I noticed that since Kitty’s death, Lotty had stopped calling her “K?the.” It was a kind of indirect apology, I supposed, for the decades of contempt she’d confessed to me after Kitty’s death.
Lotty was driving a silver Audi these days, a little coupe that I coveted. It closed around me like an eggcup when I climbed inside. I didn’t know if that meant it would protect me or make me more vulnerable in a crash. As Lotty zoomed up the Edens, she tried to ask me about the state of the investigation. I answered in monosyllables, yelping each time we came within scraping distance of another vehicle.
When she turned into the Glenbrook Hospital exit in the face of an oncoming semi, I said, “Lotty, this is a beautiful car. Give it to me and drive my old Mustang if you want to wreck something.”
She pulled into a space reserved for physicians, put a placard on the dashboard, and got out of the car. “You fuss too much over trivial things, Victoria. The important thing is whether you have found a way to discover what happened to Martin.”
“Even if I had, it wouldn’t do me much good if I were in traction,” I grumbled, following her into the hospital.
28
DUCK AND COVER
JUDY HAD LEFT intensive care, but she was still in serious condition. The ward head warned Lotty and me that she was screaming a great deal, demanding morphine or oxycodone for her pain.
“It’s hard to know how to regulate her meds, because of her addiction. We’ve been weaning her from her morphine drip and switching to channel blockers, but it’s hard to tell if those are working since she keeps demanding more morphine. We’ve had to put her in restraints because she was scratching her arms open.”
“I was afraid of this.” Lotty frowned.
The ward head took us to Judy Binder’s room. She was attached to machines that monitored her fast-beating heart, administered fluids, checked her breathing. Her eyes were shut, but I didn’t think she was asleep. Her cloud of gray-streaked curls moved on the pillow as she twitched and groaned. Her face was red and puffy, her lips swollen.
“Is she allergic to something in her medications?” I asked.
Lotty and the ward head exchanged sour looks. “Opiate withdrawal,” the ward head said. “She’s got a very long rehabilitation in front of her. She isn’t going to make a good recovery from the bullet wound if she doesn’t take drug rehab seriously. Once we get her physically stable here, she’s got to go into a good residential program.”
Lotty went up to the bedside and put two fingers on Judy’s pulse. I could see the raw welts on Judy’s arms where she’d been clawing herself. Her eyes fluttered open at Lotty’s touch.
“Dr. Lotty! I knew I could count on you. I’m in terrible pain, I need morphine, or oxy. Vicodin will do if the dose is strong enough. I can’t sleep, my gut is on fire. Get me back my morphine pump.”
Lotty ignored her demand. “This is V. I. Warshawski, Judy. She saved your life.”
Judy barely looked at me. “Thanks, I guess, for saving me for this torture chamber. Dr. Lotty, I need my morphine, I need it now, you can’t come here and not help me.”
“I’m not your doctor here, Judy, I’m just a visitor. Ms. Warshawski needs to ask you—”
“That cunt, that bitch, she told you to say no, didn’t she?”
Judy’s voice rose. I was taken aback briefly, thinking she meant me, but then realized she was looking past us to the ward head.
“She’s one of those women from Belsen, isn’t she, pretending to be a nurse, but she’s really a Nazi and a torturer. You know, you’re a Holocaust survivor, don’t side with her. Get her fired, you’re a surgeon, they’ll do what you say. Fire her fucking mean ass and get me my pump.”
“Ms. Binder,” I said, “I’m sorry to intrude when you’re in pain and when you’re grieving.”
“Damn straight I’m in pain. And grief, too.”
“Because of your mother?” I asked.
“Anyone with a mother like that would grieve over it,” she snarled.
“You don’t remember seeing her get shot? I’m afraid she wasn’t as fortunate as you: she died of her wounds.”
“Batty Kitty has gone to God? I’m sure He’ll be thrilled. And her real father, he’ll be ecstatic when she shows up. Who the fuck are you and why can’t you mind your own business?”
I wanted to yank the IV lines out of her and throttle her, but I kept my voice even. “Duck and cover. The night you were shot, you said that duck and cover worked the best, even though she never believed in it. Was that your mother who never believed in it?”
“I’m in pain,” Judy screamed. “I’m in pain and you want to interrogate me. You’re not a fucking cop. I don’t have to tell you fucking anything.” She thrashed in her restraints so violently that she knocked the oxygen tube from her nose.
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “You were very smart to get under your son’s bed like that. ‘Duck and cover’ saved your life. Who told you it was a bad idea?”