Still Life (23 page)

Casey didn’t know what to do. More important, what would Warren do when he realized she was getting better? She was still weeks, probably months away from recovering full use of her limbs. If Warren knew she was starting to regain control of her muscles, that she was on the verge of being able to communicate, would that speed up his plans, make her a sitting duck? She needed time—time to grow stronger, time to decide what to do.

“Can you hear us, Casey?” Drew asked. “Wiggle your toes.”

Sorry, Drew. I can’t take that chance. Not yet. Not while he’s around.

“Nothing,” Warren said after several seconds.

“You sure you didn’t just sit on her toes?” Drew asked her daughter accusingly.

“I don’t know,” Lola admitted, her voice a whine. “Maybe.”

“Casey, can you wiggle your toes for us?” Janine asked.

“Still nothing,” Gail said after another ten seconds had passed.

“You know what I think?” Warren asked, returning the blanket to Casey’s feet. “I think this would be a good time to break for milk and cookies. What do you think, Lola?”

“What kind of cookies?”

“Peanut butter crunch.”

“They’re my favorite.”

“I thought they might be. Why don’t we go downstairs and ask Patsy to get you some.”

“Why don’t you bring a few back up here,” Drew suggested, returning to her seat.

“Nice to see your sister’s condition hasn’t interfered with your appetite,” Warren said, leading Lola from the room.

Casey breathed a deep sigh of relief. She had to be more careful. She had to find a way of telling the others about her progress without alerting Warren.

“So, what’s going on with you?” Janine asked her friend. “How are things going with Stan the man?”

“Good,” Gail said shyly. “Everything’s good.”

“When am I going to meet him?”

“Soon.”

“She’s been saying that for weeks now,” Janine told Drew. “Wouldn’t even tell me his name until a few days ago. I’m not convinced this guy even exists.”

“He exists,” Gail said, a nervous giggle bracketing her words.

“Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything.”

“Let’s all have dinner together next Saturday. You too, Drew.”

“I can’t,” Gail said quickly.

“Why not?”

“I’ll be away next weekend.”

“What do you mean, you’ll be away? You never go anywhere.”

“I’m going away next weekend.”

“With Stan?”

Gail’s breath trembled into the air. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe it. How long have you been sleeping with him? Is he any good?”

“Will you just listen to her,” Gail said, embarrassed laughter replacing the nervous giggle.

“Is he?” Drew asked.

“God, you two …”

“Well?”

“I don’t know,” Gail answered. “I haven’t … we haven’t …”

“Oh, I can’t stand it,” Janine snapped. “What are you waiting for?”

“Next weekend?” came Gail’s response.

This time everybody laughed.

Later, after everyone had left, Warren returned to Casey’s bedside. “Busy day,” he commented, once again pulling back the blanket from her feet. “You must be exhausted. All that excitement. All that exertion.”

Casey felt his fingers tickle the underside of her foot, her foot reflexively withdrawing from his touch.

“So, tell me, Sleeping Beauty. Was that just another involuntary muscle spasm?” He squeezed her toes, hard, before replacing her blanket. “Too bad Detective Spinetti missed all the excitement.”

He’ll be back. You won’t fool him forever.

“You aren’t fooling me, you know,” he said. “I know you’re getting better. I know you understand every word I say. Just like I know you aren’t really asleep. Beauty never sleeps, does she?” he asked, kissing her forehead.

His words remained in the room long after he’d left.

Beauty never sleeps, the walls whispered. Beauty never sleeps.

TWENTY-FOUR

“W
ell, well,” Patsy trilled, entering the room and circling the bed, pulling the covers from Casey’s body in one continuous swoop. “How are we feeling today? Did we sleep well?”

We
didn’t sleep at all, Casey thought, feeling the young woman tugging on her blankets and top sheet, until she succeeded in freeing them from the mattress. Cold, conditioned air immediately wrapped itself around Casey’s bare legs, and Casey shivered, although she doubted this was visible, or that Patsy would have noticed even if it were.

“It’s Monday,” Patsy announced cheerily. “Which means it’s laundry day, according to Mrs. Singer. Not that that’s my job, but considerate employee that I am, I told the old bag I’d get your sheets for her. Although to get at that bottom sheet, looks like we’ll have to get you out of that bed and into this chair.” She sighed, as if exhausted by the mere thought. “Think I’ll wait for Warren to give me a hand with that.” Another sigh, this one decidedly more lusty than tired. “He’s just finishing up in the shower right now, getting all nice and clean after his workout. So dedicated, that husband of yours. Up at six o’clock, out of here by seven to go to the gym. Back by eight thirty, ready to start the day. Did I tell you he brought me a cappuccino from Starbucks? So considerate, that husband of yours. Anyway, I’m in a good mood,” Patsy continued. “Which is lucky for you because normally I hate Mondays. And I hate doing laundry. Especially somebody else’s. Let’s get that pillowcase.” Without further warning, she pulled the king-size pillow out from behind Casey’s head, letting Casey’s neck snap back toward the mattress, unsupported. Casey lay prone on the bed, wondering if Patsy was going to try to whip the bottom sheet right out from under her, as if it were a tablecloth and Patsy a magician. Which made Casey … what exactly?

A place setting? A bowl of fruit?

Still life, she thought. That’s all I am.

Except no longer quite so still, she thought, feeling a renewed surge of excitement, and fighting the impulse to stretch her fingers and curl her toes, lest Patsy was paying closer attention than she suspected. The less Patsy knew the better, Casey had decided in the hours she’d lain awake after Warren had left her bedside, hours she spent taking stock of her situation and trying to figure out what she could do.

Could she do anything?

She had no doubts her senses were returning and growing stronger every day. She could hear; she could smell; she could tell the difference between hot and cold, hard and soft; she could distinguish between Patsy’s indifferent touch and Gail’s caring caress; she could identify the artful gentleness of Warren’s lips as they brushed across her forehead; she could recognize the underlying harshness of his intent behind the superficial kindness of his words.

And now she could stretch her fingers and wiggle her toes. She could form fists and rotate her ankles. In another week, she might be able to lift her hands above her head. A few days after that, she might be able to swing her feet out of bed. She might even be able to walk, and then to see, to speak.

To tell everyone what had really happened.

I am woman, she thought, recalling the words of the old Helen Reddy song. Hear me roar.

Did Patsy know that one?

Casey took a series of invisible deep breaths, trying to calm her growing optimism, to prevent her hopes from getting too far ahead of her reality. It was entirely possible that she had already made whatever progress she was going to, she reminded herself, that she might never walk again, or see, or find her voice, that she would be trapped this way until her dying breath, that no one would ever know the truth.

No, she wouldn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it.

Every day brought some improvement, sometimes big, sometimes small, but always significant. She was gradually being returned to the body she’d been so violently torn from, to the woman she’d abandoned, however unwillingly.

To herself.

Would she even recognize her when she found her again?

And would she find her in time to save her?

Casey heard footsteps approaching from down the hall.

“What are you doing?” Warren asked, entering the room, bringing with him an assortment of shower smells—soap, shampoo, talcum powder.

Casey froze. Had her thoughts betrayed her? Had she been clenching her fingers, wiggling her toes? Was her brow even now furrowed in concentration, her mouth open in anticipation, as if about to say “Please. You don’t have to do this.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Warren said, usurping her words.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Patsy assured him, as Casey breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. “I thought it might be too much for Mrs. Singer. She’s not as young as I am.”

Not as young as you are. Good one, Patsy. You spry little thing.

“It’s really not necessary.”

“Nonsense. Casey’s my responsibility. I want to do it.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you
for the cappuccino.”

“I didn’t add too much cinnamon?”

“No way. It was perfect.”

“Good. Do you need some help with that?”

Casey wondered if he was referring to her or the bed-sheets. Had she become a “that”?

“No, but I will need some help getting your wife into the chair.”

“I’ll do it.”

Casey felt his strong arms immediately reach beneath her torso to grip her waist and the underside of her knees.

“Careful,” Patsy cautioned as Warren scooped her into the air. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“I’m used to lifting much heavier weights than this,” Warren said.

So now she was a “this.”

A this and a that.
Casey laughed, although no sound emerged.

Warren suddenly loosened his grip on her waist, so that her body slipped back toward the bed.

“Something wrong?” Patsy asked. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I thought I felt Casey … No. It’s too crazy.”

“What is?”

“No,” Warren said again.

“What?” Patsy pressed.

A slight pause, then, “There was this slight rumble. It was almost, I don’t know, as if Casey was laughing.”

“Laughing?”

You felt that? My God, you felt that?

“What could she possibly have to laugh about?” Patsy wondered out loud.

“I said it was crazy.”

“It was probably just her stomach,” Patsy said.

“Probably.” Warren tightened his grip on Casey’s waist. “Or my imagination.”

What did it mean? Casey wondered. Did the fact that Warren had been able to detect the laughter stirring inside her mean anything? Did it signify she was closer to actually laughing out loud?

“We should probably change her nightgown while we’re at it,” Patsy said.

She listened as Patsy rifled through the top drawer of her dresser, like a thief in the night. She felt her muscles tense with indignation and wondered if Warren could feel it, too.

She’d have to be so careful. At any second, her body—already a foreign object—could betray her without warning.

“Here’s a pretty one. What do you think, Casey? In a ‘blue’ mood today?”

Warren deposited Casey gently in the chair beside her bed, carefully arranging a series of pillows around her, to make sure her body was fully supported on all sides so that she didn’t fall over. It feels like the striped chair, Casey thought, adjusting to its contours as her arms were lifted over her head and whatever nightgown she’d been wearing was pulled up and off.

Leaving her naked, except for her diaper, Casey realized. In front of her husband and his soon-to-be lover.

A wave of revulsion washed over her as she felt Patsy’s eyes travel across her body. Was Warren looking at her, too? she wondered, mentally covering her torso with her hands, trying to shield herself from their critical gaze.

“Would you like a sponge bath?” Patsy asked so sweetly that Casey wasn’t sure if she was addressing her or her husband.

The thought of this woman’s hands touching her while her husband watched, making Casey a part of their perverse, mutual seduction, was just too horrible to contemplate.

“I don’t think there’s enough time for that now,” Warren said. “Jeremy should be here any minute.”

“Assuming he isn’t late again.”

Casey felt a fresh nightgown being quickly lowered over her head, and her arms pushed through its appropriate holes. She felt the silk slither across her breasts and over her stomach and knees, then drop, like a parachute, toward the floor.

“You don’t sound like you’re overly fond of him,” Warren commented.

“He’s a little cocky for my taste.”

“You don’t like cocky?”

Casey tried not to picture the twinkle in Warren’s eyes, or the corresponding one in Patsy’s.

“Depends,” Patsy said with a laugh, the doorbell ringing as she pulled the bottom sheet off Casey’s bed. “Speaking of the devil…. And what do you know? He’s right on time. I’ll take these sheets down to Mrs. Singer.”

“If you don’t mind sending Jeremy up …”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Casey pictured Patsy’s pronounced sway as she sashayed from the room.

“She’s a surprisingly good kisser,” Warren confided as soon as she was gone. “How long do you think I should wait before I sleep with her? A week? A month? How much time would you consider appropriate for a man in my position?”

Why are you saying these things to me? Are you so convinced of your own invincibility that you no longer worry about voicing such sentiments out loud? Are you so sure I won’t be around to expose you?

“I guess I really shouldn’t be talking to you about these things,” he continued, as if directly addressing her concerns. “Just that I suspect you’ve already heard the worst, and I’ve kind of gotten used to using you as a sounding board.”

The front door opened and closed.

“Casey?” her sister’s voice called up from the foyer.

Drew!

“Crap,” Warren said. “What’s she doing here?”

“Casey,” Drew shouted again, racing up the stairs and into the room. “Omigod, look at you! Sitting up in a chair. Wow. You look great. Look, Jeremy, she’s sitting up in the chair.”

“Jeremy?” Warren asked as the therapist followed Drew into the room. “Well, isn’t this cozy. You two come together?”

“We pulled up at the same time,” Jeremy explained.

“How convenient.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Drew asked.

“Just that I’m surprised to see you back so soon, Drew. You’re usually not so … constant.”

“Hmm … constant. Don’t think I’ve ever been called that before. I think I like it.” Drew dropped to her knees in front of her sister. “Look at you. You look so pretty. Although your hair’s a bit of a mess. Doesn’t anybody ever comb it? Where’s her brush?”

“Patsy can take care of her hair later.”

“I’m sure Patsy has lots of other things she’d rather take care of,” Drew said. “Besides, I want to do it. Casey used to brush my hair all the time when we were kids, so I know just how she likes it.”

“Here’s the brush,” Jeremy offered.

Casey didn’t have to see the expression on her husband’s face to know he wasn’t happy. She felt the straightening of his shoulders, the stiffening of his spine, the tightening of his jaw from across the room, as Drew positioned herself behind Casey and gathered Casey’s long, silky hair into her hands.

“Casey always had such beautiful hair. I’m glad they didn’t have to hack it all off. Just that little bit over here,” she said, patting the shaved patch on Casey’s scalp, “and it’s starting to grow back nicely. Although it could use a touch-up,” she whispered in Casey’s ear. “Maybe next time I come, I’ll bring some coloring, fix up these roots. What—you thought she was a natural blond?” she asked, obviously in response to a look Warren was giving her.

“I think there are more pressing concerns than Casey’s roots.”

“Clearly you have no understanding of women.”

“I understand we should get out of here and let Jeremy get to work.”

“I’m not in your way. Am I, Jeremy?”

“Drew …”

“That’s all right. She really isn’t,” Jeremy said.

“In that case, you don’t mind if I stay, too,” Warren said.

“Not at all.”

“The more the merrier,” Drew said, running the brush delicately but firmly through Casey’s hair. “She actually is a natural blond,” Drew explained, as Jeremy pulled up a chair in front of Casey and began massaging her fingers. “Until she was about twelve, her hair was like spun gold. Daddy’s golden girl, he used to call her. Remember that, Casey? Remember how Daddy used to call you his golden girl?”

I remember, Casey thought, breathing in echoes of the past, finding them surprisingly close at hand, and understanding they’d never strayed too far away.

“Even after her hair started getting darker, he still called her his golden girl.”

“I’m sure he had a few choice adjectives for you as well,” Warren said.

Drew laughed. “Yeah, you’re certainly right about that.” Her hands continued expertly drawing the brush through Casey’s hair.

That feels wonderful, Casey thought, as the soft bristles of the brush gently scraped across her scalp like hundreds of tiny fingers. She felt each hair being stretched and separated, then stretched and separated again, and again, with each successive stroke. At the same time, Jeremy was manipulating her fingers and wrists and massaging the muscles of her forearms. It feels so good, Casey thought, giving herself over to the mixture of pleasant sensations, her eyes closing in relaxation.

“She closed her eyes,” Warren said.

What?

“Now they’re open again.”

Casey felt her husband inch closer until they were practically nose to nose, his breath brushing against her lips, like a lover’s first tentative kiss.

“It’s just a reflex action,” Jeremy said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“So everyone keeps saying.”

“Certain bodily functions are automatic. I’m sure her doctors have explained that Casey has no control over—”

“What if she does?” Warren asked, cutting him off.

“What do you mean?” Drew stopped brushing Casey’s hair, dropped to her knees at Casey’s side, a protective hand on Casey’s arm. “You think Casey has control? You think she’s trying to tell us something? Is that what you’re trying to do, Casey? Are you trying to tell us something? Casey, can you hear me? Blink once for yes.”