Josefa had reported the cause of death as a stroke, a blood clot. But Dr. Goshen corrected that misapprehension.
“Not a blood clot. Cerebral aneurysm. The weakened wall of an artery gave way, resulting in a subarachnoid hemorrhage.”
“I visited her late yesterday afternoon,” David said. “She was in high spirits. She seemed in perfect health.”
Nodding as if accustomed to such protests against the mortal facts, Goshen said, “A cerebral aneurysm generally doesn’t cause any symptoms until it either ruptures or begins leaking. Then there’s a sudden, severe headache and stiff neck. Subsequently there can be vomiting, breathing problems, trouble swallowing, an inability to speak, but there were none of those conditions in this case. She had some slight confusion on admission, but she could breathe and speak, at least initially.”
Calista’s body had been removed.
The ICU cubicle lay in a hush.
Into David’s silence, Dr. Goshen said, “Something?”
David said, “Could there have been . . .”
“Been what?” Goshen asked.
“This sounds melodramatic, but could there have been foul play? Poison, a drug, something to cause . . .”
With a puzzled expression, Goshen seemed to consider not the question so much as David himself, before he said, “No, not at all, not possible. Aneurysms are either congenital or develop later in life. They’re a naturally occurring physiological weakness. She received supportive measures immediately on her arrival here and went straight to a CT scan for diagnostic evaluation. The scan was actually underway when the leaking aneurysm burst. The bleeding was massive, there was no time to ameliorate it, no time to prepare her for surgery.”
Those were the assurances David had hoped to receive. He was relieved, although less because of the doctor’s words than because he wanted to be relieved, to banish all suspicion.
“Is there some reason,” Dr. Goshen asked, “some circumstance, that might make you wonder about foul play?”
“No, not really,” David lied. “Just that, like I said, only yesterday she was in such high spirits, seemed so healthy—then this.”
“She was special to you.”
“Very special. Yes. Calista was a great lady. Blind since childhood, but she saw things more clearly than I did, more clearly than most of us ever do.”
“You’re the son-in-law, I believe.”
“That’s right,” David said, rather than explain the painful truth of his and Calista’s relationship.
“Her daughter’s name is Emily?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Goshen hesitated. “The slight confusion she exhibited on admission—it involved her daughter. She believed Emily was at her side. She kept her right hand locked as if holding hands with her daughter, and she carried on a conversation with her.”
For a moment, David couldn’t speak. Then he said, “They were extremely close.”
“Has Emily been notified?”
“Emily . . . Emily is dead.”
Genuine sympathy seemed to inform the doctor’s eyes, his face. “Ah. One loss after another. I’m so sorry, Mr. Thorne.”
“Calista and I helped each other through it. I couldn’t have made it without her.”
There were papers to sign, acknowledgments and releases.
Calista had brought nothing with her. There were no personal effects to gather.
Although David had been in the hospital less than half an hour, when he stepped outside, he was surprised to find himself in warm morning light, for he had expected a bleak darkness to match his mood.
| 55 |
In the parking lot that served the cemetery and mortuary, shaded by the spreading boughs of an old water gum tree, David sat behind the wheel of his SUV, the windows open to receive the breath of the morning.
The tree was the one under which the beige van had been parked in the security video, the shade the same in which the late Patrick Corley had stood waiting, inexplicably solid for a ghost, while Maddison Sutton had delivered the calla lilies to a grave that was not her own.
The flowers had been for Emily, the girl next door, but maybe they had also been for Calista as well. Maddison had known Calista would die soon. That conclusion was inescapable.
Yesterday, according to Calista, Maddison had visited her, had spent an hour in her company. In parting, she kissed Calista’s hand three times and said, I . . . love . . . you.
Maddison’s words, as recalled by Calista, echoed now in David’s memory: I’ve come back just for this one visit, so you will know that I’m happy and beyond all pain, and to tell you . . . be not afraid of whatever comes next, because I’ll be with you always.