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All book lovers dream of stumbling upon a long-lost treasure in the attic or inheriting a fortune from a distant relative. For Ellen Gallagher, the impoverished.
Table of contents
- Independent news email
- Queen Anne’s Unlikely Ascension To The Throne
- From the Queen (Death on Demand, #) by Carolyn G. Hart
I forced myself to close my eyes and remember that being washed beneath a Vichy shower by someone else was supposed to make me feel like a queen, instead of a hospitalized invalid. She unrolled a towel and held it like a screen as I rolled onto my back. His last appeal just got rejected by the Supreme Court.
I frowned. She pressed her lips together and wrapped the plastic around me a little too tightly.
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DeeDee smiled and covered me with heated blankets, until I was trussed tight as a burrito. Then she sat down behind me and wove her fingers into my hair. As she massaged my scalp, my eyes drifted shut. They: the establishment, the lawmakers, the ones assuaging their guilt over their own actions with rhetoric. I thought of Shay Bourne, being given the news of his own impending death. I thought of lying on a table like this one, being put to sleep.
The blankets were too hot; the cream on my skin too thick. I wanted out of the layers, and began to fight my way free. I sat up, drawing great gasps of air into my lungs. It was late afternoon, almost time for the shift change, and I-tier was relatively quiet. Calloway, who usually played chess with me about this time of day, was playing with Shay instead.
During the day, Batman the Robin resided in his breast pocket, a small lump no bigger than a pack of Starburst candies. Sometimes it crawled onto his shoulder and pecked at the scars on his scalp. At other times, he kept Batman in a paperback copy of The Stand that had been doctored as a hiding place — starting on chapter six, a square had been cut out of the pages of the thick book with a pilfered razor blade, creating a little hollow that Calloway lined with tissues to make a bed for the bird.
The bird ate mashed potatoes; Calloway traded precious masking tape and twine and even a homemade handcuff key for our own portions. Crash laughed. By now, the brownie was two days old.
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I doubted that Calloway would even be able to swallow it. Consider yourself officially screwed. I wondered if either of them would notice if I happened to steal a crumb or two for myself. There was nowhere left for Calloway to go. At that moment the door to I-tier opened, admitting a pair of officers in flak jackets and helmets. There was nothing worse than having your cell searched. In here, all we had were our belongings, and having them pored over and inspected was a gross invasion of privacy. Not to mention the fact that when it happened, you had an excellent chance of losing your best stash, be that drugs or hooch or chocolate or my art supplies or the stinger I rigged from paper clips to heat up my instant coffee.
They came in with flashlights and long handled mirrors, and worked systematically.
Queen Anne’s Unlikely Ascension To The Throne
He rolled his eyes as his blanket was checked for unraveled threads; his jaw tensed when a postage stamp was peeled off an envelope, revealing the black tar heroin underneath. But when his bookshelf was reached — we were allowed five paperbacks at one time — Calloway flinched. I looked for the small bulge in his breast pocket that would have been the bird, and realized that Batman the Robin was somewhere inside that cell.
The pages were rifled, the spine snapped, the book tossed against the cell wall. I could not remember ever seeing him quite so unraveled. As soon as he was released back into his cell, he ran to the rear corner where the bird had been flung. The sound that Calloway Reece made was primordial, bloodcurdling; but then maybe that was always the case when a grown man with no heart started to cry. He sank down to the floor of his cell, cradling the dead bird. In here, you were only as good as your word, and Calloway — a card carrying member of the Aryan Brotherhood — would have known that better than anyone else.
When the robin reached me, I drew it beneath the door of my cell. It was still featherless and half-cooked, its closed eye translucent blue; veins thinly veiled beneath its onion-skin like a road map of life. One wing was bent at a severe backward angle; its neck lolled sideways, so that I could stroke its fragile throat. So this is what death looked like, when you held it in your hand: ugly and undone and real. Shay sent out his own line of string, with a weight made of a regulation comb on one end, and reel in the bundle I fished out to him.
I saw his hands gently slide the robin, wrapped in tissue, under the door of his cell. Then the lights in our cells and out on the catwalk flickered. I imagine the touch of someone who loves you so much, he cannot bear to watch you sleep; and so you wake up with his hand on your heart.
In the long run though, it hardly matters how Shay did it. You can watch your twelve year old daughter painting her nails with glitter polish and remember how she used to reach for you when she wanted to cross the street. I laughed.
Claire shifted slightly, careful not to dislodge all the tubes and the wires. Dudley was our dog — a thirteen year old Springer spaniel who — along with me — was one of the only pieces of continuity between Claire and her late sister. Morrissey if I have to. Claire nodded and glanced at the clock. There were a hundred answers to that, but the one that floated to the top of my mind was that in some other hospital, two counties away, another mother had to say goodbye to her child so that I would have a chance to keep mine. There was a camp that attributed its onset to myocarditis and other viral infections during infancy; and another that claimed it was inherited through a parent who was a carrier of the defective gene.
I had always assumed the latter was the case, with Claire. After all, surely a child who grew out of grief would be born with a heavy heart. She got tired more easily than other infants, but I was still moving in slow motion myself, and did not notice. Wu said that Claire had a slight arrhythmia which might improve and might not; he put her on Captopril, Lasix, Digoxin.
On the first day of fifth grade, Claire told me it felt like she had swallowed a hummingbird. I assumed it was nerves about starting classes, but hours later -- when she stood up to solve a math problem at the chalkboard -- she passed out cold.
From the Queen (Death on Demand, #) by Carolyn G. Hart
Those basketball players who seemed so healthy, and then dropped dead on the court? That was ventricular fibrillation, and it was happening to Claire. She had surgery to implant an AICD — a tiny, internal ER resting right on her heart, which would fix future arrhythmias by administering an electric shock. She was put on the list for a transplant. Still, as Dr. Wu said, fifteen years from now, we might be able to buy a heart off a shelf and have it installed at Best Buy…the idea was to keep Claire alive long enough to let medical innovation catch up to her.
This morning, the beeper we carried at all times had gone off. We have a heart, Dr. Wu said, when I called. For the past six hours, Claire had been poked, pricked, scrubbed, and prepped so that the minute the miracle organ arrived in its little Igloo cooler, she could go straight into surgery. Paper and scissors, I thought. We are between a rock and a hard place. I looked at the fan of her angel hair on the pillow, the faint blue cast of her skin, the fairy-light bones of a girl whose body was still too much for her to handle.
She shuddered. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. But all I heard were the first four words: You will wake up. A nurse came into the room. After she left, Claire and I sat in silence. We had both heard numerous doctors explain the risks and the rewards; we knew how infrequently pediatric donors came about. Claire shrank down in the bed, her covers sliding up to her nose.
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And besides, they all died horrible deaths. Saint Maria Goretti was my age when she fought off a guy who was raping her and was killed and she got to be one. She looked up at the clock. The funeral of a police officer is a breathtaking thing. Officers and firemen and public officials will come from every town in the state and some even further away.
There is a procession of police cruisers that precedes the hearse; they blanket the highway like snow. The police chief, Irv, rode with me to the graveside service.