Citizen Insane

Chapter Six





ROZ OPENED THE DOOR WHEN I started shrieking.

“No!” I yelled. “You’ll step on her! Crawl through the driver’s side.”

She scrambled across while I knelt by Michelle’s body. The beams from my headlights didn’t offer a ton of visibility since she was sprawled on the ground beside my van rather than in front of it, but there was enough light to see the face of my victim. My mind swirled at the possibility that I had just killed someone. Barbara Marr: Mother Killer. My unflattering mug shot would be plastered across every newscast and newspaper in the DC Metro area. People would point at the picture and ask, “Is that Charles Manson?” “No,” others would respond. “That’s The Mother Killer—Barbara Marr. Hope she fries.” My daughters would have to hang their heads in shame in school while I sat in a cold jail cell and learned to play the harmonica.

Of course, I would only be a murderer if she was actually dead. Jumping to conclusions of her demise wasn’t fair to anyone. Taking precious seconds to calm my erratic respiration and faster-than-the speed-of-light pulse, I crawled closer to her face. I recalled a CPR course I had taken with my mother a few years earlier. Check for breathing. There was something about checking for breathing. How hard could that be?

I put my face even with her chest and tried to see if it rose and fell, but my eyeballs were actually pulsing, if that’s possible, so everything seemed to be moving. Probably some horrible curse of accidental mother murderers. Homicidal Eyeball Pulsing Syndrome. I would have to ask my optometrist about that.

“Who is it?” Roz asked. She was behind me now.

“Michelle Alexander. I think she’s dead! Do you have your cell phone?”

“I forgot it!”

I reached in my jacket pocket for my own, but pulled out Bethany’s Game Boy instead. I felt in my other pocket. No cell phone. Damn! “Run back to the house and call 911!”

Roz was gone in a flash.

Since the look-see test wasn’t working, I decided I should feel near her nose for any sign of breathing. Only, I was breathing heavier than a hormone-heavy teenage boy at a cheerleader convention. I couldn’t tell if the breath was hers or mine.

Then she moaned and coughed a bit.

I probably broke all sorts of rules about moving accident victims, yada, yada, yada, but I wasn’t thinking clearly and I was just so thankful that she was alive that I lifted her head off the ground.

“Michelle?”

No response except a small rattle in her breathing. When I put my hand on her chest, it felt wet and warm. I assumed that was blood, but it was just too hard to tell. The moment called for a flashlight. Remembering that I had one in my van, I started to put her head back down so I could retrieve it. She moaned again.

“Michelle?”

I thought she was trying to talk, but it was hard to tell.

“Michelle? Do you want to say something?”

She moved her head in what might have been interpreted as a nod.

“Michelle. I’m so sorry—I didn’t see you—”

She gurgled and spat up some blood.

“Hang on. Roz went to call 911. Help should be here soon.” I rocked her a little.

“Poo,” she said, barely audible.

“What?”

“Poo,” she coughed. She grabbed my arm and pulled her head close to mine. She looked me in the eyes. “Pooh Bear.”

“Pooh Bear? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Seconds later, she went completely limp. I screamed again. Michelle Alexander had just died in my arms. I’d killed her. My head swam and without thinking I jumped up and started running.

The problem was, I ran right into a low-hanging tree limb. A big one.





I’m in a room without light. In the darkness, I hear a voice.

“Barb? Barb? Are you okay?”

The voice is familiar. I realize the room isn’t dark—my eyes are closed. I’m desperately drowsy as if I’ve been drugged. My eyes don’t seem to want to open.

“Meryl? Is that you?”

When times get tough, two people tend to find their way into my world of dreams—the ever sexy Lord of Great Movies, Steven Spielberg, and the one true Goddess of the Cinema, Meryl Streep. I mean really, if you’re gonna dream, dream big, right?

Desperate to see Meryl Streep, I struggle, but eventually manage to pry my eyes open. She’s a vision standing above me awash in a luminous glow. Her hair bounces gently, as if swept by a soft breeze. But there is no breeze. It’s just her goddess-ness that makes her so wispy and willowy.

“Barb. It’s time.” She has the voice of an angel.

Still holding my eyes open with my fingers, I apologize for not understanding her.

“Time for what, Meryl?”

“To win another Oscar. Will you write my award winning screenplay? I have a title in mind—The Patient Englishman in Africa.”

I don’t know how to answer. I’ve never written a screenplay before. “I’m not sure—”

“We’ll have your husband play the romantic lead.”

“Howard?”

“He looks like George Clooney, does he not?”

Before I can protest her poor casting choice, Meryl transforms before my pried-open eyes. She’s blonde, but she’s not Meryl anymore. There is something about her I recognize. The perfect makeup and nails. The body that won’t stop. She saunters toward me. It’s a proud and pompous saunter.

“I know you!” I scream. “You’re Fiorenza’s Floozy!”

She flips her hair and smooths her tight, barely-below-the-unmentionables short skirt. Howard appears out of nowhere. He walks up behind Fiorenza’s Floozy and kisses the back of her neck. His hands caress her body. Floozy moans and groans.

“Howard!” I scream, hyperventilating. “We’re still married. What are you doing?”

He lifts his head. “She’s sexy. What do you want me to do? Ignore my natural impulses?” He returns to Floozie’s neck.

“I’ll get sexy.”

Howard laughs and takes another break from practically devouring Floozy altogether. “Get real. You haven’t worn a pair of heels in ten years. You never wear skirts or dresses. You probably don’t even have a push-up bra.”

“I . . . I don’t have anything to push up.” I look down at my sad excuse for a chest. It’s true. Nursing three babies has sucked the life right out of my once proud and perky friends. Whereas Floozy is sporting a pair of well-crafted and outrageously expensive melons, on a good day my own breasts barely resemble two dehydrated garbanzo beans.

I love Meryl Streep, but she’s gone and I want this nightmare to end.

A scream pierces my eardrum.

My scalp throbbed. I opened my eyes. Strobing red lights cut the shroud of darkness and siren screams pierced the quiet air of our once sleeping neighborhood. Flat on my back, I reached up to feel my wet forehead.

“Don’t touch,” said Roz. “The ambulance just pulled up—a medic should be over here in a second.”

I attempted to sit despite the aches in my body. “Roz, while you were gone, Michelle . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.

“They’re with her now.”

“I think I killed her.” My face puckered and the tears started flowing. The crying made my head hurt worse. It was all such an awful nightmare. I wiped my wet face and nose with my shirt sleeve. “Where’s Howard?” I sniffled. “Did you call Howard?”

“He wasn’t home, but Colt’s on his way. The police are trying to reach Howard now, I think.”

More sniffling. “Thanks.”

“Here’s comes the medic,” said Roz. “I’m going to go ask Mrs. Perkins to stay in your house just in case the girls wake up. Mrs. Perkins lived on our street. She loved me until I found a body-less head in the basement of another house on our street, inadvertently opening up a Pandora’s box of neighborhood secrets involving dead undercover cops and the Mafia. Simple mistake, really. But, mistake or not, Mrs. Perkins didn’t like me so much after that. It had taken me months to regain her trust. Running down and killing an innocent mother on a nighttime stroll was probably going to roll me back several points on the trust-o-meter.

“Can’t you stay with the girls?” I asked, taking another swipe to dry away tears.

“They want me here to answer questions. I’ll be back in a minute to check on you.”

Police had erected poles with lamps that lit up the area like daytime. A young man in a blue jacket knelt beside me.

“Ma’am, my name is Juan. I’m going to take care of you. Can you tell me your name and what happened?”

Through mini-sobs and lingering sniffles, I told Juan the EMT my sad story about hitting Michelle Alexander and my subsequent encounter with the rogue tree limb while running for help. He listened patiently as I blubbered, while feeling my arms and legs, moving them gently. He nodded when I was done speaking.

“I don’t think you have any broken bones. Can you walk to the ambulance? I want to check your blood sugar level and take your blood pressure.”

I nodded. “You’re very nice, Juan. Thank you. If it turns out I’m a killer, will you still be nice to me?”

“I’m sure you’re not a killer, Mrs. Marr.” He smiled.

He offered his assistance in walking to the ambulance and was kind enough to guide me around the scene where emergency responders hovered over Michelle’s body.

Colt’s red GTO slid quickly beside the ambulance just as Juan was helping me in.

“Curly,” he said, barely letting the car come to a complete stop before leaping out.

“Hi,” I tried to smile. “Wanna join me? It’s warmer in here.” I had settled down considerably, and seeing Colt, his face tight with concern, raised my spirits.

He jumped into the back of the ambulance nearly toppling poor Juan while he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm. The other EMT, a young woman, did not seem pleased with Colt’s presence.

“Uh, sir . . .” she said, putting her hand up as if to ward him off.

I stopped her short. No one was going to turn Colt away at a time like this.

“No. Please let him stay. He’s my friend.”

Colt, ignoring the woman altogether, had already knelt in front of me and wrapped my hands tightly in his own. They were warm and strong and sent a force of energy so powerful through every fiber of my body that I nearly forgot my dire circumstances entirely.

The lady EMT gave up her argument without a fight.

He brushed a couple of curls from my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Define okay. I don’t have any broken bones. Is that okay? Did they tell you what happened?”

“I got the gist.”

“I killed a woman. She was still breathing when Roz went to call 911, then—” I shivered and felt sick to my stomach again.

Colt tipped my chin so I would be forced to look him in the eyes. “We don’t know what happened yet. I’ll get some answers.” He looked at Juan the EMT. “What’s your plan here?”

“Her blood pressure is a little low,” he said. “And we’re concerned about a concussion. We’ll be transporting her to Rustic Woods Hospital for observation.”

“Don’t leave without me,” Colt demanded with a stern finger point. “I’ll see what I can find out and be right back.” Colt kissed me on the forehead and jumped down, walking with determined confidence toward the nearest policeman.

“Colt!” I yelled. He turned back. “Ask them if they found Howard.”

Things happened quickly after that. Roz came to tell me Mrs. Perkins would stay with the girls until my mother arrived. I asked Roz why she had to call my mother and Roz said who else would she call? A burly policeman with a generous pair of eye brows told me he had some questions to ask. He fired away while Juan pricked my finger to collect blood. What time did you leave your house? Where were you going? Who was with you in the car? Did you see the victim before you hit her? Did you hear anyone scream or yell when you hit the victim? Did you ingest legal or illegal drugs? Were you drinking alcoholic beverages this evening?

I could feel the blood drain further from my extremities with each question, so it was no surprise when Juan had to apologize and grab yet another finger to attack. I felt like a pincushion being interrogated on a bad episode of NYPD Blue.

Being sequestered inside the ambulance prevented me from observing exterior events, but I did hear a sharp, single siren followed by some bustling and an obscenity or two. The cop straightened and pulled his gut in as far as it would go. Somebody important had arrived.

“Sir,” he said with a nod to the as yet unseen arrival.

“Officer,” replied the voice.

My heart jumped. I knew that voice.

Howard’s head appeared around the corner of the ambulance bay. His grim face lightened when he saw me, allowing a somber but gentle smile to appear. Jumping inside, he grabbed me in a hug and held on tight. He was warm and I was in heaven.

After a long and loving embrace, he pulled back. “How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. It may be a while before I can use these again,” I said, holding up my three band-aided fingertips. “But they say I should be back to normal in no time—ready to get behind the wheel and mow down any innocent mother who gets in my way.” My voice cracked. The witty attempt to forget my problems backfired. The tears that had retreated earlier made a valiant comeback.

Another commotion erupted outside the ambulance. The burly cop had tried to stop a passerby from getting into the fray. Only it was no ordinary passerby. It was my mother.

“What do you mean I have to leave? I will do no such thing. Just who do you think you’re talking to? Where’s my daughter?”

True, the cop was round and sturdy, but he was no match for my mother who had a good three to four inches on him. Not to mention the venomous disposition of a cobra.

She pushed him out of her way and marched toward me. She frowned when she spied Howard.

“Howard,” she said, acknowledging his presence.

“Diane.”

“I was told you were nowhere to be found.”

“Evidently you were told wrong.”

“How are they treating my daughter?” she asked. Apparently, she wasn’t expecting an answer because she continued right on without a break for air. “How are they treating you dear? Did they take your blood pressure?” She looked at Juan. “What’s her blood pressure? Are her pupils dilated?” Back to me: “They should take you to the hospital for observation.” To Juan again: “Are you taking her to the hospital for observation?”

“Mom, calm down. I’m fine. They know what they’re doing.”

“How do you know? I’m registered in emergency care—these are the kinds of questions I always ask in situations like this.”

“You’re not an EMT.”

“I said I was registered in emergency care.”

“That was a CPR course.”

“I’m registered.”

“To do CPR.”

Juan chimed in. “How long ago did you do that course?”

“Three, four years ago.”

“Then your registration has expired. Step away from my vehicle.”

Howard jumped out of the ambulance and landed next to my stupefied mother.

“Diane, can you take the girls to your condo for the night? I need to stay here and wrap things up.”

“You can’t come with me to the hospital?” I whined.

“I’ll try. I want to stick around in case I’m needed for media control being that you’re an FBI agent’s wife. They eat that stuff up. I’ll get there when I can.”

“I can take the girls,” she said.

“Did you come in your car?” I asked her.

“Of course.”

“You can’t fit all three girls in that ridiculous toy of a car. Howard, that won’t work.”

“I’ll drive them to her place,” offered Colt, who had magically appeared next to Howard. “Hey Howie,” he said elbowing Howard playfully.

Howard stared Colt down.

“Sorry,” Colt corrected himself like a scolded teenager. “Agent Marr.”

“Thank you,” said Howard. “You help Diane get the girls and their things. Bring them out the back door so they see as little as possible. I’ll find Roz and see if she can ride to the hospital with Barb.”

“Yes, sir!” said Colt with a salute.

“Coltrane Amadeus Baron,” chided my mother, “Won’t you ever grow up?”

“Growing up is for sissies. It’s much more challenging to nurture the child within.”

With a harumpf, my mother marched off to the house. Colt gave me a shrug and a wink as he hollered after her. “Meetcha there in a minute with the car Diane!”

When they were gone, I pleaded with Howard. “I feel fine—I don’t need to go to the hospital. Tell them to let me stay here.”

“They know what they’re doing and they want to observe you for a few hours. I’ll get there when I can.”

“Howard?”

“Yeah?”

“Why couldn’t you come for dinner tonight?

“Didn’t Diane give you the message? I had to work.”

“Peggy saw you working with that sleazy tramp at Cappuccino Corner.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak either.

“The same one I saw you with at Fiorenza’s last night.”

He blinked once but he still didn’t speak.

Roz broke the silence.

“Colt said you were looking for me.”

Howard jumped at the chance to change the subject. “Can you go with Barb to the hospital? I have to stay here on the scene.”

“Sure. Let me run to the house, tell Peter and grab a couple of things.”

She scampered away, leaving Howard and I staring silently at each other. A police officer broke the tension when he tapped Howard on the shoulder and pulled him aside for a whispered discussion. Meanwhile the other ambulance screamed off with sirens blaring.

“What was that about?” I asked after the officer left.

“The victim.”

“Her name is Michelle Alexander.”

He seemed surprised. “You know her?”

“Of course,” I said. “She lives around the corner. Her kids go to Tulip Tree Elementary.”

“Really? Well, she’s alive.”

“Thank God.” I felt ready to cry again, but from relief this time.

“She’s barely hanging on though. They’re transporting her to Fairfax Hospital—they have a better trauma center than Rustic Woods. It wasn’t your impact that injured her, Barb. They figure you only tapped her at most.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Someone shot her. One bullet barely missed her heart as far as they can tell.”

“One bullet—how many times was she shot?”

“Three times. At close range.” He shook his head. “It’s a miracle she’s still alive.”