Summer Session (5 page)

Harper wanted to run to him but knew better; he was still wobbly. She might knock him over. So she moved slowly, planting a gentle kiss on his mouth.

‘I had some free time, so I thought I’d surprise you.’ Maybe he’s better now, she thought. Maybe this last procedure improved his brain function. Maybe he’ll talk.

But Hank stood, silently watching her. So she kept talking. ‘It’s so hot outside, Hank. Lucky you have air conditioning. White Hall was—’ She stopped mid-sentence, recalling how her class there had ended. She blinked, changing the subject.

‘The nurse said you were out having a procedure. So I straightened up a little.’ Stop chattering, she told herself. Stop feeling compelled to fill the silence. Relax; let him take his time.

Slowly, Hank’s lips twisted and his eyes narrowed with fierce concentration. ‘Go.’ As Harper smiled encouragingly, he forced another word. ‘Home.’

Go. Home? Wait. What? He wanted her to go home? Stunned, Harper swallowed air, felt as if she’d been punched.

‘You must be tired.’ Harper kept her voice cheery. ‘I’ll go soon. I wanted to see you, but you should rest. I’ll come back later.’ She forced a smile, tried not to worry her hands.

Hank shook his head, no, and scowled. ‘Not not not.’ His fist tightened and he pounded the top of the dresser.

Not? Not what? Not come back later? Didn’t he want her to visit at all? Why? What had happened? That morning, he’d seemed so positive and affectionate, happy with his oatmeal. ‘Hank, what’s wrong?’ Harper frowned.

‘He’s just frustrated – I’m sure he doesn’t mean it like it sounds.’ The orderly took firm hold of Hank’s arm to prevent more pounding. Then he led him to the reclining chair. ‘Sit down, Mr Jennings. Relax, take a breath, and when you’re ready, try again.’ He looked at Harper. ‘They get this way sometimes. Trying to talk gets them exhausted. He should rest.’

Harper nodded, hating that the orderly talked about her husband as if he weren’t there. Then again, maybe Hank wasn’t there. The man in the recliner had dark shadows under his eyes, and his thick curls needed trimming. His brows furrowed and he wasn’t dashing. He didn’t look very much like her Hank at all. Besides, her Hank would never have told her to go home and not come back. Missing the man he’d been, Harper closed her eyes, saw him sliding off the roof. No. Not again.

Hank’s mouth contorted; he was working on more words. ‘No,’ or maybe, ‘Now,’ he finally formed. ‘Go. Home.’

Home. She pictured the rambling half-gutted Victorian house with the steep slate roof. When – how – would she ever manage to stop replaying his fall? Harper went over to the chair, put her arms on Hank’s wide shoulders, crouching so her eyes met his. ‘It’s not very hospitable, Hank, telling me to go home.’

He blinked at her urgently. ‘Me. You. Not.’

Right. Harper regretted surprising him. She shouldn’t have broken their routine, popping in when he wasn’t expecting her. She stood again, determined to remain positive, searching for a light-hearted topic, hoping he’d stop ordering her to leave. Seeing a menu on the top of the dresser, she picked it up. ‘What’s for dinner tonight? Hmm. Breast of chicken with peach salsa. Balsamic rice. Asparagus. Peach pie. Yum.’ Harper felt her face get hot, ashamed of her sing-song tone and feigned happiness. She was talking to Hank as if he were a child. Just because he talked like a toddler in small words and short phrases didn’t mean he wasn’t still an intelligent adult who probably understood perfectly well what was being said to him.

But it didn’t seem to matter what Harper said because, apparently, Hank wasn’t listening. He was working his mouth, trying to say something. She waited until, again, he insisted, ‘Now. Hoppa. Go.’

She sighed, defeated. ‘Fine. I’m going.’ She studied his face, his eyes. ‘Hank, I love you. I’ll be back after dinner.’ She kissed his mouth, then his stubbly cheek. She pressed her face there, storing the smell of him and the sensation of his rough whiskers. Then she gathered up her bags and walked out before he could speak again.

But he spoke anyway, loudly. ‘Hoppa. Home.’ He struggled to form another sound, but Harper was gone and the orderly wasn’t listening. ‘Me.’ Then, he shook his head, no, and added, ‘With.’

When the elevator doors opened, they revealed one of Hank’s doctors. Dr Ron Kendall’s boyish face and fair hair made him look young enough to be a medical student, but, in fact, he was a world-renowned neurosurgeon and researcher. He carried himself accordingly, as if expecting mobs of manic fans to descend on him at any moment. Over the last several weeks, though, Harper had learned to look beyond his superstar attitudes. Dr Kendall was a genius, committed to his patients. His cutting-edge brain-injury work with his partner, Dr Steven Wyatt, was what had convinced her to bring Hank to the clinic.

Dr Kendall flashed a professional nano-smile. ‘Harper. How’s it going?’

It was merely a conventional greeting. Dr Kendall didn’t expect an actual answer. When they arrived at ground level, he waved, ‘Take care,’ and began to stride away.

‘Dr Kendall.’ The words spilled out, surprising her. ‘Do you have a minute?’

He paused, head tilted, eyebrows lifted, as if considering whether or not he did.

‘It’s . . . One of my students killed himself today.’ Her face got hot. Why had she said that? What was he supposed to do about it?

‘Really, that was you? Your class?’ Dr Kendall stepped closer and took her arm, led her into a corner of the lobby, sat facing her. ‘How awful. I heard about it on the radio. They said a student jumped out a window.’

Harper nodded. The story had spread quickly.

‘What a shock, Harper. How are you doing?’ He leaned forward, studying her with gentle, hazel eyes. Harper hoped she’d washed all the mud off her face. Dr Kendall put a hand on her arm, and the tenderness of his touch surprised her, particularly after Hank’s blunt rejection. Suddenly, tears blurred her vision. Tears? Really? She was a war veteran; soldiers didn’t cry. Even so, her eyes were wet. Dr Kendall handed her his handkerchief; she stared at it before taking it. Men still carried handkerchiefs?

‘Thank you.’ Harper dabbed her eyes.

‘Did he say anything? Give a reason?’

‘No. Nothing.’ Harper was annoyed by her tears. Crying was a sign of weakness, a waste of time. It interfered with clear thinking, accomplished nothing. So, even as Hank’s doctor tried to console her, she blew her nose, sat straight and changed her focus, asking about her husband’s case.

Dr Kendall blinked, startled by the abrupt change of subject. He shifted his position, leaning back and crossing his legs, taking on a more professional demeanor. ‘Sorry. What?’

‘Is he making any progress?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Harper. Both Dr Wyatt and I have discussed this with you—’

‘Hank seems unhappy. Frankly, I need to remind myself why he’s here. And why he has to go through all these procedures.’

‘He’s here because we might be able to help him. And, as you know, the procedures help us assess the damage to specific parts of his brain—’

‘But how long will it all take? Shouldn’t he be improving by now?’

Dr Kendall folded his arms, creating a physical barrier. ‘Harper, the answer to your questions is the same as it’s been all these weeks: we don’t know. Your husband’s aphasia affects his ability to form language. It might or might not improve. Meantime, we’ve started him on speech therapy, and art therapy to encourage alternate outlets for expression—’

‘But those are conventional treatments. What about the experimental procedures you talked about. Like electronic stimulation?’

‘We’re evaluating his eligibility for a variety of experimental treatments.’

Still? How long did it take? Why weren’t they moving faster? ‘But couldn’t you treat him as an outpatient, with him living at home?’

‘Harper, we’ve already discussed this. Outpatient treatment is out of the question. We’re dealing with your husband’s
brain
.’ Dr Kendall waited, letting his words sink in. ‘Having him here is difficult for you, but be patient. We’re studying Hank’s frontal lobe injuries with varied functional MRIs. The process takes time. And we need to be thorough. You wouldn’t tolerate anything less.’

No, she wouldn’t. So why was she pestering him? Harper looked away, felt her neck flush.

‘Meantime, who knows? Conventional therapies might help, or Hank might experience spontaneous recovery. In either of those cases, we might not need an experimental route.’ Dr Kendall glanced at his watch. ‘So, are we OK here?’ He stood, guiding Harper to her feet. ‘I was about to take off.’

‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She hefted her bags. ‘Sorry to be a bother.’

‘Not at all.’ Dr Kendall gave her a brief, professional hug.

Harper had almost crossed the lobby when she heard him call, ‘Harper? Again, deepest sympathies regarding your student.’

The words felt like an assault, reminding her of Graham. She saw him dangling from the window, the look in his eyes. No, she told herself. Stop. Focus on the moment. Don’t worry about Hank. Don’t think about Graham. Walk. Shoulders up, eyes ahead. She counted her steps: one, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Ten more and she’d be out the door. Soon she’d meet the detective. Then she’d see Leslie. She’d get through the day. Somehow.

‘Loot?’

Harper stopped. Had someone called to her?

She scanned the lobby. Two nurses waited at the elevators. An orderly pushed a wheelchair past the receptionist’s desk. Against the far wall, a bunch of young people, maybe students, hung around the registration window. Wait, wasn’t that Larry? And Esoso? And a woman in pink – she had to be Monique. What were they doing there? Was her whole recitation hanging out at the Neurological Center? Of course not. Just three. Still, it was odd. And none of the three had called to her; they were absorbed in conversation, not even looking her way.

‘Loot – over here.’ Harper turned to the waiting area on her right. Anna sat on a sofa, holding a magazine.

Harper smiled and walked over, aware that the girl had passed out at least twice that day. Maybe she was there to get checked out.

‘I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure.’ Anna smiled shyly. As always, she looked puffed-up and pasty, like unbaked white bread. She wore no make-up, and her thick eyebrows and black hair emphasized her paleness. Her nose and eyes were red, and she dabbed them with a wadded tissue. Probably she was crying about Graham. Harper couldn’t remember Anna and Graham talking or even acknowledging each other; Anna always sat by herself. Still, the death had been a tragedy. A shock. ‘I was surprised to see you, Loot. Are you volunteering here?’

Volunteering? ‘No. I was visiting a patient.’ Why be secretive? Why not say it? ‘My husband.’

Anna blinked, surprised. ‘Oh. Really? I just assumed. See, a lot of people from Cornell volunteer here. As subjects. For the research.’ She nodded toward the students waiting against the wall. ‘It’s good money. Some of the experiments, all you have to do is sleep. I overheard Esoso saying he makes a hundred dollars a night.’

‘Seriously?’ Harper wondered if she made that much teaching, couldn’t do the math. ‘So, are you a volunteer?’

‘Me?’ Anna’s eyes shifted, looked at the wall. ‘Oh, no. I’m – I’m not eligible.’ She wiped her eyes. More tears for Graham?

‘Are you OK, Anna?’

‘Sure,’ she sniffed. ‘I’m just narcoleptic.’

Harper blinked, confused.

‘It’s a sleeping disorder.’

Harper nodded. She’d heard of it, began to understand.

‘Basically,’ Anna went on, ‘I fall asleep when I get upset or stressed.’

Narcolepsy. So that was why Anna often slept in class. And it was why she’d passed out on the quad.

Anna’s eyes filled up. ‘My doctor at home in Utica recommended this clinic. They have a whole sleep department. So my parents had me transfer.’ She pressed the tissue to her nose, and her voice broke. ‘God, Loot, what happened today? I don’t get it. It was so . . . out of nowhere.’

‘I know.’

‘I had an episode. I passed out in class. Nervous about the quiz. I remember you handing it out. The next thing I knew, everyone was screaming. I couldn’t open my eyes, but I could hear the commotion and the cries, and I didn’t know what happened. Oh God. Why did he jump? Graham – he was so amazing.’

Amazing? Was he? Harper had no idea. In fact, after three weeks of class, other than their majors and faces, she didn’t know much about her students. And she wondered how Anna did; from what she’d observed, Anna didn’t have a single friend in the class.

‘It’s his birthday next week. He was going to be twenty. I was going to bake a cake and bring it to class. You know, as a surprise.’ Anna’s eyes filled with pain. ‘Damn, Loot. I really liked him.’

Harper wasn’t sure how to respond. Apparently, Anna had planned a birthday party for a guy who didn’t even notice her. She’d had a secret crush on Graham. Poor Anna. She wasn’t a pretty girl; had a swollen, unhealthy look. Didn’t fit in. Kept to herself. Even so, maybe Graham had liked her. Maybe they’d been close, privately.

And, if they had been, maybe Anna would know about his gun.

Harper put a hand on Anna’s shoulder, comforting her. ‘Anna, I need to ask you something. Just between you and me, OK?’

Anna nodded.

‘It’s delicate. I don’t want to start rumors or damage Graham’s reputation.’

‘I can keep a secret.’

‘You knew Graham pretty well?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes darted away. ‘Very well.’

‘OK.’ Harper hesitated. Even if Anna were exaggerating, it wouldn’t hurt to ask. ‘Anna.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Do you think Graham might have been, well, involved in something he shouldn’t have?’

Anna’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Like what?’

Harper’s shoulders were aching from the weight of the bags; she set them down. ‘I came across some stuff in his book bag. Medications. A lot of money. And a gun.’