Interference Page 3

  “My!” Hattie Freemont’s mouth dropped open.

  “No. No. No.” Albert Humphrey sank his rear onto the coffee table, spilling Dorothy Davis’ pear juice. Neither of them paid any attention while his seat grew wet and the plastic tumbler rolled to the floor.

  “It can’t be!” Dorothy cried, her eyes on the screen, only the screen.

  Ed turned toward the television, where the residents collected with gasps and moans and great inhalations of grief. “What is it?” Ed asked, rising now.

  Chester’s chair slid back. He rushed toward the other residents, pushing his way inside the circle where he could see. “What happ—Eddie! Get over here! Look at this! Isn’t that … yes, yes, there’s his number on the back. 5-8-7. God, it’s George’s bus. It’s George’s bus in the water! Eddie! Look at it! Oh, just look at it!”

  The sound that escaped his lips was felt by all of them and the collective shudder that whirred through the room brought the three on-duty nurses, Georgia, Sam, and Paul rushing to their charges.

  Ed squeezed past Hattie and Dorothy. The vision on the screen was a frantic revolution of terrible coverage. The bus in the water. The tarp-covered bodies on the riverbank. The firemen. The paramedics. The police. The mayor. The divers. The wailing onlookers. The bus in the water. The tarp-covered bodies. Someone beside Ed vomited. Another fainted. Ed wiped his eyes. “My Lord. My Lord,” he panted, though he wasn’t conscious of whom he was speaking. “My Lord,” Ed repeated, unaware that he had suddenly crossed himself.

  “That’s Sonja’s boy!” Albert said. “Don’t let her see this. Don’t! Keep her away from the TV. Someone, go, go, GO!”

  He thrust a hand toward the door, the quiver of his Parkinson’s noticeably pronounced. Dorothy and Hattie sprang from the room as if their feet were on fire. With the sixteen decades between them, the women called upon speed they hadn’t used in years.

  Then Garrett’s most famous reporter, Jessica Chung, appeared on screen, her microphone shaking in her usually steady hand.

  “Folks, today marks one of the darkest days in the city’s history. What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart. If you have children, we ask that you turn your screen away from them or send them to another room. If you have health issues, we ask that you consider your well-being before you continue with our broadcast. I will give you a moment to do what is right for your family before I proceed.” She fell quiet, her knuckles pressure-white, the muscles in her jaw twitching as she waited. She drew in a deep breath. “Thank you for staying with us. We are in front of the Callingwood Bridge where Fauville Tour Bus number 587 travelling from the Best Western to the Huron Casino has breeched the guardrail and crashed into the river. Authorities have confirmed thirty-one deaths, with eight unaccounted for and one survivor, whose identity authorities are not releasing until all affected families have been contacted. A command center has been assembled at the Legion on Fifth and Alice Avenue. Family members and friends are asked not to call the hospital or emergency services but visit the command center for information on their loved ones. I repeat, do not call the hospital or emergency services. Concerned family members are asked to go to the Legion on Fifth and Alice for more information.”

  The Legion’s address appeared in a red block at the top of the screen, along with a phone number to the command center. “I bring you now to a witness of the terrible tragedy, Mr. Carl McLeod. What can you tell us about the accident?” She swung her shaking microphone over to Carl, who had just finished blowing his nose.

  Carl’s hand went to his head as he dragged unsteady fingers through his hair, his eyes going wide with recollection. He pointed away from the reporter. “I was approaching the bridge from the other direction in my truck, heading toward the bus behind that semi over there.” He pointed to the crumpled front end of the semi, then put a hand over his mouth to contain a sob. The reporter waited and eventually he went on. “The wind just came out of nowhere. It had to be the wind because I felt it. I could barely keep my own truck on four wheels. But then … then there was a big gust and the guy ahead of me ended up in the oncoming lane. I don’t know how to explain it better than that. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “That must have been horrific to see,” Jessica led.

  “Terrible. Just terrible,” Carl agreed. “I’ll never forget it. Those people … my God … those poor people. The bus driver never had a chance.” He looked upward, trying to control his tears.

  Somewhere behind Ed, a swish of footsteps rushed toward the women’s ward. At ninety-six years old, George’s mother, Sonja Torres, was one of the oldest residents at Southbridge, and Ed knew that news of her son’s accident wouldn’t go lightly on her. The woman had survived her husband and a daughter who died of cancer in her mid-thirties, but as resilient as Sonja was, George’s almost certain death in his mid-sixties would render the woman completely alone. Ed’s own experience with loneliness was not as vast since he still had three grown children and five grandchildren to visit him, but they were transient tethers to an impermanent world. Lose those and you might as well give up, Ed thought, his heart aching for Sonja.

  Wet pants and all, Albert Humphrey stood, shaking his head. “I can’t watch this. I just can’t.” He pushed out of the crowd and left the room.

  “Turn the channel,” Chester said for all of them. “Turn it off.” His eyes slipped to the coffee table in search of the remote.

  In a voice soft and sorrowful, a woman at the back of the room said, “We must pray.”

  The new resident whom Ed couldn’t name, directed them to bow their heads. Everyone obeyed.

  “Heavenly Father, we pray for the souls of this tragedy and we ask that you keep them and their families in Your divine care.”

  She went on, but while the heads were bowed and the eyes were closed and the lips moved, Ed quietly left the room. A flurry of activity awaited him in the hallway, where uniformed employees were scuttling between Sonja’s room and the nurse’s station.

  “You can’t do that!” A nurse’s voice broke into the hallway. “Don’t Mrs. Torres, please don’t!”

  As Ed came to Sonja’s door, he saw Hattie and Dorothy huddling in the corner in tears while Sonja Torres, old as she was, assaulted them with cups and saucers and books and pictures and even a bedpan.

  The small black nurse, Georgia, raised her voice. “Stop Mrs. Torres! Please stop.” Georgia pinned down the woman’s arms, but Mrs. Torres spat and wailed for her son.

  Ed caught Hattie’s eye and beckoned her to the hallway. She pulled Dorothy along behind her. Gently, he said, “Let her be. She just needs some time. Who knows, George might be okay after all,” he offered hopefully, even though he didn’t believe it to be true. Noticing the exasperation on Hattie’s face, he added, “It’s a good thing the news came from you and not someone else. She’ll appreciate that one day. You’ve done a good thing, don’t worry your hearts over it.”

  The women let out small, agreeable sobs and departed to Hattie’s room while the biggest on-duty aid, Paul, brushed past them and hurried into Sonja’s room to help Georgia. With a last look at the commotion, Ed slowly ventured across the building to his own room, taking his time, enjoying the movement without the limitation of his wheelchair, which he reserved for longer excursions.

  The room was cool, so Ed closed the window and took a sweater from his closet, sliding his arms through the thick wool and buttoning the front before easing into his recliner. He pulled a blanket over his lap and turned on the television. This early in October, Ed would normally expect news of the weather and of the upcoming Fall Festival, which drew tens of thousands of visitors every year, but Jessica Chung’s serious face dominated every station. He turned now to the local weather channel, where a feed of the week’s forecast wound over the screen. At the bottom, no surprise, news of the bus accident led the bottom scroll, followed by a short reminder of the upcoming Fall Festival, and directing viewers to local banks and grocery stores to purchase advance
admission tickets. Ed sighed and turned off the television, reflecting on the hardships of life, when he felt a pain in his chest.

  4

  Pandora woke with her new eyes. In the hospital room, machines beeped and visitors whispered, and she looked outward from Sylvia Baker’s face while a woman in scrubs and a tall, blond man in a dark suit spoke quietly at the foot of her bed.

  In moments like these, when she awakened inside a new host, she felt strange and almost never at home. Harold had been the exception, but he was no more, and as she inspected her new body, Pandora felt a bitter disappointment so deep she wondered if she would ever recover. Harold, her Harold, her favorite host, was gone, and in her haste for another, she had been jittery and lost control, recklessly pushing out and drawing attention where she most needed secrecy.

  But, oh! That bus had felt good. She hadn’t meant for such public executions, but they were a salve for her rage, for her heartache, and she would deal with the repercussion if it ever came. Only twice before had she been found out. Once in Prague, when a group of distraught mothers rightfully suspected Pandora of preying on their children. An unfortunately accurate reading from a fortune teller led the women to perform a ridiculous séance which gave Pandora the hiccups until she departed the area. The second time, in Africa, where Pandora had taken to collapsing mines, residents of a local village declared the presence of a ghost and sought a powerful medicine man to excise Pandora from the foreman she’d taken upon. With a white-painted face, the man shook antelope horns, swung snake skins, crushed bat jaws, and ate the intestines of a lizard. Mumbling fast, his voice rose to great crescendos, then abruptly dipped as he beseeched the gods, the spirits, and the prophets to expel the evil in the mines. Pandora’s first reaction was to laugh at the witchcraft, but then she was struck as if by lightning. Once, twice, a dozen times Pandora was thrashed and stung and burned. She felt a tearing and ripping of the thing that held her to earth and though she fought back, her wounds grew deeper, verging on totality until she finally fled.

  That was her quickest departure, on which she now reflected, feeling her new toes, her new arms. This was a body she could hide in. It was a body that looked small and fragile, unimportant, and unambitious. Pandora couldn’t ask for better camouflage unless she’d assumed a child’s body, but since those raised too many suspicions, she settled for Sylvia Baker. Unnecessary as it was, she liked to fill her body’s lungs with air, test its capacity, and presently she did so. Where Harold’s lungs were capable of great uptakes, thick tar residue prevented much from Sylvia. Her cilia were so coated that Pandora’s sharp indrawn breath was an exercise in pressing sludge, and her small chest rose and fell only slightly but with monstrous effort. No matter. In fact, this made her disguise all the more genius.

  Pandora was smiling at her own cunning when a voice said, “I think she’s waking up. Mrs. Baker? Sylvia? Can you hear me, Sylvia?”

  “Mother?” inquired another voice, and then Sylvia felt a gentle hand on her ankle.

  They were unaware she was awake, so she pretended to stir at the sound of their voices. Pandora twitched Sylvia’s pinky finger, her big toes, her shoulders, then she fluttered her eyelids and swayed the woman’s nicotine-yellowed neck. She mumbled something they couldn’t understand and slid her eyes open. At once, the being that was Sylvia reacted to the sight of the man and Pandora let her reach for him.

  “Troy?” Sylvia croaked, her throat dry and with the bitter taste of medicine.

  “You had us worried,” Sylvia’s son said, reaching for her hand.

  His was a good face, angular and handsome, and Pandora thought that, had she been an actual woman, or at very least a human, she might have wanted this man. As he stood beside her, she took in his blueness of his eyes, the sharpness of his bones, and the shadows of his skin, white here, darker there, so that he looked both dangerous and benevolent, at least in this light.

  “I’m glad you’re okay, Mother.” His formality was unexpected but not entirely unusual. Still, he squeezed and kissed Sylvia’s fingers and looked on as a caring son would.

  Her response required a motherly touch, so Pandora allowed Sylvia to speak. “Oh, Troy. My boy, my sweet boy.” She leaned forward and accepted a hug. Warmth spread from Sylvia’s middle. The feeling was an unpleasant massage to Pandora. Instances of love—the feeling, the receiving—all damaged her by degrees, whereas hate and fear and malice, those delicious treats, fortified everything that Pandora was. As Sylvia adjusted to Pandora’s residence, Pandora would allow what she could, but as with pockets of air in a new pair of gloves, the fit would have to be adjusted and the air eventually let out.

  The woman beside Troy came forward, setting a clipboard on the side table. “Mrs. Baker, I’m Dr. Tanti. You can call me Adhira. How are you feeling, Mrs. Baker?” The doctor’s large brown eyes were inquisitive and concerned.

  “W-what happened?” Sylvia asked.

  Dr. Tanti’s lips pressed together tightly, preparing for difficult conversation. “You had a stroke, Mrs. Baker. You are lucky to be alive.”

  “A stroke? I—I don’t remember that. I—” Sylvia put a hand to her mouth, then stopped, her eyes widening at the sight of her other hand. “Why can’t I move my arm? Why can’t I move my arm? Troy?” Ineffectually, she willed it to move, and let out a gasp when it remained still.

  Troy sat on the bed, pressing a hand against his tie to keep it in place. “You had a stroke, Mother. Everything will be all right. I’ve already taken care of it.” His eyes swung to the clock on the far wall.

  Confusion swirled across Sylvia’s half-paralyzed face. The left corner of her mouth ticked outward with agitation while the other side, the other eye, the other cheek, drooped without motion. “Taken care of what? I don’t know what you mean. I’m—how long have I been here?” She looked at Dr. Tanti, her dull, straw-colored hair flat against her sweaty forehead. “How long?”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Baker,” the doctor said. “The important thing is that you are here now, in our care. We do need to run some more tests on you, however.”

  “What for?” Sylvia asked, panic rising through her disused throat. The sound was cracked and whirring, like an old motor starting up.

  “We know you’ve had a stroke, Mrs. Baker, but we haven’t yet been able to say with confidence which kind you’ve experienced. Can you tell us how much you remember?”

  Sylvia gazed at her blanket, trying to recall her last moment of consciousness. Pandora didn’t intervene, for this was a test of the woman’s strength. The less she remembered, the weaker she was and therefore easier to control. “I was at work. At the school,” Sylvia mumbled. “That’s all I know. That’s all.”

  The doctor leaned forward, shining a pen light into Sylvia’s eyes. “Anything after that?” Sylvia shook her head.

  Troy said, “Do you remember the girl, Mother?”

  Sylvia’s face was blank. “A girl? Which one? I see a hundred girls every day at the school. Can you be specific?” With her face half immobilized, her words were slurred; hundred became hunred and specific became pacific. Dr. Tanti pressed two fingers to Sylvia’s dead wrist, timing her pulse against the wall clock. “Did something … happen to a girl?” She sucked in her breath, “Did a car …? Did something happen, Troy? Did I … oh please tell me nothing happened!” Fear stole over the woman and she began to shake.

  Troy squeezed his mother’s fingers and said, “Everyone’s all right, Mother. Nothing happened.” He gestured to the doctor, who inserted a needle into Sylvia’s intravenous line.

  “We’re going to give you something to help you relax, Mrs. Baker. You’re safe here and everything is going to be all right. Just some tests, and when you’re clear, we’ll have you off to Southbridge. Won’t that be nice? I hear the residents just love it there.” Dr. Tanti smiled and retrieved her clipboard, scribbling as she talked. “You know, you’re lucky to have a son like Troy. Most people wait for months to get in that place. Sometimes years.”


  “Southbridge? The home, Troy? You want to put me in a home?” Sylvia’s jaw fell open and her lips began to quiver. “I’m too young for that. I’m barely over seventy! I can recover, can’t I?” She looked at the doctor, who was now holding Sylvia’s chart to her chest, her face full of pity.

  Dr. Tanti said, “All things are possible, Mrs. Baker. In my years practicing medicine, I’ve had more than a few patients surprise me. The human spirit cannot be underestimated. I can tell you’re strong and this will serve you well in your recovery, but I cannot promise your life will be unchanged. You may recover quickly, or it may take some time. The tests may tell us some, but again they may not. So far, we’re at a loss as to the cause of your episode. Your CT and ultrasound have come back clear. We found no clots, so we can safely rule out an ischemic stroke and there is no apparent bleeding, so we can rule out a hemorrhagic episode. So far, we’ve found no apparent cause of your stroke; we only know that you’ve had one. Our goal here is to ensure you’re stabilized and not at risk of another episode, and then begin rehabilitation as soon as possible. Most stroke patients are discharged within a week, but with a plan for further rehabilitation. Heartland is an excellent clinic, but it’s short term. Your son connected with Southbridge for your continuing care after your stay there. Southbridge has an excellent partnership with Heartland so, to be fair to your son, it was a natural choice.” Dr. Tanti’s speech was smooth, as though she had recited the same words to many other people, many times before.

  “Troy?” Sylvia’s eyes fluttered at her son.

  He sighed. “It’s for the best, Mother. I’m in Toronto and you’re all alone here. Who’s going to take care of you when I leave?” Troy inspected the cuffs of his shirt and tugged them straight.

  “I—” Sylvia started but suddenly found she had no answer.

  “You have friends in Southbridge, Mother. You’ll be happy there.” Troy patted her leg, positive reinforcement for her future obedience.