Vanish (6 page)

appropriately sympathetic, and had focused her attention on the man she assumed to be the

patient’s husband. She’d been about to murmur:
I’m sorry but she’s passed away.

The whisper of a breath had stopped her.

Startled, she’d looked down, to see the patient’s chest move. Had watched the woman take

another breath, and then fall still. It was an agonal breathing pattern—not a miracle, just the

brain’s last electrical impulses, the final twitching of the diaphragm. Every family member in

the room gave a gasp.

“Oh my god,” the husband said. “She’s not gone yet.”

“It . . . will be very soon,” was all Maura managed to say. She had walked out of the room,

shaken by how close she’d come to making a mistake. Never again had she been so cavalier

about a pronouncement of death.

She looked at the journalist. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said. “Even something as basic as

declaring death isn’t as easy as you’d think.”

“So you’re defending the fire crew? And the state police?”

“I’m saying that mistakes happen. That’s all.”
And God knows, I’ve made a few of my own.
“I

can see how it might happen. The woman was found in cold water. She had barbiturates in her

bloodstream. These factors could give the appearance of death. Under the circumstances, a

mistake isn’t so far-fetched. The personnel involved were simply trying to do their jobs, and I

hope you’ll be fair to them when you write your story.” She stood up, a signal that the

interview was over.

“I always try to be fair,” he said.

“Not every journalist can make that claim.”

He, too, rose to his feet and stood gazing at her across the desk. “Let me know if I’ve failed.

After you read my column.”

She escorted him to the door. Watched as he walked past Louise’s desk and out of the office.

Louise looked up from her keyboard. “How did it go?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have talked to him.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” said Louise, her eyes back on the computer screen. “When his

column comes out in the
Tribune
on Friday.”

FIVE

Jane could not tell if the news was good or bad.

Dr. Stephanie Tam bent forward, listening through the Doppler stethoscope, and her sleek

black hair fell over her face so that Jane could not read her expression. Lying flat on her back,

Jane watched as the Doppler head slid across her bulging belly. Dr. Tam had elegant hands, a

surgeon’s hands, and she guided the instrument with the same delicacy one might use to pluck

a harp. Suddenly that hand paused, and Tam dipped her head lower, in concentration. Jane

glanced at her husband, Gabriel, who was sitting right beside her, and she read the same

anxiety in his eyes.

Is our baby all right?

At last Dr. Tam straightened and looked at Jane with a calm smile. “Take a listen,” she said,

and turned up the volume on the Doppler.

A rhythmic whoosh pulsed from the speaker, steady and vigorous.

“Those are strong fetal heart tones,” said Tam.

“Then my baby’s okay?”

“Baby’s doing fine so far.”

“So far? What does that mean?”

“Well, it can’t stay in there much longer.” Tam bundled up the stethoscope and slipped it into

its carrying case. “Once you’ve ruptured your amniotic sac, labor usually starts on its own.”

“But nothing’s happening. I’m not feeling any contractions.”

“Exactly. Your baby’s refusing to cooperate. You’ve got a very stubborn kid in there, Jane.”

Gabriel sighed. “Just like mom here. Wrestling down perps to the very last minute. Can you

please tell my wife she’s now
officially
on maternity leave?”

“You’re definitely off the job now,” said Tam. “I’m going to get you down to Ultrasound, so

we can take a peek in there. Then I think it’s time to induce labor.”

“It won’t start on its own?” said Jane.

“Your water’s broken. You’ve got an open channel for infection. It’s been two hours, and still

no contractions. Time to hurry junior along.” Tam moved briskly toward the door. “They’re

going to get an IV in you. I’ll check with Diagnostic Imaging, see if we can slip you in for a

scan right now. Then we need to get that baby out of there, so you can finally be a mommy.”

“This is all happening so fast.”

Tam laughed. “You’ve had nine months to think about it. It shouldn’t be a
complete
surprise,”

she said, and walked out of the room.

Jane stared up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

Gabriel squeezed her hand. “I’ve been ready for this a long time. It seems like forever.” He

lifted her hospital gown and pressed his ear to her naked belly. “Hello in there, kid!” he called

out. “Daddy’s getting impatient, so stop fooling around.”

“Ouch. You did a bad job shaving this morning.”

“I’ll do it again, just for you.” He straightened and his gaze met hers. “I mean it, Jane,” he said.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time. My own little family.”

“But what if it’s not everything you expected?”

“What do you think I expect?”

“You know. The perfect kid, the perfect wife.”

“Now, why would I want the perfect wife when I can have you?” he said and dodged away,

laughing as she took a swing at him.

But I did manage to land the perfect husband, she thought, looking into his smiling eyes. I still

don’t know how I got so lucky. I don’t know how a girl who grew up with the nickname Frog

Face married a man who could turn every woman’s head just by walking into the room.

He leaned toward her and said, softly: “You still don’t believe me, do you? I can say it a

thousand times, and you’ll never believe me. You’re exactly what I want, Jane. You and the

baby.” He gave her a kiss on the nose. “Now. What am I supposed to bring back for you,

Mom?”

“Oh, jeez. Don’t call me that. It’s so
not
sexy.”

“I think it’s
very
sexy. In fact . . .”

Laughing, she slapped his hand. “Go. Get yourself some lunch. And bring me back a

hamburger and fries.”

“Against doctor’s orders. No food.”

“She doesn’t have to know about it.”

“Jane.”

“Okay, okay. Go home and get my hospital bag.”

He saluted her. “At your command. This is exactly why I took the month off.”

“And can you try my parents again? They’re still not answering the phone. Oh, and bring my

laptop.”

He sighed and shook his head.

“What?” she said.

“You’re about to have a baby, and you want me to bring your laptop?”

“I’ve got so much paperwork I need to clean up.”

“You’re hopeless, Jane.”

She blew him a kiss. “You knew that when you married me.”

“You know,” said Jane, looking at the wheelchair, “I could just
walk
to Diagnostic Imaging, if

you’ll only tell me where it is.”

The volunteer shook her head and locked the brakes on the chair. “Hospital rules, ma’am, no

exceptions. Patients have to be transported in a wheelchair. We don’t want you to slip and fall

or something, do we?”

Jane looked at the wheelchair, then at the silver-haired volunteer who was going to be pushing

it. Poor old lady, Jane thought, I should be the one pushing
her.
Reluctantly she climbed out of

bed and settled into the chair as the volunteer transferred the IV bottle. This morning, Jane was

wrestling with Billy Wayne Rollo; now she was getting carted around like the queen of Sheba.

How embarrassing. As she was rolled down the hall, she could hear the woman wheezing,

could smell the old-shoe odor of cigarettes on the woman’s breath. What if her escort

collapsed? What if she needed CPR?
Then am I allowed to get up, or is that against the rules,

too?
She hunched deeper into the wheelchair, avoiding the gazes of everyone they passed in the

hallway. Don’t look at me, she thought. I feel guilty enough making poor old granny work so

hard.

The volunteer backed Jane’s wheelchair into the elevator, and parked her next to another

patient. He was a gray-haired man, muttering to himself. Jane noticed the Posey restraint

strapping the man’s torso into the chair, and she thought: Jeez, they’re really serious about

these wheelchair rules. If you try to get out, they tie you down.

The old man glared at her. “What the hell’re you looking at, lady?”

“Nothing,” said Jane.

“Then stop looking.”

“Okay.”

The black orderly standing behind the old man gave a chuckle. “Mr. Bodine talks like that to

everyone, ma’am. Don’t let him bother you.”

Jane shrugged. “I get a lot more abuse at work.”
Oh, and did I mention that bullets are

involved?
She stared straight ahead, watching the floor numbers change, carefully avoiding any

eye contact with Mr. Bodine.

“Too many people in this world don’t keep to their own damn business,” the old man said.

“Just a bunch of busybodies. Won’t stop staring.”

“Now Mr. Bodine,” the orderly said, “no one’s staring at you.”

“
She
was.”

No wonder they tied you up, you old coot, thought Jane.

The elevator opened on the ground floor, and the volunteer wheeled out Jane. As they rolled

down the hall toward Diagnostic Imaging, she could feel the gazes of passersby. Able-bodied

people walking on their own two feet, eyeing the big-bellied invalid with her little plastic

hospital bracelet. She wondered: Is this what it’s like for everyone who’s confined to a

wheelchair? Always the object of sympathetic glances?

Behind her, she heard a familiar cranky voice demand: “What the hell you looking at, mister?”

Oh please, she thought. Don’t let Mr. Bodine be headed to Diagnostic Imaging, too. But she

could hear him grumbling behind her as they rolled down the hall and around the corner, into

the reception area.

The volunteer parked Jane in the waiting room and left her there, sitting next to the old man.

Don’t look at him, she thought. Don’t even glance in his direction.

“What, you too stuck up to talk to me?” he said.

Pretend he’s not there.

“Huh. So now you’re pretending I’m not even here.”

She looked up, relieved, as a door opened and a woman technician in a blue scrub suit came

into the waiting room. “Jane Rizzoli?”

“That’s me.”

“Dr. Tam will be down here in a few minutes. I’ll bring you back to the room now.”

“What about me?” the old man whined.

“We’re not quite ready for you, Mr. Bodine,” the woman said, as she swiveled Jane’s

wheelchair through the doorway. “You just be patient.”

“But I gotta piss, goddammit.”

“Yes, I know, I know.”

“You don’t know nothing.”

“Know enough not to waste my breath,” the woman muttered as she pushed Jane’s chair down

the hallway.

“I’m gonna wet your carpet!” he yelled.

“One of your favorite patients?” Jane asked.

“Oh, yeah.” The technician sighed. “He’s everyone’s favorite.”

“You think he really has to pee?”

“All the time. Got a prostate as big as my fist, and won’t let the surgeons touch it.”

The woman wheeled Jane into a procedure room and locked the wheelchair in place. “Let me

help you onto the table.”

“I can manage.”

“Honey, with a belly that big, you could use a hand up.” The woman grasped Jane’s arm and

pulled her out of the chair. She stood by as Jane climbed the footstool and settled onto the table.

“Now, you just relax here, okay?” she said, rehanging Jane’s IV bottle. “When Dr. Tam comes

down, we’ll get started on your sonogram.” The woman walked out, leaving Jane alone in the

room. There was nothing to look at but imaging equipment. No windows, no posters on the

walls, no magazines. Not even a boring issue of
Golf Digest.

Jane settled back on the table and stared at the bare ceiling. Placing her hands on her bulging

abdomen, she waited for the familiar jab of a tiny foot or elbow, but she felt nothing. Come on,

baby, she thought. Talk to me. Tell me you’re going to be okay.

Cold air wafted from the AC vent, and she shivered in the flimsy gown. She glanced at her

watch and found herself gazing, instead, at the plastic band around her wrist. Patient’s name:

Rizzoli, Jane. Well, this patient is not particularly patient, she thought. Let’s get on with it,

people!

The skin on her abdomen suddenly prickled, and she felt her womb tighten. The muscles gently

squeezed, held for a moment, then eased off. At last, a contraction.

She looked at the time. 11:50 A.M.

SIX

By noon, the temperature had soared into the nineties, baking sidewalks into griddles, and a

sulfurous summer haze hung over the city. Outside the medical examiner’s building, no

reporters still lingered in the parking lot; Maura was able to cross Albany Street unaccosted and

walk into the medical center. She shared an elevator with half a dozen freshly minted interns,

now on their first month’s rotation, and she remembered the lesson she’d learned in medical

school:
Don’t get sick in July.
They’re all so young, she thought, looking at smooth faces, at

hair not yet streaked with gray. She seemed to be noticing that more often these days, about

cops, about doctors. How young they all looked. And what do these interns see when they

look at me? she wondered. Just a woman pushing middle age, wearing no uniform, no name

tag with MD on my lapel. Perhaps they assumed she was a patient’s relative, scarcely worth