Not Guilty Part 15

Keely walked to where he stood and stared at him, unaware of the whiteness of her own face. The doctor noticed, however, and guided her to a quiet cubicle where he pulled out a chair and gently pushed her shoulders down. "Here. You've had a terrible shock. Sit . . ."

Obediently, Keely sat.

"Your son is stable now," he a.s.sured her. "He's in no danger."

The whooshing, which had grown almost deafening, subsided.Dylan will live,she repeated in her head. The doctor sat down opposite her.

"That had to have been a nasty scene to walk in on," he said sympathetically.

"I thought he was dead," she said.

The doctor sighed. "Well, he was lucky," he said. "The method he chose-dragging that utility knife across his neck-was gruesome but ultimately less effective than many others he could have tried."

"You're sure . . ." she began. "Could it have been . . .? I mean-the police were asking me things like . . . if there were any signs of a breakin. I mean, it probably sounds stupid, but . . . could someone else have done it?"

"Don't be embarra.s.sed. I understand that this is very difficult for you. Of course, I'm not a forensic M.D.," he said, "but . . . it's quite clear it was a suicide attempt. The sight of the blood and the pain put him into shock and prevented him from cutting into his neck any deeper than he did."

Keely nodded, although his words crushed her.

The young doctor shook his head. "Luckily . . . luckily, he missed both the jugular vein and the carotid artery. If he'd severed either one, it might have proved fatal. He did manage to gouge his larynx, nick the cords. We did a temporary tracheostomy to bypa.s.s the wound. He has a nasogastric feeding tube and a drainage tube and an IV for antibiotics. We don't want any infection getting in there. And, of course, he won't be able to speak for a few days, but it's not permanent. He was in deep shock when they brought him in, but he's coming out of that now. We've got him stabilized."

He's alive,she reminded herself.He's not going to die."When can I take him home?" she asked.

The doctor's sympathetic face a.s.sumed a guarded expression. "Of course, he needs some recovery time, and then . . . well, he may need to be hospitalized elsewhere . . . for a while."

"Elsewhere?" she said.

"I'm not really the one to talk to about that. You'll be contacted in a day or so . . ."

"Contacted about what?" she asked, confused.

The doctor took a deep breath. "There are certain . . . procedures related to minors when there's a suicide attempt . . ."

"What procedures?" Keely asked, alarmed.

"As I said, there will be someone in to talk to you about it. A social worker. And the police will want to ask Dylan some questions."

"Not the police," Keely protested.

"I'm afraid it's hospital policy. They need to talk to Dylan. And to you."

"Oh no," she said. "Why?"

"They need to complete their investigation," he explained. "But I'm not really the person you want to talk to about this. I'm concerned with his physical recovery. Right now, the important thing is getting your son back on his feet. Why don't you go and look in on Dylan now."

"Yes," she whispered. "Please . . ."

He laid a hand briefly over hers. "Try not get upset. He looks worse than he is. We were lucky," he said. "Are you all right? If you need something to calm you down . . ."

"I'm all right," Keely said, although her heart was crying,No, no, I am not all right. My son, my baby, tried to take his own life. How can I ever be all right again?She stood up and followed the resident, who opened the door and indicated that she should go inside.

Slowly, she walked in. Beside a black-screened monitor where multicolored fluorescent lines leaped and pulsed, Dylan lay on the bed, his eyes closed. There was an IV line in his arm, a tube up his nose that looked b.l.o.o.d.y around one nostril, and a tube emerging from the bandages around his throat. His bald head looked fuzzy and as fragile as an egg against the pillow. His complexion had a grayish hue. His mouth hung open, as if he were too exhausted to close it. She looked at the bandages, then looked away.

She bent over and kissed him on his cool, damp forehead. Then she lifted a chair and put it quietly beside him. Snaking her hand through the bars that formed a guardrail around the mattress, she reached up and took his chilly hand in hers. She rested her own forehead against the cold stainless steel of the bars and closed her eyes. First, shethanked G.o.d for her son's life. And then she silently addressed her sleeping boy.Oh, Dylan,she thought.My poor baby. My darling son. How could it come to this?She thought back over the last few days, wondering how she had not seen it coming. She imagined him tonight, alone in the house, filled with such despair that he was not willing to face another moment. How could it be? Her mind shut down at the idea.

In every way possible, she blamed herself. She had wanted to go out, so she had left him alone-after they'd argued so bitterly. And she'd known he was depressed. Worse than that, more frightening, was the fact that it had not occurred to her that he might try to harm himself. It was just like Richard all over again. She hadn't seen the signs. She was so blind that she seemed to have no understanding of the people she loved. It had never crossed her mind. Not with either one of them.

Oh, I am a failure,she thought.I have failed you so completely. If only you had let me know. Or maybe you did, and I was so absorbed in my own problems that I didn't notice.Dylan shifted in the bed and his body jerked, as if the anxiety of her thoughts had penetrated to his slumbering consciousness.

Don't,she thought.Don't make it worse.She lifted his limp hand to her lips and kissed it. "It's going to be all right," she whispered, even though she felt as if nothing would ever be all right again.

His subconscious was not fooled. He shifted uneasily on the bed again.

The door opened and a nurse came briskly in, not acknowledging Keely. She was a young woman with broad, high cheekbones, wearing a cheery, pink-flowered smock and pants and a nametag that readLUZPERON, RN.She glanced at the monitor, went to the IV and adjusted it, and checked his pulse against her wrist.w.a.tch.

"How is he?" Keely asked humbly.

"He'll be okay," said the nurse. "We're going to move him in a few minutes. Up to a regular room. You need to clear out of here."

"Can I stay with him tonight?"

"You'll have to ask the night nurse on his floor."

Keely gazed at Dylan's pale face. "I don't want him to wake up all alone."

The nurse's face betrayed no feelings. "I don't know about that." Then she relented. "Sometimes they'll put a cot in the room for you."

Keely looked up at her helplessly.

"Why don't you go home and get your stuff if you're going to stay the night. He won't wake up for a while yet."

Keely hesitated, feeling incapable of making another decision. But it was necessary. She stood up and leaned over the bed, kissing him again on his cool forehead. "I'll be right back, sweetheart," she said fiercely, tears in her eyes. "I'll stay right here with you tonight."

"Go on, now," said the nurse kindly. "I'll mention the cot at the nurse's station when we take him up."

KEELY OPENED THE DOORand walked into the dimly lit foyer of her house. Ingrid, who was staring at a magazine in the living room, dropped it as if it were hot and leaped to her feet. She hurried up to Keely, who was taking off her coat.

"How is he?" Ingrid asked.

Keely nodded and sighed. "He's going to be okay," she said squeezing the older woman's outstretched hands. Keely took a deep breath. "He just missed cutting an artery," she said, faltering at the last word.

"G.o.d in heaven," Ingrid moaned, and she swayed slightly.

"Let's sit down," said Keely. The two women returned to the living room and sat facing each other from the chairs they had chosen.

Tears rolled down Ingrid's cheeks, and she looked away.

"Are you all right?" Keely asked.

"Don't worry about me," Ingrid said impatiently.

"How's Abby?"

"Sleeping like a lamb. She never woke up."

"Good," said Keely. They sat silently. When Keely looked up, there was a grimace of pain on Ingrid's face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"My stomach's upset-all those painkillers I've been taking. I'll be fine. When can I see him?"

"I'm not sure," said Keely. "I'm going to go back. I have only a little bit of time before he wakes up. They're going to let me sleep in his room. On a cot. I just came home to get a few things." Then she looked apologetically at Ingrid. "Could you . . . would you mind spending the night?"

"I'll stay," said Ingrid.

"Thank you, Ingrid," Keely whispered. She could hardly bear to look her former mother-in-law in the eye.How she must hate me,Keely thought.First her son commits suicide, then her grandson attempts it. What a failure I must seem to her.

"I think it was my fault," Ingrid said abruptly. "I should have apologized."

"Your fault?" Keely cried. She could hardly believe her ears. She straightened up. "How could it be your fault? I knew he was depressed. I should have recognized the signs. After Richard-"

"Oh, don't," said Ingrid wearily.

Keely shook her head, overwhelmed, anew, by the magnitude of Dylan's act. "I don't know what I'm going to do now. I'll be afraid to let him out of my sight. What if he tries again?"

"Don't even say that," said Ingrid. "Don't think that way. Kids do reckless things. Teenage boys, especially. When Richard was a teenager, the sleepless nights I spent waiting up for him, the scares he put into us-oh, I can't tell you. Boys are like that. They can't get out of their own way. They're . . . like something ready to explode. My husband used to say it was a wonder any of them survived the teenage years."

Keely thought of Richard. He had survived his teenage years only to come to a violent end in his thirties.

"This is not the same thing as what happened to Richard, Keely. I just know it in my heart. Dylan will be all right."

How can you be sure?Keely wanted to wail. But she understood. Ingrid was just trying to help her to keep going. Trying to rea.s.sure her in spite of her own fears.

"I'm so sorry," said Keely miserably.

"Never mind that. Now go get your things and get back to the hospital. He needs you there. Go on, before Abby hears you."

Keely looked at her former mother-in-law quizzically. What had itcost her to reserve blame? Ingrid suddenly seemed incredibly stoic in Keely's eyes. "If I were you, I would blame me," Keely said honestly.

Ingrid shook her head. "I don't blame you. Even if I did, it wouldn't do a bit of good. No good at all. You're suffering the most. Now go on."

Keely nodded. It wasn't absolution. But she couldn't have accepted absolution even if it was offered. She forced herself to her feet and began to trudge slowly up the stairs. She turned on the lamp on her bureau, then hesitated by the baby monitor, raising the volume. She could hear Abby breathing steadily, stirring in her crib. She turned it back down to low and went over to the closet.

Her overnight bag was on the top shelf. Keely pulled it down and set it out on the bed. She checked inside her toiletry kit and went into the bathroom to get the toothpaste. Mark's toothpaste was still on the shelf beside hers-one of those things she had not been able to dispose of yet. She closed the door to the medicine cabinet and saw her own haggard face in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy from weeping, her skin tone was sallow. She felt as if she was on the verge of a collapse, but she also knew she could not give in. Not with Dylan lying there vulnerable and voiceless.

She removed what remained of her makeup, then changed into some comfortable clothes that she could sleep in. She shoved a sweater into her bag in case it was cold but didn't bother to pack a change of clothes for tomorrow. She didn't care how she looked. All she cared about right now was Dylan, being there when he woke up.

Exhausted though she was, she knew she would have trouble sleeping.A book,she thought,just to keep me occupied.

She walked over to the nightstand on her side of the bed, lifted up a pile of books she kept there, and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, planning to pick out one or two. As she sank onto the edge of the mattress, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a piece of white paper flutter off the white pillowcase and land on the area rug.

Frowning, Keely pushed the books aside, bent down, and reached for it.

The paper was folded in quarters, and on the outside it saidMOM.Her heart stopped for a moment as she realized what she was lookingat. It was Dylan's writing, and it had not been there earlier. He had left it on her pillow, so that she would find it there . . . afterward.

It was impossible. It looked like one of the little apologetic love notes he used to make for her and leave on her pillow when she scolded him. But this was no valentine. These were his last words to her. His . . . suicide note.

Her hand was trembling. She felt as if she was going to be sick.

He had left her a note. She was afraid to read it. What if he blamed her? What if he had left behind a message of hate? A message that she could never erase from her mind, even if they were reconciled? Part of her wanted to tear it up into a thousand bits and flush it down the toilet. And the other part, the dominant part, had to know. Had to know because he was still alive, and if she was going to be any help at all to him, they had to be completely honest with each other. Time to reveal secrets. She had to know what had been in his heart when he decided to leave his life forever.

She steeled herself and unfolded the paper.

It was a piece of lined notebook paper, but when she flattened it out against the pillow, she saw that there was only one sentence written in the middle of the page. It readI locked the gate.

What in the world?she wondered. At first she felt almost furious with frustration.Dylan, for G.o.d's sake.She didn't know what she had expected, but it was not this. Was this some of kind of code, some stupid secret game he was playing when life and death hung in the balance? How could he do it? Leave her to wonder for the rest of her life?I locked the gate.Some adolescent cryptogram. What did it mean? What was he saying?I locked the gate.What gate? She had found him in the cellar. There was no gate down there. They didn't even have a gate. Well, except for the gate that . . .

And then, all at once, the blood drained from her face.

He locked the gate. He did not leave the gate open. He was not talking about tonight. And it was not a code. He was talking about the gate around the pool. He was talking about the night Mark drowned.

What have I done?she thought. As the meaning of his message sank in, her face grew hot with shame.

Ever since the night Mark drowned, she had a.s.sumed Dylan had left the gate open. She had dismissed Dylan's protests and thought he was lying. No matter what he said. After all, his skateboard was by the pool, and he'd been angry and distracted when he came back to get it.

He hadn't done it on purpose. Of course not. She'd tried and tried to keep him from feeling too guilty about his carelessness. After all, what was she constantly telling everyone? Accidents happen. It was n.o.body's fault. But her underlying a.s.sumption had been crystal clear-that it was Dylan who'd left the gate ajar. It was the only reasonable explanation for what happened. No matter what he said.

No matter that he had said he didn't do it. She had not listened. She had driven him to desperation. Tonight, as he'd faced the end of his life, he wanted her to know one thing. Not that he hadn't done it on purpose.He hadn't done it at all.

I locked the gate.Her world tilted on its axis as she understood for the first time what he was saying and began to realize what it meant.

17.

At the nurses' station in the emergency room, an aide told Keely that Dylan had already been moved. He gave her the room number and directions. Clutching the paper with the number in one hand and her overnight bag in the other, Keely found the elevator and made her way to the third floor. The hallways were quiet but still busy, the night staff pushing carts and exchanging cheerful banter in low voices as they went about their nocturnal duties.

Keely approached the lone nurse at the central desk to identify herself-and check about the cot. "I'm Mrs. Weaver. My son was just moved up here from emergency. Dylan Bennett?"

The nurse nodded. "He's in 303."

"Is it all right if I spend the night? The nurse in the recovery room said . . ."

"Yeah. We had one of the aides set the cot up for you."