Across the room, the automatic doors slide open, and Carmen walks in. She clearly ran out of the house as fast as I did, without bothering to get herself ready. It makes me love my friend a little more knowing she is willing to drop everything to be here for me. Eileen is more than a client to her.
“What happened?” I ask.
“There was an altercation at the jail last night. I’ve already asked for security video to try and figure it out myself. I don’t know all the details, but Eileen was stabbed.”
“Stabbed?” I’m being hit with one unbelievable situation after the next. The arrest, the charges, now this. My mother, who rarely raises her voice, not even during my rebellious teenage years, stands accused of murder and has now been the victim of violence. “I don’t understand. She was at the county jail. Surely she was being watched. How could this happen?”
“All the inmates are thrown together until they’re transferred elsewhere before trial. It’s impossible to watch them at all times.” Inmates. She catches her use of the word, too, and blushes. “I don’t know what provoked the fight, but I can guarantee you I’ll find out.”
“Do you think she might have been targeted? The media is already running this story everywhere.”
“It’s hard to say. This isn’t the first time around for most of the women in the jail. They might have decided to start messing with her. But I also don’t know where Eileen is mentally right now.”
That rising panic returns, as I imagine what might have heralded this attack. “She was upset after we spoke to her last night. Do you think she might have gone in there and started something?”
“I’m not saying that—”
“Do you think this happened because I pushed her too hard?”
Carmen rests her hand on my knee.
“Don’t do this. What happened isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.” She pauses to let me know she’s not only talking about the attack. “Everything I’ve told you came from the police station. I don’t know anything about her medical condition because I’m not family. But she’s here, so that has to be a good sign, right?”
It’s impossible not to blame myself. Carmen tried to tell me Mom’s state of mind was shaky, weary. Instead of accepting that, I pushed her further.
Des rushes in. She stomps around, her head twitching from left to right like some Amazonian bird. Finally, she spots us. I remain seated, allowing Carmen to fill her in on the details.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Des says, her mouth open and long. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me!”
“Lower your voice,” Carmen says.
I’m not particularly bothered by Des’ reaction. She’s simply expressing the unrest and shock I feel inside.
“She’s been there two nights. Two nights. After you sort this out with Eileen, we’re going to sue the hell out of that honky-tonk police department.”
“One thing at a time,” Carmen says. “There’s not a ton of violence in the county jail, but unfortunately these things do happen.”
“Marion Sams?” There is a nurse dressed in blue scrubs standing behind me. Behind her, a uniformed officer. “I can take you back now.”
I pass Ava to Des and follow the woman, snaking through the corridors of the massive hospital. We stop outside a room where another police officer is stationed, drinking from a Styrofoam cup. Beside him is a doctor reading a clipboard. He looks up and offers a weak smile.
“Marion Sams?” I nod, holding my breath as I wait for him to speak. “Your mother received three wounds. Two to her stomach, a third to her neck. It’s the last blow that’s done the most damage. She lost a lot of blood, but paramedics reached her in time. All things considered, she’s lucky. We’re about to take her into surgery to assess the damage.”
I try my hardest to hang on to the doctor’s every word, and yet the sentences float away like untethered balloons. In what world is a stabbing victim lucky?
“Surgery?”
“The blade they used was man-made, so it wasn’t a clean cut. We have to make sure those arteries are intact, otherwise we run into more risks.”
“What does that mean?” Maybe on any other day I could follow along, but right now I need him to spell it out for me.
“She has a chance of pulling through, but there’s no guarantee. We’ll have to monitor her recovery in phases.”
I look at the closed door, afraid to see the mangled woman on the other side.
“She might not make it?”
“We’re doing everything we can. We’re aiming for more surgery tomorrow morning. You can go in for a visit, but she’s heavily sedated. She won’t be able to respond.”
I nod, shaking the doctor’s hand before he scurries away. The police officer standing by the door barely acknowledges me as I push the handle and walk inside.
The blinds aren’t completely shut, cloaking half the room in dark grays and blues. The whirring of machines fills my ears. They are monitoring her breathing, her heart rate, her brain function. Mom is lying on a gurney, her head tilted back with a tube down her throat. There is a thick bandage wrapped around her neck.
Her arms, riddled with IVs, are resting beside her. There aren’t any handcuffs linking her to the bed. That’s the type of thing you see in the movies. This is real life, yet it feels so bizarre. Mom’s not going anywhere. Not again. She might never leave this hospital, an idea that makes me want to double over with dread.
I reach for her hand, then think better of it. She already appears so fragile. I’m not sure if she can handle anything else, even my touch. Yesterday, she seemed so scared. She refused to speak with me, and now I might never get to talk to her again.
And
