did she tell you that?” she asked them.

Diana and Hana looked at each other for a long moment. Then
Diana shrugged. “Okay, I’ll admit it. Sabrina did have a thirty-day plan.
And Hana and I were part of it. She said we had thirty days to dismantle the
website, the accounts—all of it—or she was going to report us to
the police. But if you think we pushed her off a cliff or something to stop her,
you’re wrong. In fact we don’t even think she’s dead. Go ahead and try to
contact her again. If she is dead and you talk to her spirit, you’ll find out
we didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Waves of nausea overwhelmed me. I knew that if I stood up or
even moved I would vomit on the floor. Partly morning sickness, but more Moxie.
I felt sick about Moxie’s illegal activities and petrified about what my
involvement with them could mean for me and my baby.

But I stayed in therapist mode. I closed my eyes and took a
deep breath to settle my stomach. “I appreciate your telling me the truth
about the website,” I said as evenly as I could manage. But at this point
I don’t know what to do with this information, or whether I can be involved
with any of you any more. You all need to leave now so I can think. I’ll let
you know tomorrow what I decide.”

Diana leapt to her feet in front of me, muscles tensed,
nostrils flared, eyes cold and hard. “Don’t underestimate us,” she
said forcefully. Waves of anger poured off her, headed straight at me.
“We’ve done some investigating. We know your boyfriend is a cop. If you
even think about telling him any of this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your
life. You know what we’re capable of.”

As I struggled with how to respond to Diana’s threat, Hana
stood up next to Diana and put her arm across Diana’s shoulders. “I think
what Diana means to say is that one step in the wrong direction will cause you
a thousand years of regret,” she said quietly. “That’s a proverb worth
remembering. Now we will leave as you requested.” She pulled Diana off
into the front room, where they put on their coats and boots and went out the
front door.

“Be smart and keep your mouth shut,” Diana yelled
back at me on her way out.

I sagged back into my chair, feeling
sicker than ever. Gayle sat quietly in her chair next to me. When I collected
myself enough to look over at her, she was looking down at the floor, her
shoulders slumped. We sat together in stunned silence for a minute, as if part
of some botched meditation exercise. Then Gayle spoke haltingly. “I’m so
sorry. I never should have told you.” She straightened in her chair.
“But you insisted on knowing,” she said firmly, “and now that
you know, you’re in as much trouble as the rest of us.”

But I’m nothing like them, I thought. I’m not on some
vendetta to punish men. “Do the Moxie members hate all men?” I asked.

“No, of course not,” she said. “Except for
Diana, we’ve all been in good relationships with men. Some of us still
are.” She took a deep breath and looked off across the room. “If luck
had been with me, I’d be happily married to a guy I met a few years after I got
divorced from Frank. His name was Stuart. He was sweet and funny and a terrific
dancer. My soulmate. But he got cancer—lymphoma. He fought so hard to
live, never complained, went through chemo and radiation, all the nasty side
effects.” Her voice broke. “When Stuart died, it felt like the end of
my world. I haven’t found anyone like him since, but I know there are lots of
good, kind, gentle men out there.”

Pablo is a good man, I thought. Okay I was hurt when he left
me years ago, but I got over it. And now we’re together and I love him and he
loves me. Poor Gayle. She’d had more than her share of bad breaks when it came
to men.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Gayle,” I said.
“But I’m glad to know you see more than one side of this story.”

“Moxie may have gone off the track,” she said
leaning forward toward me, “but it’s for a good purpose. We’re not crazy
or stupid or irrational. If we’re guilty of something, it’s caring too
much—which puts us in a Karma-free zone. We so desperately want to help
abused women.”

My head was spinning. I held up my hand to stop her.
“Look Gayle, I can’t talk about this anymore right now,” I said
wearily. “You have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

She stood up and turned toward me to offer parting words.
“Cleo, I know you’ve gotten way more than you bargained for when you
agreed to my brother’s request to help find out what happened to Sabrina. But
please don’t give up on us. I have to know whether Sabrina is dead or
alive.”

I didn’t answer. She waited a minute, then walked off toward
the front room.

When I heard the door close behind her, I got up slowly, went
to the front door and locked it. Then I bolted into the bathroom and puked my
guts out. After which I didn’t feel up to walking home, so I took a nap on my
couch.

§ § §

I woke up energized, hungry, annoyed and confused. Was it
really as easy as they said it was to get away with identity theft? Now that I
knew what they were doing, what should I do about it? Was I putting
myself—and my baby—in danger if I turned them in? I had no idea
what they might do, but I took Diana’s warning seriously. I wouldn’t
underestimate them. On the other hand, I didn’t want to think about Pablo’s
reaction if he found out that I knew what Moxie was doing and didn’t report it.
I needed more information to help me think this through.

I fixed myself a peanut butter sandwich and headed for my
computer to do Google searches on identity theft. The information was not
encouraging. I discovered that identity theft affects millions of households in
the U.S. every year, mostly through credit card and/or bank account misuse. But
in most cases, the criminals are never identified, partly because by the time
theft victims realize their information has been compromised and report the
theft, the case is cold, partly because the cases often cross state lines and
jurisdictions, and partly because the thieves are too smart to leave a paper
trail. Without any details on Diana and Hana’s scam, how could I possibly prove
what they are doing if they deny it? And would it be worth risking their
retribution to try?

Then I thought maybe I could find Hana and Diana’s website.
But Google found millions of domestic abuse victims’ discussion groups, and I
had no criteria to narrow the search. I went on some of the sites and read
women’s stories, many of whom wrote about how hard it is for them to leave the
abuser, either because they believe the abuse is their fault, because they are
afraid to lose the relationship, because they feel guilty at the thought of
leaving, and on and on. They just keep taking the abuse, while somehow hoping
the guy will change. As a therapist I’m familiar with these dynamics, although
I don’t generally treat abuse victims. Nevertheless, reading victims’ stories
reminded me of the horrific emotional and physical pain so many women live
with.

A little whisper inside me said if Moxie has the courage and
the ability to act against some of these abusers, good for them. I’m not saying
I agreed with what Hana and Diana were doing, but I wasn’t ready to turn them
in to the police. As my clients, the Moxie women were entitled to
confidentiality unless they were threatening physical violence to themselves or
others. And in truth, I could see how they had come to judge the morality of
their actions based on the outcomes. Sometimes the end does justify the means.

But sometimes it doesn’t. If they had pushed Sabrina off a
cliff to keep their secret, they had to be held accountable. Diana’s words rang
in my ears:
Go ahead and try to contact
her again. If she is dead and you talk to her spirit, you’ll find out we didn’t
have anything to do with it.

And that’s what led me to call Gayle for the second time that
day, and once again invite her to come to my office.

§ § §

Gayle showed up right away, surprisingly willing to go into
the apparition chamber, even though she had said she never would again after
her last experience. “Your Contact Project was the reason Bruce brought me
to you in the first place,” she said. “And I agree that I need to try
again to reach Sabrina. I’m not afraid of getting my mother. If she shows up
this time, I won’t listen to her. I’ll simply stand up and tell her to go away.”

I got Gayle set up in the apparition chamber, reminding her
to relax and think positive thoughts about Sabrina. I had no energy for
paperwork, so I went into the counseling room to think and listen to music
while I waited. As before, I worried that if Sabrina appeared to her in the
apparition chamber, Gayle would be hit hard with the undeniable fact of her
death. Even though Gayle had been saying that she no longer believed Sabrina
was alive, being face-to-face with her spirit would be a shock.

I had almost dozed off, when I heard, “Yo, Cleo.”

Tyler swooped across the room, spinning his board to a
graceful stop on the coffee table. “No waves today,” he said,
frowning. “Bummer. More paddling than surfing.”

I straightened up, moving slowly so as not to push Tyler
away. “Huh? What do you mean, ‘no waves’?” I asked.

“Gayle’s sitting there like a duck, bobbing
around.”

“What are you saying, Tyler? Does Gayle need help?”

“No. She’s not surfing. A wannabe. Like a waxboy on the
beach.”

Before I could figure out what to ask next, he and his board
rose up and away. “Later!” he said as he surfed off through the wall,
leaving me to try to decode his cryptic message as usual.

I still hadn’t figured it out when I heard the chamber door
open about an hour later. Gayle walked slowly into the counseling room, looking
sad and resigned, but showing no signs of shock or deep grief. She sagged into
a chair, her head in her hands.

I got up and brought her a glass of water, but said
nothing—just waited for her to begin. She raised her head, mumbled
“thanks for the water,” and took a sip. She lapsed into silence
again, eyes glazed.

I waited.

Finally she exhaled deeply and looked at me. “I saw
her,” Gayle said in a monotone, “but she was very far away. I said
‘Sabrina, what happened to you?’ but she didn’t answer. She turned away and
said, ‘Not Brandi. Not for Ian.’ I told her I’m doing everything I can to keep
our agreement and take care of Ian, but Brandi is making it very hard. Sabrina
got this very sad look and said, ‘You have to stop her. Brandi is wrong for
Ian.’ Then I couldn’t see her or hear her anymore.” Gayle sat back, eyes
closed.

I didn’t react right away, because I didn’t know what to say.
Gayle’s reaction was not only unexpected, it was peculiar. Seeing Sabrina did
not bring up the intense grief I was prepared for. Furthermore, Gayle showed
none of the amazement, awe, or intensity I’ve seen in other clients who have
reached a loved one in the chamber.

“How did you feel when you saw Sabrina?” I asked,
finally.

“Sad,” Gayle said. “And guilty because I
haven’t been able to get Ian away from Brandi. And confused because I still
don’t know what happened to Sabrina.”

I was confused also. Gayle’s reactions weren’t ringing true
to me. For the first time since I’d started the Contact Project I found myself
doubting a client’s report. While it was possible that Gayle’s reaction could
be this subdued, I was skeptical. Maybe Brandi was right when she predicted
that Gayle would lie about reaching Sabrina as a way of proving she is dead and
to get Ian away from Brandi. Maybe this was what Tyler was trying to warn me of
when he said Gayle wasn’t surfing, that she was a wannabe on the beach.

But I couldn’t express those doubts, certainly couldn’t
accuse her of lying. And there was no way to verify what she had experienced in
the chamber.

These Moxie women were full of surprises and they always
seemed to be one step ahead of me. But at this point I was determined to hold
my own with them to find out who was responsible for Sabrina’s disappearance.

Friday morning I got a desperate call. “Cleo, this is
Allie Hecht.” Her voice broke. “My mom, Charlene, was at Glenwood
Gardens with your grandmother.” She paused and took a couple of deep
breaths. “You probably know Mom died last month.” Another pause.
“I’m having a hard time. Mary Ellen at Glenwood Gardens suggested I call
you for grief therapy. And I really need some.”

I remembered Mary Ellen telling me Allie was angry because
she thought the hospital had deliberately hastened her mother’s death. She’d said
Allie wanted to sue the hospital. Knowing that, I wasn’t eager to add Allie to
my client list. Helping someone move through anger and blame in their grieving
can take a long time. And I had a lot going on. But I had told Mary Ellen I’d
talk to Allie if she made an appointment.

“Of course, Allie,” I said. “Charlene was so
sweet. I know Gramma and all the residents miss her. I’m so sorry for your
loss. Would you like to set up an appointment to come in?”

“I would,” she said softly. “I thought I’d get
over it on my own, but with the holidays coming up, I really miss Mom. And
today is her birthday, which makes it even worse. Is there any way I could come
in today?”

I heard her pain and swallowed my reluctance. “Sure.
I’ve had some cancellations because of all the snow, so I could see you at 1:00
this afternoon.”

§ § §

I’d always thought of Allie as attractive. She’s petite, with
thick wavy blonde hair and laugh lines that crinkle when she smiles. But today
she was a wreck. Her face was splotchy, her eyes were red, and her limp hair
badly needed a shampoo.

She collapsed into a slump on my couch. “My brother
keeps telling me I should be over it by now,” she said, “but I don’t
know how to do that.” Her face contorted in an attempt to control her
emotions, but she lost the struggle, breaking down into heavy sobs.

“It takes time,” I said passing her a box of
Kleenex. “And the amount of time is different from one person to
another.”

Allie wiped her eyes, blew her nose, took a deep breath and
continued. “Mom was in her eighties, and sick, so I guess I should have
been prepared to lose her. But I wasn’t. I miss her every day. I cry. I can’t
sleep. I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. My friends don’t
understand why I’m having such a hard time. They tell me it was Mom’s time to
go. They say it’s good she’s not suffering anymore. They try to cheer me up by
inviting me out. But I don’t want to go. I’m not interested in doing things
just to help me forget Mom.”

“Of course you don’t want to forget her,” I said.
“Can you tell me about some of the good times you and your mom had
together?”

Allie brightened as she talked about her mother who was a
teacher, a loving grandmother to Allie’s three children, and a valued volunteer
at the local historical library before Alzheimer’s stole away her mind.
“It was painful to watch her fading away, but even in these last few years
when she mostly didn’t recognize me, I felt her spirit connecting with me at
some deep level. You must know what I mean from when you visit your grandmother.”

“I do,” I said, thinking of how I cherish my time
with Gramma even now that so much of her is gone.

Allie’s face darkened. “But I don’t think the doctors
and nurses at the hospital understand that,” she said. “They think a
person whose mind is gone is a useless person who doesn’t deserve to
live.” Her voice was angry, her eyes hard. “I don’t think it was
Mom’s time to go. She was getting better with the antibiotics. Then all of a
sudden she was dead. I think someone gave her something that killed her.”

I kept my face and voice impassive. “What makes you
think that?” I asked.

She gave me a withering look. “It was pretty obvious
that some of the nurses there thought I should let Mom die. They kept asking me
if I was sure I wanted such aggressive treatment for pneumonia, given that Mom
has Alzheimer’s. They said she might be suffering. They’d ask if Mom had ever
said what she’d want in this situation.”

“But she was continuing to get the antibiotics?” I
asked.

“I think she was,” Allie said. “At least they said
she was. But I think someone put something else into her IV.” Her face
quivered. “I wasn’t even with her when she died. The hospital called me in
the middle of the night and said she had passed. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Have you talked to her doctor about your
suspicions?” I asked, thinking that the physician might help her accept
the rapid deadly course pneumonia can take in a frail elderly woman.

“Yes, but it doesn’t go anywhere. He pretends to listen,
but I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m just a hysterical woman who can’t face
reality.”

I thought to myself that he might think that. Anger and blame
so often accompany grief. And he might well believe that a woman in her
eighties who doesn’t recognize family members isn’t a good candidate for
life-prolonging measures. It’s possible that he discussed that with Allie
before Charlene died, but once she was gone, he’d be unlikely to have that
conversation.

But the hospital couldn’t ignore her so easily. “How
about the patient advocate at the hospital?” I asked.

“I did talk to the advocate several times. And I filed a
written complaint. But she won’t tell me anything except that they’re
investigating. What I think is that one of Mom’s nurses did it. I suspect that
woman who disappeared in the mountains last month—Sabrina Larson. She was
Mom’s nurse some of the time in ICU and she was one of the ones who questioned
me about the antibiotics. After Mom died, I asked Ms. Larson a lot of
questions. She acted anxious and defensive. Denied trying to influence me about
the antibiotics. I think the hospital administration did investigate and made
an accusation against her. I bet she disappeared or committed suicide rather
than face it. She couldn’t stand the shame.”

I struggled mightily not to show any reaction to Allie’s accusations
of Sabrina. My involvement with Sabrina’s disappearance had no place in this
therapy session. But I was shaken and shocked. Could Sabrina have been a
suspect in a hospital investigation? Would she have run away because of it? I
wanted to know more. “So no one at the hospital has told you anything
about their investigation?” I asked.

“Of course the hospital won’t tell me anything. They’re
covering their butts. Last week I talked to a lawyer about suing them. I’m not
going to stand back and do nothing while elderly patients are being quietly
euthanized. I can’t bring Mom back, but maybe I can save someone else—it
might be your grandmother.”

At this point I felt we had gone as far with her suspicions
as was likely to be helpful—especially if she was planning legal action.
I had been careful to give Allie the opportunity to express her anger without
any judgment from me. Now what she and I needed was time to explore her special
relationship with her mother, so I could help her accept her mother’s death.
That would be her first step toward moving on to remembering her mother while
living in a world without her.

“I can’t help you with what might have gone on at the
hospital,” I said. “I’ll leave that part to you and your lawyer. But
we can work on your grieving process and ways of getting through the holidays
if you’d like to do that.”

She agreed, so we spent the rest of our time talking about
the ups and downs of her relationship with her mother over the years. Then we
set up a series of future appointments and I left her with a piece of homework.
“Finding a way to acknowledge and remember your mother on her birthday and
special holidays like Christmas can help you keep a positive connection with
her on those days. This week try visiting a special place that you shared with
her, going to her gravesite, or making a gift to an organization or charity
that was important to her.”

§ § §

After Allie left, I got myself a cup of tea, sat down, and
thought about her accusations against Sabrina. From what the Moxie women had
told me about Sabrina—that she was a loving caregiver who liked helping
and comforting those in need, that she believed that what you put out comes
back to you—she didn’t sound like the Dr. Kevorkian type. But people are
complex. And I’d never even met Sabrina.

I decided I should pursue these accusations to find out more
about Sabrina. But how? The hospital patient advocate wasn’t going to violate
confidentiality by discussing Allie’s complaint or any subsequent investigation
with me. Mary Ellen at Glenwood Gardens wouldn’t be a good source either. She
had pretty much dismissed Allie’s suspicions of the hospital as a symptom of
unresolved grief.

Then I thought of Lark, a Moxie member, Sabrina’s good
friend, and a fellow nurse who worked with her at the hospital. I called her on
her cell to see if we could meet. Conveniently, she said she’d be off at 3:00.
I live right at the base of the canyon, so she’d basically be passing my house
on her way home to Nederland. It only took a little arm twisting to get her to
agree to stop by for a short talk. I hustled home, made coffee and tea and got
out some cookies. One of Gramma’s lasting legacies will be, “when you want
a favor, feed them.”

Despite the weather, Lark showed up wearing green scrubs and
New Balance walking shoes, with only a light down parka for warmth. No hat over
her long blonde hair pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail. Mountain people are
hardy.

We sat at my kitchen table with our mugs—coffee for her
and tea for me—and a plate of ginger cookies perfect for dunking.
“This is awkward,” I said. “But I’ve promised to do what I can
to find out what happened to Sabrina, and now I have a question you’re the only
one I can think of who might be able to answer.”

“Sure,” she said, her gaze direct and open.
“Anything for Sabrina. Ask whatever you want. I’ll do my best to
answer.”

Before I could reply, my phone rang. Caller ID said
“Brandi.” I let it go to voicemail and turned off the phone.

“Sorry for the interruption,” I said. “Anyway,
the question I need to ask you is, do you know how Sabrina feels about
euthanasia?”

Lark stared at me as though I had slapped her. “Why do
you ask that?” she gasped.

I couched my information carefully so as not to violate
Allie’s confidentiality. But I put my question out there. Time was short and I
needed answers. “Someone whose relative recently died at our hospital
believes that a nurse might have been involved in the death—and that
nurse might have been Sabrina. If it’s true, it could be a reason Sabrina disappeared.”

Lark shook her head. “Oh, I know that woman. She’s the
one whose mother in end-stage dementia came in with pneumonia. The mother had
no idea what was going on, but the daughter wanted everything done. Mom got IV
antibiotics, but she died anyway. The daughter’s been all over the hospital
blaming the nurses.”

I didn’t acknowledge the accuracy of her description.
“Was Sabrina that patient’s nurse?”

“That patient was in ICU for a couple of weeks before
she died. All of us in ICU took care of her.”

“Did Sabrina think the patient shouldn’t be getting the
antibiotics?”

Lark threw up her hands. “Look,” she said.
“There are worse things than death. End-stage dementia is one of them.
Most nurses don’t believe a person in end-stage dementia who has no quality of
life should be treated with antibiotics. Most of those patients can’t recognize
family members and friends, can’t tell anyone what they need, and can’t swallow
solid food. They’re incontinent, and often wheelchair or bed bound and prone to
bedsores and infections.”

I had asked Allie’s question for her and for myself. Now I
paused, thinking about Gramma and what I would do if she ended up in that
situation. “Is that because the nurses think those patients’ lives aren’t
worth saving?”

Lark sighed. “Mostly it’s because demented patients
don’t understand why they are being poked and prodded or hooked up to beeping
machines. Sometimes they fight the IVs and have to be tied down to keep them
in. Sometimes they wind up on a ventilator with an endotracheal tube down their
throat. Sometimes the pain caused by the treatment is worse than the pain of
the illness. We don’t want to be doing that to them.”

“But it’s your job, so you have to do it, no matter how
you feel?”

Lark nodded. “Exactly. We don’t have a choice. If the
physician orders the treatment, we have to provide it. But the antibiotics are
really prolonging the death rather than prolonging the life. Even if we cure
the pneumonia, most of these patients will have another episode soon and be
back in the hospital where we have to torture them again.”

“I can see where that would be uncomfortable for
nurses,” I said. ‘Why do physicians order antibiotics for these
patients?”

She grimaced. “Most people don’t have advance
directives. Most families don’t understand that a long life isn’t necessarily a
good life. Some of these family members believe in aggressive care always, and
will fight ferociously to get the patient every possible intervention, even
when there’s no quality of life. The physician can advise comfort measures only,
but it’s not the physician’s choice.” She looked at her watch. “I
really need to get going.”

“Sure,” I said. “I appreciate your answering
my questions. Just one more thing. Do you think there’s any chance Sabrina
might have gotten fed up and taken action to put the patient out of her
misery?”

Lark gave me a stony look. “Of course not,” said.
“Sabrina’s a licensed nurse. She could have her license revoked for even
neglecting a patient. As far as willfully endangering a patient’s health in a
way that resulted in death, she could go to jail. That’s not Sabrina.”