My Sister's Keeper

Chapter 43

43

IN THE CARDIAC CARE UNIT, I found Martha and Mom sitting in the room with Dad. He didn't look good at all—none of them did. When Martha saw me, she rolled out with her head hanging low. I bent and gave her a hug. "How's he doing?"

"Not too well. How are you? Things are better for you now—after the fire. Right?"

"I hope."

"That license plate number we got from the beach house belongs to a man named Dane Bonner from Charleston. Not much on him on the Internet, but I've got a lead I'm working on."

"There was a man at that house named Bonner."

"Then we might be onto something with that. Oh, by the way, I just talked to a nurse and learned that you can extract semen from a man by massaging his prostate gland. All you need is a rubber glove, some petroleum jelly, and a finger. She says the fertility nurses do it all the time."

"Sounds painful."

"And one more thing..." She reached into her coat pocket and removed a couple of folded sheets of paper and spread them flat. "Do you remember that case a few years ago where Scott McGillikin was sued by a client?"

I glanced over the pages. "Scott?"

"It was Ashleigh Matthews and her brother that sued him."

"For what?"

"He had represented the two of them against an insurance company following the death of their parents where they won a $1.4 million dollar settlement."

"They sued over that?"

"They sued Scott because he kept most of the money for himself. The publicity hurt his business, but he was eventually exonerated."

I handed the sheets back to her. "So? How does this help?"

"It shows how badly she needed the money."

"For what?"

"The brother had been burned, right?"

"Yes, burned badly as I understand it. Mostly his upper body."

"Then that's what they needed the money for."

"The money Scott kept?"

"And the money she stole from that guy that came to see you."

"The one hundred fifty thousand dollars..."

Martha rolled forward to move out of the path of a fast-moving nurse. "I've been doing some thinking and I'm willing to bet they've gone someplace where he can get reconstructive surgery."

"A burn center or plastic surgeon."

"Right."

"You, my darling sister, are brilliant!" I kissed her forehead. She winced, raised up on one side, and grabbed her leg. "Is something wrong?" I asked.

Her voice changed to a strained whisper. "I think it's what they call a 'Phantom Pain.' It feels like I've got a red-hot iron rod jammed into my ankle. I've been feeling it a lot lately, but it's getting worse." She tensed. "Would you squeeze it really hard for me?"

Dropping to the floor, I removed her shoe, gripped her ankle with both hands, and clasped down on it hard. Her head rocked back. "Ouch! Ouch!"

"Whoa, Babe! When did this start?"

"Don't stop! Please."

Her body tensed as I worked the ankle with both hands, kneading it as hard as I could. "It started four or five days ago."

Peeking out of her pants leg, I saw the tiny tattoo that she got back in college and so proudly displayed before the accident; a brilliantly colored psychedelic butterfly no bigger than a half-dollar. "Can you move it?"

She pressed her lips together, held her breath, and concentrated on sending a signal to her foot. Her head twitched to the side once, then twice, then, all at once, her five toes spread slightly.

"Oh my God! Did you do that?"

"Did they move?"

"Yes, they moved."

Still straining, she dropped her chin and concentrated. As her toes spread again, her face lit up with both pain and excitement.

"Babe!" I squeezed her foot and worked my fingers through the tissues. "Are you going to walk again?"

"They've been telling me in therapy that it could happen."

Mom stepped out of Dad's room and wiped her eyes with a wadded tissue. "The doctor says there's nothing more they can do for him except make him comfortable."

I slipped Martha's shoe back on, rose, and gave Mom a firm hug. "Maybe that's all he needs now, Mom."

She shook her head, dabbed her cheeks, and dropped onto a chair. Martha rolled up next to her and took her hand. I took a chair on the other side of her. "Mom?" I whispered. She didn't look up, just stared into the tissue. "Mama, why'd you marry Dad?"

Her eyes came up to mine and glared at me. "How dare you!" they seemed to say.

"I mean so soon after—"

"After what?"

"Uncle Charles—"

"Oh, Baby. Why would you bring up Uncle Charles now?" She rose, staggered a few steps to the window and looked into Dad's room laying her head against the glass.

"Tell me about him, Mama. What was Uncle Charles like?"

"Oh, Lord, Lord, Lord." Tears filled her eyes. She wiped her nose. "Your Uncle Charles was a bright...handsome...gifted boy with big ideas. He even thought he could be President someday."

"What was he like? To be with, I mean."

She waddled back to her chair. "Charlie...was kind. Gentle. Soft-spoken." She wiped her eyes and nose. "And generous—to a fault. He'd give you his last dollar if you needed it." She sat again. "He was smart, too, and could do anything he set his mind to."

"How did he die, Mama?"

"Son, what's got you so interested in your Uncle Charles all of a sudden?"

"Just something Dad told me the other morning."

She pulled a new tissue from her dress pocket and dragged it over her face. "Your dad's been talking a little out of his head lately."

"But, how did Uncle Charles die?" Martha asked.

Mom waited a beat, then spoke matter-of-factly. "Uncle Charles died when the brakes on his car failed and he was struck broadside by a farmer hauling a load of fuel back to his farm. He was killed instantly and that's all I've got to say about Charlie Baimbridge."

I sat back and exhaled. Kind, gentle, soft-spoken, and smart? I pictured him riding around in his car with that cigarette hanging out his mouth and wondered what he'd think of the world today. How different our lives might have been if he'd lived. "I used to think I'd grow up to be President, too." I mumbled.

Mom rolled her head to the side and looked at me. "Richard Baimbridge, what's going on in that head of yours?"

I patted her hand. "Nothing, Mom. Nothing at all. Just curious."