Unclean Spirit (2 page)

CHAPTER FOUR

              As Starr was claiming her luggage and making arrangements for a rental car, Tamara was pacing the floor of the Operating Suite's waiting-room. Paul had been taken into surgery an hour ago for evacuation of an acute subdural hematoma. Dr. Javier Gomez, the neurosurgeon, had explained to Tamara that the CT scan had revealed a collection of blood beneath the skull that was placing pressure on the right side of Paul's brain. It was imperative, Dr. Gomez had informed her, that the pocket of blood be removed as soon as possible in order to forestall any further tension on the brain tissue. 

              Tamara had been allowed to stay with Paul prior to the surgery and had been relieved to find that he had regained consciousness. His lack of orientation and multiple bruises and cuts had shocked her but Dr. Gomez had assured her that the confusion was "normal" and that the bruising and lacerations looked worse than they actually were. Furthermore, there was no evidence of fractures or additional internal injury. The bad news was that the pending surgical procedure was not without risk; the surgery or the damage already done by the head injury might leave Paul with any number of neurological deficits. "Neurological deficits"--such an ominous and all-encompassing description of potential complications. Would Paul be left paralyzed, incapable of speech, or cognitively impaired? Surely not. Not the man Tamara had married thirty-five years ago.

              Tamara and Paul had bumped into one another--literally--in 1960. Tamara's VW Bug had stalled at a traffic light and Paul, who was moderately stoned at the time, had rear-ended the Day-Glo yellow car. Tamara, a woman whose vocabulary often belied her pacifism, greeted Paul with, "Goddamn son-of-a-bitch! Look what you've done to my beautiful little car! Shit, shit, shit!" One year later Tamara Conroy and Paul Forsythe became husband and wife, a month before the birth of their child, whom they named Starr.

              The first seven years of their marriage were spent in San Francisco. Haight-Ashbury was the hub of the hippie movement and it was there that the Forsythes cohabitated with three other couples: Marybeth and Patsy; Elliot, Ming and their two year-old son Piper; Candace and Peter. Aside from the occasional transient counterculture groupies who resided at "The Forsythe House," a title coined by Marybeth and Patsy, the individuals who lived within its walls were stable, committed, sincere persons who believed in hard work and peaceful living. They weren't drug zombies, although they did enjoy their marijuana and their infrequent acid trips; they neither condoned nor practiced group sex; they had no intention of overthrowing the Government.

              Because Tamara and Paul believed that Starr was the priority in their lives and should be treated accordingly, Tamara quit her job in order to spend the first year of Starr's life with her. Paul designed and built furniture, unique pieces that he sold to a local specialty store. Since Paul's workshop was in the back of the house, he too was a constant and active participant in Starr's upbringing.

              By 1965, the core group of The Forsythe House had truly become a family; it was, then, especially devastating when Peter was drafted and sent to Nam. When he was listed as missing-in-action and presumed dead thirteen months later, the grief in the house was palpable. Candace was inconsolable and sank into a state of depression that was frightening in its intensity. She rarely spoke, she wandered the house at night, she ate only enough to sustain her vital functions. Starr was the one person with whom she would interact. 

              Starr was a precocious five year-old whose intelligence and sensitivity to others was obvious to anyone who met her. Her long, shiny auburn hair, translucent complexion, and startling emerald green eyes accentuated her inner qualities and drew people toward her. It was no surprise to anyone that she was able to comfort Candace in a way that no one else could; what was surprising, however, was how she provided that solace.

              Candace was wandering through the house very late one night when she heard someone crying. She was immediately drawn to Starr's room where she found the child fast asleep but soaking wet and writhing about as though in pain.

              "Starr, wake up, baby, it's Candace."

              Starr sat up, looked wildly about for a moment, then focused on her friend. "Candie, my leg hurts so bad and it smells poopie and I'm wet and cold and..."

              "It's okay, sweetie, you were just having a nightmare."             

              "No! My leg, my leg! Look at it, please!"

              Candace examined the girl's legs but could find nothing wrong. "See, Starr, your legs are fine. Maybe you had a charlie-horse. Does your leg still hurt?"

              "I don't think so. But Candie, I'm scared. Don't leave me"             

              "I will stay right here with you for the rest of the night. Let's just wash you off and change your jammies and then get you back to sleep."

              An hour later as Candace cradled a peaceful Starr in her arms, she began to feel very much at peace herself and fell into the best sleep she had experienced in many months.

              The next morning at breakfast when Starr dropped her spoon, stared up at the ceiling, and announced, "Peter's hungry," dead silence settled around the breakfast table.

              Tamara finally spoke. "God, Candace, I'm so sorry! Starr just doesn't understand."

              "Its okay, Tam, I'm beginning to think that she 'understands' better than any of us."

              Candace shared with the group what had occurred the night before and concluded with, "Peter's not dead...he's injured, but he's not dead. Starr knows and..."  Candace was cut short by the ringing of the doorbell, which Paul left to answer. When he returned to the kitchen, Paul was accompanied by an Army officer who identified himself as Major David Aiken. Before Major Aiken could state his business, Candace calmly stated, "Peter's alive."               

              "Ma'am, are you Candace Rosenfeld, wife of Corporal Peter Rosenfeld?"

              "Yes, yes, of course! Tell me!"

              "Corporal Peter Rosenfeld, Social Security Number 454-22-7..."

              "Yes, damn it! Tell me!"

              "Mrs. Rosenfeld, your husband has been located and transported to a MASH for emergency care. His leg is badly injured and his condition is critical. At this point, that's the extent of my information."

              "Mrs. Forsythe?"

              Tamara's sojourn into the past was interrupted by a nurse in green scrubs.

              "Yes, what is it? Is Paul all right?"

              "So far, so good. He's still in surgery, but Dr. Gomez asked me to let you know that it's going to take a bit longer than expected. Your husband is stable now but he had a brief episode of difficulty."

              "What kind of 'difficulty'?"

              "We're not sure why it happened, there was no warning, but Mr. Forsythe's heart stopped for a full five seconds then spontaneously started up again in normal rhythm. Dr. Gomez wanted me to verify what you told him earlier about Mr. Forsythe's medical history."

              "It's true I was upset when Dr. Gomez initially questioned me, so I appreciate that he wants to follow-up. But what I told him is accurate; Paul has never had any significant medical problems.

              "Is Paul going to be okay?"

              "Mrs. Forsythe, that's not a question I can answer. I will say, however, that his vital signs are perfectly normal now and Dr. Gomez is one of the best neurosurgeons I have ever worked with. If anyone can bring your husband through this he can."

              Sweet Jesus! thought Tamara. What the hell else can happen?

CHAPTER FIVE

              When Starr reached the motel, she was relieved to find that her mom had already checked in. As soon as she entered their room, Starr freed Penelope from her carrier, set up the cat's litter box and food and water, and sat down to smoke a very much needed cigarette. Tamara had left a note for her daughter:

Starr— I arrived safe and sound. Your dad will be in the Intensive Care Unit, so you will find me there. Don't rush, honey, have some coffee and a decent breakfast. See you soon.

Love, Mom.

The thought of fresh coffee reminded Starr just how exhausted she was, especially after the mellowing effects of the scotch she had downed on the plane. Locating the hospital wouldn't be a problem, so Starr felt that she could afford the time it would take to boot-up  with a few cups of strong java.

              Starr was familiar with El Paso. After leaving San Francisco in late 1968, she and her parents had migrated to the West Texas town with Marybeth and Patsy. Patsy had been born in El Paso and was anxious, as were they all, to return to a locale that offered the peacefulness that The Haight had lost. The 1967 Summer of Love had actually been the Summer of Debauchery. San Francisco had devolved from a city of ideals into a city of idiots who could not see beyond their own selfish desires. Sex and love had become synonymous; drugs had replaced cognition; violence had triumphed over peace. The symbolic burial of "The Dream" in Buena Vista Park in 1967 wasn't really symbolic at all. Elliot, Ming, and Piper moved across the bay to Sausalito; Candace had left several years earlier to be with Peter in Hawaii, where he had been sent for an above-the-knee amputation; only Paul, Tamara, Starr, Marybeth, and Patsy stayed together.

              Starr hadn't been thrilled with El Paso. How her family could forsake the trees and flowers and water for the sand and cacti and dry air was beyond her. Furthermore, her nine year-old mind could not comprehend why people didn't live in the city. What was this suburb stuff all about? How did people get around? She had reasoned that since they were in Texas, people must ride horses to work and school. Where were the horses? Starr wondered. She also questioned where the men carried their six-shooters; she looked and looked but could never spot a holster. Starr had seen enough movies in her young life to know what the Wild West was like and El Paso sure didn't fit the bill. 

              One of the ICU nurses was kind enough to take Starr to Tamara, who had moved to the ICU waiting area. When mother and daughter locked eyes, they were both overtaken by emotion and the built-up tension, worry, and fear was finally vented through tears and embraces.

              "Mom?"

              "Dad's okay. There was a large collection of blood somewhere beneath his skull that had to be surgically removed. Dr. Gomez has already been in to talk to me and he said that Dad is stable; it will be a while yet though before Dr. Gomez can ascertain Dad's true neurological status."

              Starr could feel her musculature relax as she received the news that her dad was alive; she had been fearful that his "appearance" on the plane was a portent of his death. But Starr's relief was quickly overshadowed by Tamara's mention of "neurological status."

              "Mom, I don't understand. Has Dad suffered some type of permanent brain damage?"

              "Dr. Gomez can't be sure yet. He's fairly confident that your father didn't sustain any 'significant neurological insult,' but he won't know for sure until Dad is alert again. Once the anesthesia has cleared out of Dad's system, Dr. Gomez will conduct a full neurological examination. I just thank God that he's alive! His heart stopped during surgery and didn't start up again for a full five seconds. Dr. Gomez has no explanation for why that happened so, just to be on the safe side, he's going to have a cardiologist brought in."

              Starr could feel the flush beneath her skin--her father had been dead for five seconds. Had his spirit manifested itself to her during that time and, if so, what had the terror on the apparition's face signified? Fear of death? Pain? Or something much more sinister?

CHAPTER SIX

              Paul was dreaming. At least he thought he was dreaming. He wasn't aware of being awake, but he could hear extrinsic sounds that had no meaning to him. He struggled to remember if past dreams had ever involved his auditory capabilities; he didn't think so. But if he was awake, why couldn't he open his eyes? Or were they open and just not seeing? With that thought came the realization that Paul felt no connection to his body whatsoever. He perceived that his head hurt, but the pain had no relationship to him. Paul knew that his body must be somewhere; it just wasn't united with his mind. How was such a thing possible? My God, thought Paul, is this what death feels like, am I dead? Are those noises I hear the sounds of the afterlife?

              Paul's sense was that he was on the verge of panic and he had no idea of how a disembodied mind would handle hysteria, so he willed himself to calm down. He was not dead, he was having an out-of-body experience. Yes! That was it! But why? How and when would he link up with his physical self? Perhaps it was already too late!  Stop it, Forsythe! Paul told himself. Settle down and isolate your most recent memory. But despite Paul's degree of concentration, he was unable to bring into focus the events that had immediately preceded his current state. He caught only black light impressions that possessed no comprehensible relevance: Impenetrable darkness; unrelenting cold; unrestrained hate; unbridled power. And then, without warning, Paul's olfactory sense was overwhelmed by the foul odor of feces.

              What's happening to me? Paul implored. He had abandoned his hope that he was merely dreaming, the dream state wasn't compatible with the cognizance that Paul was presently capable of. Paul's last thought before the blackness enveloped him was: I'm in Hell.

              Tamara sat by her husband's side, her hand tightly grasping his. She would have to leave soon, the visiting time permitted in the ICU was very brief and infrequent, so every moment she spent with Paul was precious. His skin was so pale and his muscles so still--shouldn't he be awake by now? Couldn't he hear her talking to him, begging him to come back to her?

              Starr and Dr. Gomez sat across from one another in the lobby area outside of the ICU.

              "Ms Forsythe..."

              "Please, call me Starr."

              "Starr, I'm concerned that your father hasn't responded yet. The anesthetic should have worn off by now so I'm hard put to understand why he's not awake. Aside from the cardiac event during surgery, everything related to the procedure went well. There was no visible evidence of significant injury to the brain tissue and the hematoma was easily evacuated. In addition, Mr. Forsythe's vital signs, pupillary responses and involuntary reflexes are well within normal parameters."

              "Doctor, did the cardiologist find anything that might explain what's going on?"

              "No, not at all. In fact, Dr. Barker was surprised
not
to see signs of some type of cardiac impairment in a sixty-four year old man. She also told me that the five-second cardiac arrest was probably attributable to a sensitivity to the anesthetic agents that were used. I'm not sure, but maybe that sensitivity is also the cause of your father's continued lack of consciousness. At any rate, Dr. Barker plans to conduct more tests over the next few days just to be on the safe side, but she doesn't feel that there was any permanent myocardial, heart muscle, damage as a result of the arrest. Unfortunately, it looks like we're going to have to play the waiting game."

              As the vigil at the hospital in El Paso continued, Charlie was in Van Horn waiting for his headache to let up. Gawddamn sumabitch, he thought, I really tied one on yesterday! Although he had neither the energy nor the desire to move even one tiny muscle, Charlie knew that there were chores to be done. Coffee, nice fresh, strong coffee, that's what he needed. With that thought, Charlie realized that the aroma of Miz Tamara's thick chicory blend was absent. Charlie glanced at the clock, eleven a.m....didn't matter, the mizzus always had a pot going regardless of the time of day. Something wasn't right.

              After a visit to the toilet and the ingestion of five aspirin, Charlie wandered down to the kitchen, where he found Tamara's note. He voiced an epithet that was directed at himself, "Fuckin' bastard shithead! Fat lot of good yer to anyone!"

              Paul and Tamara had taken Charlie in years ago when he was broke, homeless and down on his luck. His wife had walked out on him; his daughter had severed all ties with him; his hard drinking and arthritic joints had pretty much denied him any gainful employment. Charlie Toobin would have been dead by now had it not been for the kindness of the Forsythes, and how had he repaid them? By being passed out drunk when they needed him.

              Tamara's note said that she would call as soon as she had any news, so Charlie figured that the best he could do at this point was take care of the ranch that had been entrusted to him. In addition, Tamara had asked that Charlie call Patsy and Marybeth, who were visiting Peter and Candace in Hawaii, to let them know what had happened. Good ol' boy that he was, Charlie had never been able to accept Puss and Dick, as he referred to them behind their backs, as members of the Forsythe family. Lesbos weren't family, they were freaks! As much as he hated to admit it however, Puss and Dick treated him okay, despite his crude remarks about their sexual habits. Well, Charlie reasoned, the least he could do now was attempt to be more tolerant of the two queers the Forsythes loved so much.

              As his coffee brewed and Charlie settled into the quietude that surrounded him, he realized that something was different about the house, something aside from the absence of its usual inhabitants. The old house looked the same, it just didn't feel the same. Bullshit! thought Charlie, yer losin' it ya old fart!