The Absence of Mercy (20 page)

And somewhere in Children's Hospital her eyes flew open, staring into the darkness of a room she did not recognize, her body still bracing itself for the blow.

Part 4

Pieces

Ben brought the car to a stop, nestling the right wheels up against the curb. Vehicles crowded the small street on either side, an unfamiliar spectacle in this sleepy community whose inhabitants had grown unaccustomed to the finer points of parallel parking. Half a block down, Tony Linwood was climbing into his parked cruiser. He glanced over, and Ben raised a hand. Tony smiled and waved back.

“Quite a turnout,” Susan commented from the front passenger seat, unbuckling her seat belt.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, taking stock of the swarm of people congregated on the front lawn of the Dresslers' residence three houses down. After eleven and a half weeks in the hospital, Monica Dressler was finally home, and the whole town, it seemed, had come here to welcome her back.

“Dad, can I have a slice of this when we get inside?” Joel asked from the backseat. On his lap, he was holding a pie that Susan had baked this morning in anticipation of the event. It was covered with plastic wrap, but the warm, sweet smell had still managed to permeate the car during their short trip.

“You fat pig,” Thomas whispered from the seat next to him. Joel stuck his tongue out at his older brother, who reached over and pinched his left flank hard enough for Joel to yell out in protest. The pie plate tottered precariously in Joel's lap.

“
Stop it,
” Susan hissed, glaring back at them. She'd been irritable most of the morning. Most likely, Ben thought, it was the prospect of coming here today. Despite Monica's excellent recovery, his wife still found the topic upsetting to talk about. Some tragedies, he supposed, fell too close to home.

“Shall we?” Ben prompted, grasping the latch to his door.

They stepped out into the August sunshine. The air, thick and humid, hung on them like a grumpy child demanding to be carried. Tiny insects weaved in frenzied clouds in front of Ben's face, and perspiration dampened the back of his shirt as he walked with his family up the street. They ascended the front steps and laced their way slowly through the crowd, extending greetings and engaging in brief conversations as they went.

The interior of the domicile was full of friends and acquaintances, and Ben was reminded of the similar reception at Children's Hospital many weeks ago, a time when things had not looked so promising. The somber concern etched into many of those faces was gone now, replaced by a jubilant, almost giddy atmosphere of celebration and relief. They had pulled through this together, it seemed, and at the center of it all was Monica Dressler, who sat on the couch in the family room like a china doll on display, a glass of apple cider resting on her lap. She glanced over at them and waved, the pleasant smile surfacing like a reflex.

“Come on,” Thomas said to his brother in a rare display of inclusiveness. “Let's go say hi.”

Susan shot them a look but said nothing, taking the pie from Joel's hands.

Ben placed a hand on the small of her back. “It's okay. Let's find Paul and Vera.”

“I'll need to get over to the hospital soon,” she advised him. “I still have some patients I need to check on.”

“Sure,” Ben acknowledged, trying not to be angry with her. Standing here amid the din of cheerful conversation, the attack nearly three months behind them and with no similar events since then, he couldn't help but feel optimistic. The fingers of anxiety and dread that had taken hold of him following the murder of Kevin Tanner had loosened their grip significantly, their presence now feeling like a scar from a wound that had almost healed. The worst of it was behind them, he felt, and like almost everyone else here he had chosen to embrace the idea that this town would indeed recover. He was riled by his wife's reluctance to do the same.

A hand fell upon his right shoulder. “Now, there's a man who looks like he needs a drink.” Ben turned to encounter Paul Dressler, smiling broadly.

“Hi, Paul. Good to see you.” He looped a hand around Susan's elbow, and she too turned to greet Monica's father.

“Thanks so much for coming,” Paul said. “It really means a lot to us.”

Susan smiled. “You must be so relieved to have her home again.”

“We're very grateful,” he said. “The doctors and nurses took such good care of her. And the thoughts and prayers of everyone here played a major role in getting her home so quickly. Vera and I are overwhelmed with gratitude.”

“How's she feeling?” Ben asked.

“Much better,” he replied. “She has pain, of course—part of the healing process—but they've given her medication for that. They set her up with a physical therapist five days a week. They have her walking on a treadmill, exercising the muscles in her left hand, working on getting her strength back . . . all kinds of things. They don't take it easy on her, either. She comes home pretty exhausted.” Paul glanced to his right and spotted his wife near the entrance to the kitchen. He waved for her to join them.

“Hi, Susan,” Vera said, walking over and giving Ben's wife a hug. “I'm so glad you were able to make it.”

“I wouldn't have missed it,” Susan replied, and Ben smiled to himself, recalling the resistance he'd had to contend with at home. “Paul was telling us about Monica's physical therapy,” Susan noted.

“Oh, yes,” Vera said, rolling her eyes. “They work her so hard. I honestly don't know if it's good for her, so soon after being released from the hospital.”

“The doctors said it's important,” Paul reminded her. “We want her to be able to regain as much function as possible.”

“I know,” she said. She turned a conferring gaze toward Susan. “It just seems a little extreme, is all.”

“I'm sure the physical therapists know what they're doing,” Ben's wife responded, trying to reassure her.

Vera turned her head to study her daughter from across the room. She was sitting on the couch next to Thomas, who was resting a hand on her shoulder and conveying some piece of juicy gossip to her in hushed, conspiratorial tones. Monica listened for a moment, her eyes cast slightly up and to the right, then her face broke into a wide grin and she brought her left hand up to cover her mouth as she laughed. From this distance, the two prosthetic fingers looked natural and uniform with the other digits. Vera turned back to Ben and Susan, who had followed her gaze. Her face was contorted into a mishmash of pain and gladness. “Thomas has been so good with her,” she said. “They've become close over these past several weeks.” She smiled, her eyes glistening with moisture. “It's good to see her laugh.”

Susan nodded. “Is she saying much?”

The volume of the conversations around them seemed to decrease slightly, as if this were a question on everyone's mind.

Vera's face took on a hard, protective look that Ben had seen once previously when he and Thomas had visited Monica in the hospital. (“
They said she'll probably wake up very soon,
” Vera had told them then. “
Dr. Elliot says there's no reason she shouldn't.
”)

“She talks plenty,” Vera advised them. “She's able to make her needs known to us.” She searched their faces for understanding, and Ben found himself nodding supportively, wanting to place her fears at ease. “She's been through a lot,” Vera continued. “The doctors said she'll open up more with time.”

“She doesn't recall much about the incident?” Susan asked, and Ben shot her a reproachful look. This was obviously uncomfortable territory for Monica's mother.

“No, not much,” Vera replied, looking down for a moment at the tan carpeting beneath their feet. She looked up at them again, her eyes weary. “And given the circumstances, I think that's best, don't you?”

“Yes,” Susan agreed, taking Vera by the hand, her body transforming into a soft posture of empathy—a physical bearing, Ben thought, that seemed to come so much more naturally to women. “Yes, I do.”

“Are you sure you're ready?” he asked, positioning his player for the penalty shot. The electronic crowd on the television screen in front of them roared with simulated fervor. “I'm not gonna take it easy on you this time.”

“Go ahead. Bring it,” she replied, adjusting the Xbox 360 controller in her lap. She used her right hand for most of the controls, but she could still use her functional left thumb on the D-pad and left stick. She'd never been one for video games in the past, but her physical therapist had suggested that thirty minutes a day would help with her fine motor control, and Monica found that the games also helped pass the time, particularly when her friends came to visit.
Anything to take the attention off me,
she thought.

Thomas's striker moved slightly to the right, then his body was in motion and he kicked the ball toward the upper left corner as Monica's goalkeeper made a diving leap in that direction, deflecting the soccer ball up and over the goalpost.

“
No goal!
” she exclaimed as the crowd went wild. “
What a save!
”

“Lucky,” Thomas remarked. “You anticipated that one.”

“No, I'm just faster than you—even with only one good hand. Here, let's take a look at the instant replay.”

“We don't need to watch the replay,” he said, but the slow-motion video was already under way.

“It looks even better the second time,” she teased him, and he covered his eyes in protest.

“That's two games to none,” she said. “You ready to quit?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “I know when I'm beaten.” He rose and made his way to the kitchen. “You want anything from the fridge?”

“No, I'm good,” she called out, returning the equipment to the cabinet beneath the TV.

Thomas returned to the living room, a glass of juice in his hand. He sat down on the couch and looked at her, shaking his head.

“What?” she asked.

“You're doing great. Two months ago you were just getting home from the hospital, and now you're kicking my butt in soccer.”

“Video soccer,” she clarified. “It doesn't take much athleticism to sit in front of the television pushing buttons. It's the real-life physical activity that still gets me.”

He shrugged. “Little bit at a time. Feel like going for a walk?”

She glanced out through the window and frowned. “It looks windy outside today.”

He said nothing, just sat there sipping his drink, studying her with those cavernous green eyes.

She sighed, realizing how pathetic the excuse sounded—even in her own ears. Since returning from the hospital, wandering more than a few blocks from the house made her nervous. She could tolerate the trips to her physical therapy appointments, which were indoors and took place in surroundings that were both familiar and unchanging, but being outside was a different animal altogether. For the past eight weeks, Thomas had been helping her with that anxiety, encouraging her to take walks with him throughout the neighborhood during his frequent visits. There were days, in fact, when it wasn't so bad—when she could imagine going out by herself, could imagine returning to the activities she'd taken for granted only five months before. But there were others days—ones like this one—when that degree of comfort and independence still seemed a long way off.

“Okay.” She acquiesced. “Let me get my jacket.”

They left the house and ventured out into the October afternoon. The daylight hours were getting shorter now, the fall season settling in with its restless, gusting days and clear, chilly nights. Already the leaves were abandoning their perches, casting themselves bravely into the abyss as they fluttered silently and gracefully to the earth. And with the thinning of deciduous limbs came the thinning of activity, as people began to hunker down in anticipation of the approaching winter. Cars sat dormant in driveways, and the few people they passed seemed to move with a stiff, deliberate pace, as if their minds were burdened with other things as they dragged rakes back and forth across modest yards, their hands rising now and then to wipe absently at their noses. A small dog paced them briefly as the two teenagers ambled down the sidewalk, but even he lost interest after half a block, turning back to return to the front steps from which he had risen.

“Seems quiet out here,” Monica observed. “There are fewer people than I remember.”

Thomas said nothing, only waved to an old man taking out the trash.

“Do you feel like people have changed around here since all this began?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“They just seem . . . less sociable . . . more cautious, even with those they know. I feel like people are pulling in on themselves. ”

Thomas thought this over. “I feel like we've been asleep for a long time,” he said, “and now we're finally waking up. We're opening our eyes and seeing what's out there—what has probably been out there all along.” He stooped to remove a stick from the walkway, tossing it onto the grass to their left. “It scares people. They don't know what to do.”

They walked on in silence for a while, the wind billowing insistently at their backs.

“It's times like this when we need each other the most,” she said, looping her arm around his and giving him a brief squeeze. He looked at her and smiled, his face calm and impassive as the rest of the world swirled wildly around them.

“
Excellent! You came!
” Devon greeted Thomas and Monica as they approached the group from across the open field. Their feet shushed through a blanket of gold and burgundy leaves, leaving linear wakes of exposed grass behind them.

“Of
course
we came,” Thomas replied, pulling a pair of cleats out of the duffel bag he was carrying. He sat down on the ground and began removing his sneakers.