Abandon

The men quit talking and looked at her. They walked over, sat on either side of the bed.

The older, bearded man ran his fingers through his thinning hair, his dirty nails leaving fleeting white trails in the ripples of his rosy scalp.

“Miss, I’m Sheriff Donaway, and Dr. Primack has explained to me the tragic predicament.”

Thank God, she thought.

“He’s had to take off both legs and arms, and arrangements are being made to transport you on the narrow- gauge to Mercy Hospital in Durango.”

She looked up at Dr. Primack, who watched her with something that might have been mistaken for compassion.

The doctor turned back the cover so Lana could see the bloody, bandaged stubs below both elbows.

The morphine elation fading.

My right arm was fine. You told me it was.

“I understand this is most upsetting,” he said, “but there was nothing I could do. Both arms had sustained severe damage. You’d be dead by now if I hadn’t taken them off.”

She opened her mouth. Why haven’t you told him about Abandon? But it came out as little more than the ramblings of an idiot.

“Try to settle down, Miss Hartman,” the doctor said. “You’re in a fragile state.”

They’re dying.

“Please, Miss Hartman.”

Why are you doing this?

“Can you give her something, Doc?”

“I sure can.”

Dr. Primack hurried over to his hand case, which was sitting on the dresser.

She heard the words in her head as clearly as she used to speak them, but the room resonated with only an ugly, tongueless noise.

“Listen,” the sheriff said, and he placed his hand on her shoulder. “Dr. Primack has also divulged to me your mental condition.”

Bottles clinked in Primack’s hand case.

“You’re going to recover in Durango.”

The doctor was coming back now.

“I have a connection with the asylum in Pueblo.”

Primack unscrewed the cap, tilting the bottle’s open mouth onto a white cloth.

“I’m certain I can get you admitted. They’ll help you there, Miss Hartman. Make the life God has seen fit to afflict you with as dignified and comfortable as can be hoped for.”

Look in his notebook. For Chrissakes.

“You’re lucky to have fallen under the care of Primack.”

She screamed and writhed, but the restraints held.

“Lana.” The doctor spoke softly into her ear. “I want you to know I’m waiving my fee for the amputations. Now don’t fight it.”

The ether-soaked cloth descended toward her face.

“Just close your eyes and take a long, deep breath.”

2009

EIGHTY-SIX

 T

he lobby of the Grand Imperial stood accented by objects, the assemblage of which felt more like a cliche than a throwback to Silverton’s boom years—burgundy floral-print wallpaper, tin ceiling, chandelier, a stodgy black safe near the front desk, a pair of wall clocks, a grand piano, a sculpture of four grinning outlaws on horseback firing their revolvers into the air, and a large-scale portrait of a whore hanging over one of two high-backed leather sofas that comprised the sitting area.

Abigail reached the front desk.

“I need help. Call the police.”

“There’s no police here.”

“What?”

“Just a sheriff.”

“Give me the phone.”