Murder on the Mind (3 page)

I pulled out a chair at the table. “Maybe a little shaky. I could sure go for a sugar fix.”

In seconds a glass of milk and a plate of chocolate chip cookies materialized before me. I ate three, feeling better with every bite. When I finished, I took the dishes to the dishwasher. Leaning against the counter, I dipped my right hand into my sling, scratching the skin around the top of the cast.

“Itches, huh?”

“I was gonna bend a coat hanger to scratch way down, but figured I’d end up a bloody mess.”

She leaned across the counter to a ceramic crock filled with kitchen utensils and grabbed a chopstick. “Try this.”

The stick reached my elbow from the top of the cast, and nearly as far from inside my wrist.

“Keep it,” she said when I offered it back. “Just don’t tell Richard where you got it. He’d tell you horror stories on infection and stuff. Doctors don’t understand a patient’s needs at all.”

“So says the nurse.”

“You got it, baby.”

“Where is Rich, anyway?”

“In his study, where else?” Was there resignation in her voice?

I tucked the chopstick into my sling and glanced around the kitchen. “It’s weird being here again.”

“I can imagine.” She adjusted the flame under the skillet.

“Looks pretty much the same.”

She glanced around the old-fashioned kitchen. “Sort of like living in a museum. Still, maybe we can make it homey. If we decide to stay.”

If? That wasn’t the impression Richard had given me.

“I was surprised you guys had moved back.”

She covered the sausage and moved to the counter to chop celery for the salad. “No more surprised than me. Richard sold the condo and here we are. Most of our stuff is in storage.”

I wasn’t about to press her on what was obviously a sore subject.

“Rich’s grandmother had a housekeeper and other help around the house. You do everything yourself?”

“No. A cleaning service comes in once a week. Cooking’s fun, but even that’s starting to wear thin.” She sliced a tomato. “I’ve heard a few stories about Mrs. Alpert from Richard. I’ll bet you could tell some, too.” She looked up from her work, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I took the bait. “Old Mrs. Alpert hated me. I was a constant reminder that Rich’s mother was . . .” I considered my words carefully, “. . . not her choice of maternal material for her only grandson. The fact that I looked like our mother didn’t help.”

“So I heard.”

“One Halloween a friend in the school’s drama club loaned me the lead’s costume from
The Headless Horseman
. I got a flashlight, and the tall ladder from the garage. . . .”

“You didn’t—”

I grinned. “Around midnight I climbed outside her window and tapped on the glass until she woke up.”

Brenda laughed. “God, you were a rotten kid.”

“She screamed, woke up the whole house. She threatened me with reform school—made Rich come straight home from work at the hospital. I thought he’d kill me.”

“What did he do?”

“Lectured me about the old lady’s bad heart, but I always thought he was secretly proud of that stunt. Poor Rich, he always had to behave.”

She smiled. “It means a lot to him that you’re here, you know.”

I fell silent, feeling awkward again. Why was it so easy to talk to her and so hard to relate to my own brother?

“Brenda, is something bothering Rich?”

“You catch on fast.” She looked thoughtful. “It was harder for him to lose his job than it was for me. He’d worked at the Foundation almost eighteen years.”

“I can identify with losing a job.”

Her frown deepened. “It’s more than just that.” She was quiet for a long moment, then forced a smile. “Now that you’re here, maybe we’ll have some fun.”

Did that mean there’d been a distinct lack of fun in their lives? It never occurred to me that Richard could have problems. Or was he living proof that money can’t buy happiness?

I glanced down at the counter, noticing a large manila envelope with my name on it. “What’s this?”

“I called the local brain injury association. Probably none of the info will apply to you, but it might give you some answers.”

Back in my hospital room in New York, I’d been impatient with Dr. Klehr’s explanations. The stocky man smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and looked like he over-indulged on cheeseburgers and fries. We hadn’t built a trusting doctor/patient relationship in the short time I’d known him. He and Richard had been exchanging professional pleasantries when I’d interrupted them.

“Can you just give me the bottom-line diagnosis?”

Nonplused, Klehr turned. “Mr. Resnick, you suffered a classic coup-contrecoup injury.”

“Which means?”

“The injury occurred in a part of the brain opposite the point of impact. The injured tissue resulted from changes in pressure which traveled through your brain. Very simply, you’ve suffered some brain damage.”

Klehr kept talking, but I didn’t hear a word.

Brain damage? How could something like that have happened to me—be that wrong with me?

Dr. Klehr paused; I picked up the sudden silence.

“It sounds a lot more ominous than it really is,” Richard said.

I’d looked at him in disbelief.

“You were lucky,” Klehr continued. “The swelling was minimal. You haven’t suffered seizures.”

Yeah, that made me feel lots better. I couldn’t get past that phrase “brain damage.” Did that mean I’d never balance a checkbook again, or was I likely to go out and kill for kicks?

“What does that mean?”

“Memory loss, as you’ve already experienced. And you might notice a loss of emotional control. One of my patients cries at McDonald’s commercials. You might get angry easily.”

“Is this permanent?”

“Perhaps, but not necessarily.”

“When will I know? How can I tell? When can I go back to work?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t push it. An injury like yours takes time to heal.”

“Weeks? Months?”

“We’ll talk later. You’ve got enough to think about for now.”

With a few parting words, Klehr left us alone. Richard chattered on, refusing to even consider worst-case scenarios.

I’d eyed him with distrust. He’d already known. Klehr explaining the extent of my injuries to me had been just an afterthought.

Was paranoia a side effect of a bruised brain?

I fingered the envelope, hefting its bulk. “Thanks, Brenda. I’ll look it over later.”

Much later.

* * *

After dinner, Brenda played barber, trying to even out my hair. It would do until it grew back in.

Later, with Richard safely holed up in his study and Brenda off to her meditation class, I sat alone in the spacious, well-lit dining room. The large manila envelope Brenda had given me sat before me on the polished oak table. The return address read: Brain Injury Association of Buffalo. That in itself sounded life-altering. Swallowing my fear, I tore open the flap, spilling the contents across the table.

Most of the brochures heralded the virtues of long-term care for family members suffering severe head injuries or strokes. Only a family with Richard’s financial resources or fantastic insurance could afford those medical wonder-palaces.

Was Brenda trying to shame me into counting my blessings? No, she wasn’t petty. Besides, thoughts like that painted me as a prime example of the self-centered personality changes indicated in one of the booklets.

After skimming the material, I was grateful I’d emerged from the mugging mostly intact. Still, two punks had taken my life—maybe my independence—from me. So what if it wasn’t much of a life. It was a comfortable rut that, with the new job, just might’ve gotten better. The possibility that I might never again work in any kind of meaningful profession terrified me.

A little blue booklet caught my eye: a ‘How-to-Handle’ manual for families of the brain injured. As I skimmed it, the things that seemed to apply to me practically jumped off the page. Yes, I was irritable and overly emotional, as proved by my refusal to stay in the room Brenda had fixed for me. I was afraid of being permanently dependent on Richard. What if he tired of me? Where else could I go? How would I live until I could work again?

Sorting the pamphlets according to size, I set them in orderly piles and deposited them back in the envelope.

Aha, denial! Just as the manual predicted.

No, damn it. I had a choice—to just sit back and let life happen to me, or take my best shot at rebuilding a life. It would never be the same, but maybe that was for the best. The past five years held few memories worth taking out and polishing fondly anyway.

I stood too quickly, my vision suddenly dimming.

A spiraling abyss sucked me in—sickening me, shattering my new-found resolve.

The deer hung before my wide-awake eyes, swaying slightly in some unfelt breeze, its tawny hair catching the incandescent light from the lone bulb that lit the room. The cloying smell of sweet blood filled my nostrils. Then a voice in slow-mo repeated like a mantra, “Youprickyouprickyouprick—”

The chandelier’s bright light was back.

I swallowed, nearly falling into my chair again. The muscles in my arms quivered in reaction. Moon-shaped grooves marred my palms where my fingernails had dug in.

If the dream could overtake me during my waking hours, I could be doomed to a life in the places described in the pamphlets I’d so cavalierly discarded only moments before.

CHAPTER 4

A white Bekins truck pulled up in front of the house at ten the next morning—a bright moment on an overcast day in mid-March. Before we left Manhattan, Richard had arranged for everything I owned to be packed and delivered. The arrival of my personal possessions was a tangible connection to my former life. A life where I’d been in control, responsible.

Brenda and I watched from inside the house as Richard directed the men to unload the cartons in the sun porch.

“I’ll make coffee,” Brenda offered, as Richard handed me the inventory.

I rested the pages on my cast, flipping through them with my good hand. Clothes, books, dishes, linens, various pieces of furniture. Obviously missing were items of quick cash value: my stereo equipment, binoculars, TV, personal computer, Nikon—and my gun. The guys who’d mugged me had taken my wallet and keys, then ransacked my place. The cops found fingerprints, but nothing would come of it in a city where scores of muggings or robberies happened daily.

My excitement vanished as I, a former insurance investigator, remembered I’d stupidly let my renter’s insurance lapse. I’d had to let a lot lapse during six months of unemployment. Goddamn downsizing.

Richard watched me carefully, his eyes filled with pity. “Why don’t we get that coffee?”

He clapped me on the shoulder and headed for the kitchen. I didn’t follow. Instead, I waited until the last of the cartons were off the truck and the men started unloading the furniture.

My stomach lurched as two men in overalls struggled down the ramp with the shabby couch. Spray-painted Day-Glo orange stripes crisscrossed the back and cushions. The dressers, end tables, and every other piece of furniture were likewise marked. The movers stacked it all in the garage, save for the bed. I had that moved to Curtis’s—my—room. Maybe steel wool and elbow grease would remove the paint.

The movers finished in record time. Richard appeared at the appropriate moment, opened his wallet, and gave them a generous tip; then the big empty truck lumbered back toward Main Street.

“You want help unpacking?”

“Uh . . . maybe Brenda could give me a hand.” I didn’t want Richard to see all my crap—and that’s just what it was—in the glaring light of day.

“You sure you won’t have some lunch?” Brenda asked as she approached.

I shook my head, trying to pull loose the tape on the top of a box of underwear. Her fingernails were longer than mine and she easily worked one underneath, pulling the tape off. I opened the top, looked inside, and closed it again.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked.

“Restacking the boxes would be a big help. A lot of this should go right into the garage. The kitchen stuff—things like that. Maybe Rich can help us with those.”

She reached for another carton and started working on the tape. “I think we have some box cutters in the kitchen junk drawer.”

“Don’t bother with that. It goes outside.”

Brenda examined the unmarked sides of the box.

“It’s the silverware,” I explained.

She shook the box and was rewarded with the faint clink of knives, forks, and spoons. “How’d you know?”

I shrugged, distracted, and attacked the tape on a box from the next stack. It came off, the top lifted—good, my bathroom stuff. The disposable razor from the hospital cost me a pint of blood each morning.

Despite her size, Brenda had the strength of a longshoreman. She opened a box filled with towels. Wrapped amongst them were several framed photos, slightly bent and scratched, the glass missing, presumably smashed. One of them bore a trace of orange paint—Shelley, in happier times. I hadn’t seen the photos in two years. Why had I held onto so many of my dead wife’s possessions—still unable to part with them?