A Perfect Grave Part 11

Sister Anne had beautiful eyes. A kind face. Rhonda would have liked to have known her. She needed a link to G.o.d these days.

Rhonda looked away from the paper and flipped through an old issue of Woman's World. Woman's World. But she was unable to concentrate. Her concern went down the hall of Dr. Hillier's office to the room where he was examining her twelve-year-old son, Brady. But she was unable to concentrate. Her concern went down the hall of Dr. Hillier's office to the room where he was examining her twelve-year-old son, Brady.

Again.

Three months ago, Brady had complained of headaches and dizziness. Rhonda took him to their doctor. After a neurological exam, he referred them to Dr. Hillier, a specialist, who asked a lot of questions, ran tests, made notes, then arranged for Brady to go to the hospital for a brain scan.

It was scary seeing him swallowed by that big tomblike device, but he was brave and it went okay.

That was last week.

Then Dr. Hillier's office called her this morning, asking her to bring Brady in.

"But his next appointment is not for three days. Did they find something?"

"Dr. Hillier would like to see Brady," the receptionist's voice was professionally and clinically neutral.

Please don't let this be bad news. Please.

Rhonda had to plead with the head cas.h.i.+er at the supermarket to let her leave work, again. Rhonda couldn't afford to keep missing s.h.i.+fts. And she had to pull Brady out of school, again. He couldn't afford missing more school. His grades were slipping.

A month or so back, his teacher had called to say, "For weeks now, Brady's been distracted in cla.s.s and he's had a couple of outbursts, which is out of character for him. He's usually very quiet and polite. Is there stress at home, Mrs. Boland?"

Stress at home?

Only the kind that comes in the year after your husband dies suddenly.

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, Rhonda grappled with worry. Maybe Brady's problem was a diet- or vitamin-related thing because she'd let him eat a little too much junk food. She'd let a few things slide since Jack died because he'd left her alone to face a world of trouble and some days it was so hard.

Please, let it be nothing.

"Mrs. Boland," the receptionist said, "Dr. Hillier will see you now."

She led Rhonda to the doctor's office, across the hall from the examining room from the room where Brady was. Hillier was behind his desk, a file with several colored pages open before him. He was on the phone and motioned for Rhonda to take the chair opposite him.

He kept clicking his pen.

She studied his face, his body language, for a clue of what to expect, as he wrapped up the call. The pen clicking did not stop. He studied the file.

"Mrs. Boland, I know we've already asked you, but please try hard to remember. Has Brady ever had a head injury? A mild or severe fall, or blow to the head? Brady doesn't recall any incident and there's nothing in his file."

"You mean, one where I took him to the doctor, or the hospital?"

"Any kind of head injury," the pen clicking stopped, "even unreported."

"Unreported?"

"Did you, or your husband ever discipline Brady? Physically?"

Hillier watched her face redden at what he was suggesting.

Was Brady abused?

"No. Nothing like that, I told you."

"I apologize, but as his doctor I have to ask."

Rhonda waved it off and Hillier considered other sources.

"Maybe a little playground mishap? Horseplay with Dad in the living room?"

"Well, one time, he had this little b.u.mp. Here." She touched her left temple. "But it was nothing."

"What happened?"

"He told me he was in the garage helping his dad clean up and he banged his head against the workbench. Just a tap. It was over a year before his father pa.s.sed away."

Hillier absorbed it for a moment, nodded, noting it in the file.

"Brady seems to be exhibiting the symptoms of prolonged postconcussion syndrome, arising from some trauma to his head, which he could've experienced even a couple of years ago. However, that's only part of the problem, which may, or may not, be related to what we found."

Hillier stopped and thought for a moment. Then he showed Rhonda color computer images of Brady's brain scan, then elaborated about things with long, Greek-sounding names before reading the fear in her face. He tossed his pen on his desk, rubbed his eyes under his gla.s.ses, then softened his voice.

"The scan shows a growing ma.s.s of cells in his brain. A tumor."

"Oh G.o.d!"

"If it's not removed, this tumor will kill him within sixteen to twenty months. I'm very sorry."

Rhonda's hands flew to her mouth in time to stifle her scream.

Hillier helped her to the small sofa and comforted her.

"You can't let him die! Please, is there anything you can do?"

Hillier looked hard into her eyes.

"There is something we can attempt. I've consulted with my colleagues. It's extremely complex, but because of its behavior and location, we can't remove the tumor just yet. At this immediate point the procedure is too risky. Brady would not survive the surgery."

"I don't understand. You've got to help him."

"In two to three months it will advance to a stage where we'll have a better chance at surgically removing all of it safely."

"Then he'll be okay?"

"His chances of survival are good. We'd put them at seventy-five percent."

"And without the surgery, what are his chances?"

"Zero."

Hillier pa.s.sed Rhonda a box of tissues. Her hands shook as she grasped at the hope that Brady could be helped.

"He has to have the operation. You have to cut this thing out of him."

Hillier understood.

"But will he suffer?" Rhonda asked. "Will he be in pain as the tumor grows and he waits for the operation?"

"No. He'll be fine. Now that we know what we're dealing with, we can give him medication for his other symptoms. He'll be fine."

After a long moment pa.s.sed, Rhonda noticed that Hillier's door was open a crack. She glimpsed through it. Across the hall, she saw Brady sitting on the examination table, reading his Thrasher Thrasher magazine. His feet swinging in those new sneakers he'd begged her to buy for him. magazine. His feet swinging in those new sneakers he'd begged her to buy for him.

Brady was her world.

Rhonda watched the nurse help him with his jacket, then take him down the hall to the front to wait for her. Still with Dr. Hillier, Rhonda asked, "Did you tell Brady?"

"No, but I will, if you prefer."

"No, I'll tell him."

"We'll give you a packet of information and numbers of support groups, people experienced in these things."

Rhonda went to the window. She watched the buses, cars, bike couriers, people going about their lives. "So," she looked at the tissue clenched in her fist. "Is this surgery expensive?"

Dr. Hillier inhaled thoughtfully and returned to his desk.

"Yes."

"You know my insurance is basic. How expensive are we talking?"

"Yes, I understand. I don't know the precise figures."

"Can you give me an estimate?"

"I really couldn't, there are many factors."

"Please, Dr. Hillier, I may be just a supermarket clerk, but I'm not stupid. I know you know."

"Maybe sixty to seventy thousand."

Rhonda turned.

"Seventy thousand dollars? That's more than double what I earn in a year."

"I know."

"I'm already facing several thousand in medical bills I can't pay."

"I know."

"My husband left us in debt."

"I know this is overwhelming, but these things can be negotiated between your insurance company and the hospital and there are financial arrangements."

"I don't know what I'm going to do. I just don't know."

"You're going to go home and help Brady. He needs you to get through this."

Rhonda nodded and pulled herself together. She went to the waiting room where Brady was looking at the Seattle Mirror Seattle Mirror and the picture of the murdered nun. Rhonda didn't want him reading that. They'd had enough bad news for today. Tenderly, she tugged him from the newspaper. and the picture of the murdered nun. Rhonda didn't want him reading that. They'd had enough bad news for today. Tenderly, she tugged him from the newspaper.

"Let's go, hon."

"Mom, I remember her," Brady pointed at Sister Anne. "She was with the nuns who come to my school for our charity fair every year."

"I know, honey, they do good work."

"They made food, set up games, sang, and juggled; they weren't like real nuns. They were cool, mom. The teachers took lots of pictures of us doing stuff with them. Why would somebody want to kill her?"

"I don't know, sweetie."

Why would G.o.d give a twelve-year-old boy a death sentence?

"Mom!"

Rhonda had pulled Brady to her, holding him tight, to keep them both from falling off the earth.

Chapter Sixteen.

Sister Anne's blood churned and bubbled like liquid rust in the cleaning bucket. There was so much, Sister Denise thought, wringing her sponge.

It was as if the floor had been painted with it.

This room would never be the same. It no longer held the fragrance of fresh linen and soap. It smelled of the ammonia she'd mixed in the cold water, haunting her as she scrubbed over the mosaic of smeared, bloodied shoe prints.

Some of them belonged to the killer, the detectives had told her.

After the forensic a.n.a.lysts had finished processing Sister Anne's apartment, they'd released it to the nuns, urging the sisters to let a private company that specialized in cleaning crime scenes "restore" the apartment for them.

"It would be less traumatic," one concerned officer, a former altar boy, said as they were leaving.

"Thank you, officer," Sister Vivian turned to Sister Denise and said, "but Sister Denise will take care of it for us."