Whisper Me This(17)

“You’re making that up,” Elle accuses.

Mendez clears his throat. His voice is softer when he speaks again, almost sympathetic. “Perhaps he is not a violent man. Alzheimer’s can dramatically alter the personality. Gentle people become violent. Very proper ladies suddenly begin to swear.”

I shake my head to clear it. None of this makes any sense. I feel like I’ve walked through a mirror into a darker version of Alice’s wonderland. Leave it to Elle to articulate the gist of the thing.

“Grandpa’s a wife beater? That’s crazy!”

Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it. My oxygen problem is beginning to balance itself out, only now my knees are wobbly. Letting go of Dad’s unresponsive hand, I wrap both of mine around the bed rail, squeezing as tight as I can, trying to find sensation in my fingers.

“Listen, Officer. I can tell you that there have been no beatings. Even if my father has . . . dementia. Which he doesn’t. My mother bosses him, not the other way around. She would have taken care of the problem. Trust me.”

“Evidence is evidence,” he says, consulting his notes. “Three old rib fractures. Left clavicle. Left humerus. Left eye socket. The pattern is suspicious.”

“And I’m telling you nobody has been beating my mother. Especially not my father.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Maybe an accident, then? She fell down the stairs? Ran into a door?”

If I were a snake, I would strike now. Bite him right on the nose. I picture poison pumping into his body. His face turning purple and black, maybe a nice spasm or two.

“Ma’am?”

Elle presses her arm against mine. She has reason to know that my affliction of indecision is balanced in the scales of character flaws by a true redheaded temper.

Warnings disregarded, I welcome in the anger, gather it.

Heat floods through me, right down to my once-cold fingertips, bringing energy behind it. Even my hair has energy; I can feel all the tiny roots tighten in my scalp. I picture my hair flying out in a cloud of electric sparks all around my head.

“I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, Mr. Mendez, or who decided to let you play dress-up in that police uniform, but this is ridiculous.”

His face flushes. A hit. My anger responds with a surge of vindictiveness. Before he can say anything, I let it carry me forward.

“Let me guess. This looked like low-hanging fruit to you, and you volunteered. Nobody else wanted to come over here and grill an old man while his wife is dying upstairs.”

“Mom,” Elle protests, putting a hand on my arm. If I so much as glance at her, I know little tiny cracks will start running through my lovely rage. I keep my eyes fixed on Mendez.

A vein bulges on his forehead, and his jaw is clenched so tightly the muscle bunches.

“Ms. Addington—”

“Don’t try to placate me. Do you have a warrant? Are you going to arrest him?”

“I’m merely investigating—”

“Merely? I don’t think you’re merely doing anything. You’re expanding the boundaries of your specified investigation. That’s what you’re doing. Go fight some criminals or stop some speeders or something. Hey, I’ll give you five bucks, and you can go buy some doughnuts to take with you.”

I’m on a roll. Somewhere inside, a tiny voice of self-preservation tries to make itself heard, but I know that the next thing out of my mouth is going to have the word pig in it.

Dad saves me. Not for the first time.

His eyes open, surprise and confusion crossing his face.

“Maisey,” he says, tremulously, reaching for my hand. “Why are you angry? What’s going on?”

He peers up at Officer Mendez, squinting as if trying to focus, and the fear smacks me yet another whack over the top of my head. Dad’s not acting. He’s genuinely lost. If this is true, if it’s true that my mother is upstairs in a coma, then anything could be true. All the horrible things this officer is saying Might. Be. True.

My body sags at the knees, the railing digging into my ribs as I collapse against its support. I’ve got no more stuffing. There’s a loud buzzing in my ears. Somebody should fix the fluorescents; they’re way too dim.

“Mom?” Elle’s voice sounds far away.

I can’t seem to turn my head. The floor is disappearing under my feet, and the buzzing drowns out further words.

Something solid behind my knees; hands lower me to sitting and push my head forward so I’m doubled up over the emptiness in my belly. My own breathing grows louder than the buzzing in my ears. My heart is beating in my head now, instead of in my chest where it belongs, and it’s beating way too fast.

“She hasn’t slept in forever, and I don’t think she’s eaten anything. Plus she’s worried.” Elle sounds frightened. I need to comfort her, but I can’t move.

“I can’t imagine being grilled by the police has been helpful,” a woman’s voice says. A warm hand rests on my shoulder, steadying, gentle. Another slips onto my neck, checking my pulse. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” the voice says. “She’ll be fine.”

My heart begins traveling in the right direction, out of my head and back toward my chest. I can feel all my fingers and toes, along with a growing sense of embarrassment. It’s tempting to pretend I’m unconscious, but of course I can’t.