Suzy's Case: A Novel (31 page)

She caresses my forehead. “Settle down. Just settle down.” She
pulls a spoon out of a cup with something on it. “Here, suck on this,” she directs, putting a few ice chips in my mouth. Despite all the pain I’m feeling during this postcoma awakening, when June said, “Suck on this,” I briefly thought she just might pop her tittie in my mouth. I want to blame the thought on the delusional effects of the pain medications, but I know better. I’m a pig. At least I admit it.

“Be quiet. Just relax. You were in an accident,” she tells me.

“An accident?” I question whether my head trauma has caused me to suffer from echolalia, a medical condition where you immediately repeat a word or phrase you’ve just heard someone say to you. I promptly dismiss the notion. “When? Where? With who? …”

“You were run off the road by someone with a severe case of road rage, at least according to the cops. The guy in the other car crashed and died. We’re supposed to call them if and when you woke up, when you’re well enough to talk. They have some questions for you.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Ten days. This all happened the same day we went out to see Dr. Laura.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask. I honestly don’t know if I said that or just looked as if it were what I was thinking.

June responds in either event. “I promise you, I’m not kidding. You’ve been in and out of semiconsciousness for the last eight days. The first two you were in a deep coma.”

Holy shit! “Is there a chart hanging on the end of my bed?” This time I hear my own voice.

“Yes, right over there.”

“Hand it to me, please.”

June complies. I read the entries under the heading “Impression.” It’s written in scribble-scratch, which I am an expert at reading:

1. Status post left ankle fracture with open reduction and internal fixation

2. Blunt head trauma with loss of consciousness, negative for skull fracture or mass effect on brain

3. Testicular trauma and torsion requiring operative intervention without complication

Shit! My boys were injured! I need to undertake an immediate accounting. I reach under the covers to check on my testicles. I feel one, two, and … three. Yep, they’re all there. What the fuck? What the fuck? I check again. On the recount it’s only two but my left nut is so swollen it feels like a third. Odd numbers would be fine as long as it’s not one. I also feel a whole lot of stitches with the tip of my finger running the length of my sac. I want to jerk myself off this instant to make sure my mechanics are in check, but I suppose that’ll have to wait.

I hand June the chart back. I take another big swallow to coat my scratchy throat. “The last thing I remember I was smoking a cigar with a well-dressed homeless guy named Horatio Cohen and we were discussing your case.” June looks to her left at Trace and then to her right at Fred with an expression that translates as “My lawyer’s gone crazy.” I continue. “No, really. I shared an Avo with a thick-haired, good-looking bum at the East Thirty-Fourth Street Heliport. That’s the last thing I remember clearly. I must have posttraumatic amnesia. Where did the accident happen anyway?”

June looks to Trace. “On the Saw Mill River near Pleasantville,” he discloses. “Didn’t they make a movie about that town?”

“Trace, please.” June, annoyed, shakes her head.

“What hospital am I in?”

“Northern Westchester.”

“Oh God! My wife! Does she …?”

“Relax,” June tells me, “she’s been by your bedside around the clock since you were admitted. That is, in between her yoga, tennis, and kickboxing. She left about an hour ago at our insistence, to get some
rest and see the kids. I promised we’d stay right by your side and told her not to worry.”

“Apparently, that means you met Tyler?”

“That’s what it means. Tyler Wyler, I love that name. It has a ring to it and she carries it well.”

“I see.”

June turns to her posse. “Trace, Fred, I need to speak to my lawyer alone, please. I’ll meet you in the waiting area when I’m done. Take Suzy with you.” Trace grabs Suzy’s handgrips and begins to wheel her.

“Feel better,” Fred wishes me, then follows behind as June watches them make their way out of the room.

Just as June turns back to me and smiles, worry fills my head. “Man, I feel like I got worked over. The case! We got a deadline! I’ve got to get out of here. I have papers to prepare.” The energy of my excitement has the effect of a piano falling on my head from ten stories up.

June tries to calm me. “Relax. Please, just relax. We have two weeks from your discharge date to put in opposing papers—the judge insists on seeing a copy of your discharge documents, by the way.”

“That was nice of Judge Schneider to give me more time, given my coma and all.”

“You think? I went to court on my own and had a little talk with Judge Leslie myself.”

“June,” I advise her, “it’s inappropriate for you to talk to the assigned judge, especially in the absence of opposing counsel.”

“I told you to relax. I called up Winnie ‘the Weasel’ McGillicuddy myself, and she was present for the conference. It wasn’t ex parte, as you lawyers like to call it.”

“Good job, June, and good use of legalese.” Then another thought comes to mind. “What about the Eldo?”

“Barely a scratch. That thing’s a tank. It saved your life.”

A nurse comes in carrying a deep metal pan and doesn’t even look at me. She goes to the sink, filling it with water and a soapy solution. She turns around, looks at me, and jumps back. “Oh my God! You’re up!”

“Yes I am.” I make an attempt at a smile.

“I’m Nurse Rena. When did you wake? How are we feeling?”

“A few minutes ago, and I don’t know how ‘we’ are feeling, but I’m feeling like I got hit by a truck.”

“That’s understandable, but it’s wonderful that you’re awake and talking.” She turns to June. “Has he gotten excited yet? When patients come out of a coma it’s not unusual that they become keyed up and a bit agitated.”

“Those are all good words to describe his behavior,” answers June.

“Just as I suspected. Listen, it’s standard care that I give you a little pain medication to ease you back into reality, especially with all your other injuries. Do I have your consent?”

“Give me the pills. I can’t wait.”

“No pills for you, not in your condition.” Nurse Rena walks out of the room and back in just as fast. She has a syringe in her hand. She walks over to my IV line and injects the solution through a port. I feel instant warmth all over my body, which now seems a bit heavier.

“The doctors will be in just as soon as I report that you’re back in the world of consciousness. Would you like me to do that now?” Nurse Rena asks. “Or after I give you a sponge bath?”

“After, please. I’m in no mood to talk. In fact, could you make sure that no one comes in here for at least an hour after my sponge bath? I just want to relax. That stuff you injected is a miracle drug. I’m floating.”

“Fine, that’s actually a good idea.” The nurse looks at June. “Miss, would you mind leaving the room?”

“Oh, I’ll do that for you. I’m a nurse of sorts, too, and take care of a much less compliant patient for a living.”

Nurse Rena tilts her head. “Is that all right with you?” she asks me.

“Yeah. That’s perfectly fine. Thank you.”

Nurse Rena puts the pan down on my side table, hands June the sponge, steps out of my bed area, and draws the curtain for privacy.

June opens my hospital-issue pajama top, one button at a time. “Nice chest.” She dips the sponge into the basin and fills it with water. She lets the excess drip out, then moves it over my chest. She puts a
little pressure on the sponge so that warm water trickles out down onto my chest. “Take your time and get better,” she softly admonishes. “The case isn’t going anywhere. We’ve waited this long. We can wait a little longer.” She dips and drips a few more times, then applies the sponge directly to my chest and starts moving it in a slow circular fashion.

“So, what do you think of my w-wife?” I mumble, taking note my speech is slurred from the painkiller.

“She’s a beautiful woman and tough as nails.”

“You’re m-money, June. You got her p-pegged,” I burble. “That sponge feels g-good can you keep doing it that w-way?”

June smiles slightly. “Sure. How does this feel?” she asks as she moves the sponge gradually downward onto my belly, keeping a slow circular motion.

“Feels g-good,” I murmur, struggling to keep my eyes open, then realize, looking down, I got a pop tent going. I draw attention to it to save myself the embarrassment of June mentioning it first. “Oh shit. The Governor’s come to town,” I say, weights on my lids, realizing I didn’t stutter there, strange.

“The Governor?”

“Pet name from an ex-girlfriend,” I explain.

“Is that normal?”

“Is what normal?”

“To have an erection after coming out of a coma, with a broken ankle and recovering from surgery on your testicle?”

“It’s obviously normal for me.”

June dips and drips again, but this time she targets the Governor, making him look like a participant in a wet T-shirt contest. Nice.

June puts the sponge down, then slides her hand into a sensitive spot. I realize I haven’t gone ten days without an orgasm since discovering myself during the summer of eighth grade.

“June,” I point out, “I had surgery down there. You’ve now established I can get hard. Taking it any further may not be such a good idea.”

“Your chart doesn’t have any orders to the contrary,” she teases.

“Listen, I’m pretty sure the surgeon wouldn’t write an order
not
to jerk the patient off.”

June looks me in the eye. “Just relax and let June practice a little nursing magic.”

For the next five or so minutes not a word is spoken. Finally, after working me over with the sponge—dip and drip, then dip and drip again—the Governor is close in color to June’s handbag, which today is dark purple. Producing from its depths a travel-sized bottle of moisturizer, June takes hold of the Governor just under his helmet and applies circumferential cream coverage. No pulling or tugging, however. Next June wraps her left hand around the bottom of my cock just above the first stitch and pulls down, making things skin tight, though still without tugging. Now with her creamed right hand she makes an okay sign just under the head. With the perfect amount of tension she slowly motions up, then down.

I spontaneously erupt. The unofficial tug count is two. “Tug count”—that’s a funny double entendre.

June wipes me clean, just the way Tyler does. Oh, Tyler, I crossed the line. I didn’t think I had it in me. “I’ll leave you alone for now, but I expect to be the first call you make after discharge.” I don’t say a word. She turns, opens the curtain, and leaves.

The next morning, I’m awakened by Nurse Rena. “The police are here to see you.”

“Send them …” Before I get out the word
in
two officers enter and approach.

“Good morning,” the older guy with the name badge that reads
PATEL
says. They are from the Westchester County Police Department. “So what happened?” Officer Patel asks. I see his partner is called O’Malley.

“I’m told I was a victim of road rage,” I answer, displaying my uncertainty.

“I want to know what you remember, not what you were told,” says the officer.

“The last thing I remember clearly is smoking a cigar with a homeless man named Horatio Cohen at the East Thirty-Fourth Street
Heliport. The guy gave me some sound legal advice. After that, my memory is a little fuzzy.”

“Tell me the fuzzy stuff,” Patel urges.

“I kind of remember being hit from behind on the Parkway. Then I felt another ram, clearly indicating someone was trying to run me off the road. But I have some memory, a really fuzzy one, of there being an extra vehicle. Like, if it hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t be talking to you now.”

“Are you saying three cars were involved in this incident?” asks Patel.

“Yeah.” I wait a moment for Patel to finish jotting down his note in his memo pad. “Are you going to tell me who the guy trying to kill me was?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know he crashed and died. So who the fuck was he?”

Patel looks at O’Malley, then back at me. “Got any enemies?”

“None that I know of.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I had a disgruntled client with a criminal record that wasn’t so happy about the news I shared with him. He was in my office not so long ago.”

Then I realize it was longer ago than I think. As I’m trying to assimilate this, Patel asks, “What news?”

It seems Patel is short on answers but full of questions.

“I had to tell him his wife thought he was a shitty lover and things of that nature, trying to force him to take a settlement, which, if I recall correctly, he still hasn’t taken.”

“You were involved with her?”

“If you’re asking if his wife was cheating on him with me, the answer is no. I’m familiar with their marital sexual history from her medical records.”

“What’s your client’s name?”

“That’s privileged,” I say, firmly hoping it will prompt the officer to be gratuitous.

Patel bites. “Is it Bert Beecher?”

“You said it, not me. Privilege preserved. That’s the guy.”

Patel looks at his partner, then back at me. “Then you did have an enemy, but you don’t anymore. He’s the dead guy who ran you off the road.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Privilege dies with the client.” After an angry pause, I can’t contain myself. “Fucking Henry Benson!” I yell. I know what’s on Patel’s mind, so I beat him to the punch. “Henry Benson is the attorney who referred Beecher to me. I’ve had a lot of problems with his clients, but this is the first guy who tried to kill me with premeditation.”

“Can you give us any information on the other vehicle you think you remember?”

“I got nothing for you. Zero.”

“You know how you got from the accident scene to this hospital?”

I shrug my shoulders and pose my own question. “Ambulance?”

Patel shakes his head. “Nope. You were found unconscious on the sidewalk right outside. Someone rendered first aid to you at the scene of the accident, which stopped your bleeding and saved your life, transported you here, and left you on the curb in front of the emergency room entrance. My guess would be the driver of the mystery vehicle. Looks like we’re going to close the case. You can’t charge a dead guy with a crime.” Patel and O’Malley turn and leave.