―What did they say?‖ Meryl demanded.
Dad stared straight ahead. ―It sounds a lot more complicated than we know.‖
―What does that mean?‖ I asked, but Dad just shook his head again.
There were three other people in the ER waiting room: a drunk sleeping in a far chair with his head propped up on his elbow; another guy with a blood-stained towel bunched in one fist; and one man, in a rumpled gray suit, who looked like he really didn‘t belong because he wasn‘t drunk, bleeding, or in obvious pain. When we told the ER nurse who we were, the man‘s head came up and I felt his eyes on our backs. Then I forgot about him because the ER nurse made us wait a few minutes despite Dad‘s bluster. She was on the phone for what seemed a year before confirming that my mother was indeed a patient.
She said we could go up, but wouldn‘t let Meryl through because she wasn‘t immediate family.
―It‘s okay, sweetie, I‘ll wait right here.‖ Meryl wrapped me in a big bear hug that I never wanted to end. ―Give your mom a hug and a kiss for me, okay?‖
Even at night, the Burn Unit is never quiet but filled with monitor beeps and alarms going off and nurses and doctors in squeaky shoes shuffling in and out of various rooms.
The nurse led us to Mom‘s room, which was right across from the nurses‘ station, and I knew what that meant, too, because I‘d been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. They always put the sickest people where the nurses can get to them in a hurry.
We gowned up because the infection risk for burn victims is so high. The smell in Mom‘s room made my stomach churn because it was so familiar: disinfectant and cooked blood and the sweet stink of roast pork.
(My mother, shrieking, fighting with the EMTs: Don’t you save that son of a... ) She looked so small, swathed in a nest of bandages. Her arms and legs were up on pillows, and what little skin was exposed—the places that weren‘t completely cooked but only second-degree burns—was shiny with antibiotic ointment. There were monitors and tubes coiling everywhere, IVs and catheters and a breathing tube down Mom‘s throat. Mom was out, sedated because she kept fighting the tube and the doctors wanted to control the pain.
Dad‘s skin above his mask was chalky. His eyebrows looked like smears of shoe polish on white marble. For once he only listened as the burn doctor talked in numbers and percentages: third-degree burns over sixty-five percent of her body, second-degree over twenty percent.
―Then there‘s the complicating fact of her drinking,‖ the doctor said, his tone neutral. ―Her respiratory status is also severely compromised. There‘s been extensive epithelial injury and she‘s developed significant pulmonary edema. We‘ve got her on CPAP, of course, but—‖
―Bottom line,‖ my dad cut in. ―What are her chances?‖
―Given her age, fifty-fifty, maybe a little worse. If we can get her through the next twenty-four, forty-eight hours, then it will be a question of controlling infection and . . .‖
The doctor went on like that for a while. Then he said, ―Our next biggest concern will be finding enough viable skin for grafting. There‘s just not a lot left to harvest.‖
―Take mine.‖ I looked up at the doctor. ―Take whatever you need.‖
―Jenna,‖ my dad said.
―It doesn‘t work that way,‖ the doctor said, kindly. ―The only skin that will take is her own. We can cover her burn sites with cadaver skin or pigskin, but those are temporary measures. The skin over those sites will eventually die and need to be replaced. We can grow new skin for her in the lab, using her cells, but that will take time.‖
―But you can harvest mine, right? If you can use a dead person‘s skin, why not mine?‖ I asked.
―Because your skin will die, too.‖ The doctor‘s eyes were sympathetic, but his voice was firm. ―I‘m sorry, but that‘s just not an option.‖ Then he and Dad moved out of the room to talk medical strategy.
I stood by my mother. Her face was almost completely hidden by rust-splotched bandages and very swollen, just her eyes and part of her mouth showing. The machine breathing for her pushed air in and then sucked it out with a long sigh. I wanted to take her hand and tell her it would be okay, but I was afraid. I had images of her fingers breaking off in my hand. I felt so helpless and small. This must be what she‘d felt like, too, after the fire at Grandpa MacAllister‘s that killed me twice over: once in the ambulance and then two days later, in a place very similar to this.
―How‘s she doing?‖
I turned, blinking away tears. A man, in gown and gloves and mask, had come up behind me, so quietly I hadn‘t heard.
―Who are you?‖ Then I saw his eyes above the mask. ―You were in the emergency room.‖
He nodded, stuck out his hand and said—
Can you guess, Bobby-o? Do you remember?
―We‘ve met before, though you were a lot younger and probably don‘t remember.
I‘m Robert Pendleton. I‘m a detective.‖ Your eyes crinkled above your mask. ―But, please, just call me Bob.‖
45: a
I don‘t remember if I shook your hand, Bobby-o. Chances are I did. Whatever else you may think of me, my mother brought me up right.
―Detective?‖ I asked. ―Why?‖
―How‘s she doing?‖
―They think she might die.‖ I started to cry. Saying it out loud felt like I was going to make it happen.
―Oh hey, hey, sweetheart, hey, I‘m sorry. Look . . . would you like a cup of coffee or something? Maybe a glass of water? Poor kid, you‘re all done in. I‘ll bet you haven‘t slept. Come on, let‘s go sit down in the waiting room.... It‘s just down the hall, okay? Come on.‖
I was alone. I couldn‘t call Mitch. Meryl was downstairs. My dad had disappeared.
So I let you put your arm around me and guide me out of my mom‘s room. We shucked our gowns and gloves and little booties, and I let you take me to the waiting room. You brought me bottled water. You even unscrewed the cap.
You were so nice, Bob. Like Mitch, in a way, that first day at school. You were kind when I really needed that.
Of course, I was a complete fool. Cops aren‘t nice for nothing.
I took a sip of water just to be polite. ―We‘ve met before, Detective—?‖
―Pendleton....Just Bob. I was in a different department then. I investigated the fire at your grandfather‘s house, when you were eight. I came to see you in the hospital. Do you remember that?‖
―I remember the hospital.‖
―So do I. Poor kid, you were burned pretty bad then, but you look great now. How are you doing?‖
What a stupid question. ―Why are you here?‖
―It‘s like I said.‖ You spread those big dinner-plate hands. ―I‘m investigating the fire at your mom‘s store. We always do, in cases where we suspect arson.‖
My ears perked up at that. ―Someone set the fire? Who?‖
―Well, Jenna.‖ You gave a rueful smile. ―God, I hate to say this, but we think . . .
we think it was your mom.‖
I just stared. Your mouth was smiling, but your eyes were hard and bright, like light winking off scalpels. I know now that you were gauging my reaction: Did I know about my mother? Had I suspected? Oh, I knew you believed what you were saying, Bob. There was no tentativeness in your eyes at all.
The thing is, you put into words what I‘d not allowed myself to think. As soon as they registered, I knew the truth. Despite all her talk, I‘d heard her desperation. My father was an asshole. My mother felt she had nothing to lose, I guess. Having been suicidal a couple times myself, you might say I‘ve got natural empathy where that‘s concerned. I understand the impulse.
What I wasn‘t prepared for was the talon of pain that dug at my chest. My mother had decided there was nothing worth sticking around for. What had she said?
I miss my boy. I miss my baby.
Matt. Always Matt. There was Matt, and there was the bookstore. There was me, but I guess I wasn‘t enough. In her mind, she had no reason to keep on going. Not even for me.
Not even for me.
c
―I don‘t think I should talk to you anymore,‖ I said. ―I think I should find my father.‖
Your Officer Friendly smile remained, but your eyes stayed hard. ―You do what you need to do, sweetheart. But let me tell you one more thing before you go. The pattern of the fire at your mother‘s store, certain characteristics? They‘re really similar to what we found at your grandfather‘s.‖
When the heart sinks, people fall. My knees suddenly wobbled and I knew I was going to collapse the same way my mother had crumpled when my father finally pried her away from the door and let in those Marines. I plopped down hard into my chair, a puppet without strings.
―I‘m sorry, honey,‖ you said. ―This gives me no pleasure. Believe me. Your mom‘s on thin ice here.‖
I said nothing.
―Because the thing is, we found the remains of the same kind of bottle at both scenes. Stolichnaya, actually. At your grandfather‘s, the arson guys figured they‘d been broken in the fire. The fire started with the curtains and there was broken glass in the sink; your grandpa was a pretty heavy drinker. It made sense. Who would burn down an old guy‘s house, anyway?‖
I said nothing.
―But we thought ... think your mom might be involved. We looked at her for your grandpa but, well, your brother was a witness. He swore up and down that your mom was with him all night, and the two of them went to pick you up from your grandpa‘s. You know what‘s really funny, though?‖ You cocked your head and looked puzzled. For a second, I thought you were going to pull out a little notebook and a stub of pencil, but you‘re not Columbo, Bobby-o, not by a long shot. ―I never quite understood why you were there but not your brother. Why have your grandpa babysit only one of you? That never made sense, but your brother was older and pretty convincing. But here we are again. You can see why this bothers me.‖
I said nothing.
You leaned forward and pressed your hands together. ―Let me tell you a story, honey. I‘ve kind of pieced this together, talking to various people, reading between the lines. I even looked at your mom‘s poetry. Do you know how hard her book is to find?
