Suzy's Case: A Novel (16 page)

“Does she always struggle like that when you’re trying to take her shirt off?” I ask.

“Always. She’s embarrassed about her scar.”

“She’s what?”

June restates her words in a slow, deliberate manner. “She’s embarrassed about her scar, just like a normal person would be.” When June finally wrestles the shirt off her arms, Suzy immediately, and in the most spastic of ways, folds her arms across her chest like she’s covering something up. “See, I told you. She doesn’t want you to see her scar. I know she has the brain of an infant, but she’s self-conscious about her scar. I can’t explain it.”

I look at Suzy. She’s struggling to keep her uncontrollable arms folded in one place. They’re shaking back and forth but she manages to keep covered the area she wants to hide from us. It’s the most cerebral behavior I’ve witnessed thus far. “June,” I ask, “what’s the scar from?”

“When they resuscitated her on the day this all happened, they used those defib paddles on her chest and it left her with a scar.”

“That can happen,” I explain. “Defib paddles can burn the skin. But generally they don’t leave a permanent scar.”

“In this case they had to use adult-sized paddles since they were the only ones available. I was told it saved her life but left her with bad scarring.”

“Would you mind if I took a look at it?”

“I don’t mind, but I think Suzy will.”

“Can you open her arms so I can see? I’m curious.”

“I’ll try.” June gently grasps Suzy by her wrists. She begins to resist, causing June to coax, “Come on, baby, let your soon-to-be ex-lawyer see that scar.” She attempts to pry open her daughter’s arms. Suzy grunts and snorts as the two struggle. “Come on, baby. Please open those arms,” June urges, but to no avail.

“June. Stop. Please.” June lets go of Suzy and their arm wrestle ends in a draw. “Can I have a crack at it?”

June starts laughing. “Oh, sure. Go right ahead, Mr. Sensitivity.”

I kneel down on one knee on the right side of Suzy’s wheelchair. That’s the side her head is cocked to from the tension of the fibrous adhesions that have developed in the soft tissues of her neck area. I’m in the traditional “will you marry me” position and I’m looking up at
Suzy’s twitching face. It’s my first close-up, and I can tell by her features she must have been a beautiful girl. I say “must have been” because you have to block out the tongue protrusion, crossed eyes, mild drooling, and general overall look of a brain injury to access her beauty.

I speak to her in a mellow whisper. “Hey, Suzy. I know you can hear me. Maybe not understand me, but I know you can hear me. I want to apologize to you for acting like such a schmuck.
Schmuck
is a Yiddish word that means ‘stupid person.’ You see, I figured I was gonna turn down your case, which is basically what I’m still gonna do, so I depersonalized you. That was wrong and I am sorry.” Her trembling has lessened a little bit and she seems interested in what I have to say, although I’m relatively certain she can’t understand one single word. But you never know.

I continue softly. “Suzy, as long as I’m coming forward with my own shortcomings, I’ll have to also admit the only reason I came here today is because your mom has a smoking tight ass and I’ve already fantasized about her in a very carnal way.” I look up at June and she gives me the response I was hoping for, a smile. I take Suzy’s rigid contorted hand into mine. “Suzy, if you let me move your arms open so I can see your scar your mom over here is going to think I have some special powers. If she thinks that, I truly believe it will increase my chances of getting a little romance sooner rather than later.” I look up at June and her smile broadens. But I imagine she knows I’m just being playful, not serious. I think.

I whisper some more. “So, I’m going to slowly move your arms open and I don’t want you to resist because I could use a little stimulation in my life at this point. I know that’s selfish, again, but at least I admit it. Most people are in denial of their faults.”

I slowly open Suzy’s arms. The only resistance I feel is involuntary from the contractures that plague the musculature of her entire upper limbs. Otherwise, Suzy appears to be relaxed and fully compliant. As I open her arms, it feels really weird because nothing is moving naturally the way it’s supposed to. Every joint seems frozen. As I apply more force I get more resistance of the kind you feel stretching out a rubber band. I continue to open her arms outward slowly, and it
reminds me of those enormous curtains parting to begin a Broadway show.

I finally get to see the scar my little client is so ashamed of. It’s a round scar on her chest, left of center. Suzy’s skin was not just charred as you would expect from the shock of defibrillation paddles; it was excessively burned. Also, its contour is inconsistent with the shape of defib paddles as I know them to be, and so a question occurs to me. Why just one geometrically shaped scar? I look up, and Suzy is watching me eyeball her scar like she knows something. Then, all of the sudden, we make eye contact. Sustained eye contact. We have connected the most we ever will. She knows something, and this is the best she can do to get her message across. Weird.

Her scar reminds me of a time when my wife went to pick up a half-eaten Tootsie Roll off our kitchen floor. “What’s the matter with you kids? You’re a bunch of slobs!” La Comandante yelled. She picked it up and held it out. “I want to know who left this Tootsie Roll on the floor.”

My son, Connor, looked up from his handheld gaming device. “Mom, dat ain’t no Tootsie Roll.”

My wife put it up to her nose for the smell test. “What is it?”

“A dried-up piece of cat shit Otis ate out of the litter box,” Connor casually informed her.

From my kneeling position, I now say to June, “Dat ain’t no defibulation paddle scar.”

“Then what’s it from?”

“I’m not sure what it is. I’m just sure what it’s not. When Dr. Harper comes back I’ll try to get him to give us his opinion. You keep quiet about it. Let me do the lawyering.” She nods. I place Suzy’s arms back over the scar. “Thank you, Suzy,” I say. June moves in and puts the gown on her daughter.

Two raps sound, and Dr. Harper enters, acknowledging each of us with a nod. He begins the routine exam on Suzy as she’s seated in her wheelchair, her arms folded. He seems to have a way with her, so I’m eager to see what happens when he goes to pull her arms apart. He
makes his move and Suzy resists as expected, adding a few grunts to the mix. Dr. Harper turns to us. “Does she always do this?”

June responds, “Always.”

“Why?” he asks.

“Because she’s sensitive about her paddle scar,” June blurts out before I get a chance to form an answer that will elicit Dr. Harper’s opinion about the scar. So much for lawyering.

Dr. Harper shrugs slightly. “I have to evaluate her upper body. How can we get her arms open and robe off?”

“Doc, I’ll help you out here,” I offer. I kneel down to make my second proposal and start whispering again for Suzy’s ear only. “Listen, Suzy, I got to get this guy’s opinion as to what that scar is on your chest. It may also further my efforts to get inside your mommy’s panties, although I’m not sure I have it in me to cheat on my wife. But I did promise my mother, who is pretty sick, I would always be open to other women, yet I seem to get in my own way when it comes to closing the deal. Anyway, please unfold your arms for me. Please, Suzy. Your mom already blew it with her big mouth, so let me play my lawyer game.” Suzy lets me open her arms, and Dr. Harper steps in to take down her robe. He listens to her heartbeat with his stethoscope and does a few finger thuds on her chest and abdomen. I pose my question. “Dr. Harper, how did she get that scar from a defib paddle?”

“That’s not a paddle scar,” he states, “that scar is from a defibrillation patch.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“There are generally two ways to deliver a therapeutic dose of electrical energy by defibrillation in a hospital setting to reestablish the heart’s normal sinus rhythm. One is by use of a metal paddle known as a resuscitation electrode with an insulated handle that the physician manually holds in place on the patient’s skin in the chest area while a shock or a series of shocks are delivered. This is the method the medical television shows like to glorify because it’s very dramatic when the doctor yells ‘Clear!’ then shocks the patient.” He takes his stethoscope out of his ears. “The other type of resuscitation electrodes are designed
as adhesive pads or patches that are applied to the patient’s chest wall on one end and to a defibrillator machine at the other. No one has to yell ‘Clear’ because of the direct contact. This form is generally used on patients being monitored and at risk for a cardiac event by the very same machine that delivers the resuscitation shock.”

“Isn’t defibrillation achieved by delivering the electric current with the axis of the heart situated directly between the two resuscitation electrodes?” I ask.

“That’s exactly right.”

“Why, then, is there only one scar?”

“I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation,” Harper says sternly, “but I haven’t been asked to review any records in this matter and I’m not a cardiologist. I was just asked to perform an IME on this child, and I might add they’re throwing away their money. Anyone can see Suzy’s clearly a spastic quadriplegic. We’re done here. You can get her dressed now.” As Dr. Harper begins to leave the room, he turns back to us. “I’m sorry about the condition of your daughter, Mrs. Williams. Complications from a sickle cell crisis can be devastating, as you are well aware. Good day.”

June’s only response is one of a corrective nature. “It’s Ms. Williams, Doctor.” I can tell from her tone she’s holding in the ghetto girl. June watches the door close behind him and then turns to me. “Oh no. No, no, no.”

“June,” I tell her, “stay in control.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m in control. He’s wrong.”

“I’m listening.”

“Suzy was defibbed with paddles, not with patches. This I’m certain of.”

“How?”

“First, by the sound of things going on in that room.”

“Sound?”

“Yes, the sound,” June states firmly. “They ordered me out of the room, but I sat down just at the edge of the doorway and could hear everything that was going on in there. They wheeled a special cart by
me into the room. A crash cart. What I heard after that was someone yelling, ‘Clear!’ just like Harper said. You hear me?”

“I hear ya. Go on.”

“After they carried Suzy off to another part of the hospital, I just sat there outside her room, leaning up against the wall with my head in my hands for what seemed like an eternity. This lady stayed there and comforted me for a while, but I didn’t look up even once and she finally let me be. The first time I picked my head up was when some men in orange uniforms looking like maintenance workers came to Suzy’s room and wheeled out the two carts.”

“Two crash carts?”

“No. One was a cart with a broken wheel that made a
click-click
sound with a heart monitor on it that Dr. Valenti had ordered and the other was the crash cart. They wheeled them right past me and the crash cart had paddles on it. I saw them.”

“That’s pretty clear evidence,” I say. “I’m with you on this, June. I won’t be applying to the court to be relieved as Suzy’s lawyer until I can make some sense out of that scar. Something’s not right. Every scar has a story and I’m going to figure out the story behind Suzy’s.”

June grabs my cheeks, smooshing up my lips with her hand just like my nana did when I was a kid. She’d say how cute I was, giving an extrahard squeeze for emphasis. June now looks me in the eye, with an added squeeze of her own, and says, “Now that’s a good lawyer.” As she releases her kung fu grip, I feel the warmth of blood rushing back into my face.

Unexpectedly, she reaches into her tan bag and extracts a videotape. Suzy sees it. “Sch-weet, sch-weet, sch-weet,” she says excitedly as Dog tries to balance herself on her tilting lap.

“What’s that?”

“It’s Suzy’s fifth birthday party. I don’t want you to think my daughter’s only what you see here. She’s a lot more. Suzy may not be on the outside the girl you’ll see on this tape, but that same girl is inside of her.” June hands me the tape, which causes Suzy to start bucking back and forth in defiance. June looks at her. “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get it
back. I just want your lawyer to see who you were.” June turns to me. “Guard this tape with your life. I don’t have a copy and Suzy insists on watching it every evening before going to sleep.”

“It’s safe with me. Don’t worry,” I assure her. I bend down to Suzy. “Don’t you worry, either, Suzy.” After dressing her, June starts to wheel Suzy toward the door. “June,” I call.

She stops and turns. “Yes?”

“How did you become one of Henry Benson’s clients? I mean, how do you know him?”

“I didn’t know him. My husband did.”

“How did your husband know Henry Benson?”

“Henry was my husband’s lawyer.”

“Criminal?”

“Very,” June replies.

“What were the charges against him?”

“A better question is, what
weren’t
the charges against him? My husband was a bad man. Very bad.”

“Why do you say he
was
a bad man? Has he changed?”

“You could say that.”

“In what way?”

“Well, he’s no longer with us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. We’re all a lot safer without him around.”

“You know best. Look, I got to go. I have a doctor’s appointment of my own.”

“Good luck at your doctor.”

“Thanks.”

I leave the building. Parked at the curb is that old black car again with the deep-sounding idle and the license plate that reads:
THEFIDGE
. It’s a 1962 Impala SS with the distinctive bubble top and all the right badges. I look in as I walk by but can see only a shadow of a person through the smoked windows. After walking a block or so, I hear in the distance that same distinctive burnout sound I heard when the Impala peeled away from the courthouse curb.

I walk through the door of my new doctor’s office with Suzy’s party video in hand. The only person in the waiting area is a twentysomething hot tamale. She’s sporting a colorful Pucci print top, fashion-forward jeans, and casual Prada flats. Last year’s. Her one lapse is the outdated Kieselstein-Cord belt, the one with the sterling silver buckle in the form of an alligator. It was a status symbol back in the 1980s. At least on Long Island it was.