LXXXV.Joan
until the call finally came. The PI recommended by the detective had learned about Mrs Marjorie Herlihy’s whereabouts from LBPD.
She was in the ER at St Mary’s.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh Oh Oh
God.
Oh! Oh Oh oh God!
Barbet—
He met her at the bungalow and they took a Town Car. She cried in his arms most of the way down. Her mother had been assaulted in the mensroom of a Long Beach gas station. How! Why! That’s what she kept saying — shouting — to Barbet. Of course he had no answer; had more sense than to even attempt. They were in the realm of No Answers, where her mom had been living for months upon months. All he could say, and Barbet thought it OK (because it was true) was that what had happened to Marjorie was like something out of the Inferno. What happened to Marj Herlihy in the last ½ year was literally Hell. Joan clutched at him and sobbed, he felt the heat of breath and body, even the heat from her eyes. He said he would be with her through all of it, he knew how hard — no, he amended that he didn’t, he couldn’t, couldn’t imagine—but wanted her to remember she had another life to think of now, the one “growing inside” (everything sounded like a horror film!) — and that she had to be careful, about her own health—not to suggest she could or should be doing anything other than what they were doing this very moment, and not to suggest she could or should be doing anything other than exactly this — urging her to take deep breaths and know that she had his love and support, along with that of so many others. Joan tried to smile. She tried to smile at him. The driver stole glimpses in the mirror. She solemnly nodded because she knew Barbet was right and the baby would—have to — keep her centered, it was just that she wasn’t used to thinking of anyone else (especially something growing inside), now there was this unformed Nautilus shell, this hairless membranous wingless be-winged being already nudging her toward a selflessness that might even help her to stay sane through ordeals neverending. (Maybe that was a selfish thought; miscarriages and dried-up millions danced through her head like sugary caffeinated demons. She couldn’t withstand another Lost Coast.) No, she would keep it simple: she needed to stay intact so the child would at least be born healthy. She wouldn’t be able to bear a Medical Incredible, a kid with major organs born outside his body. A kid with a face like a rotten cantaloupe. That would surely make her world come tumbling down.
When they got to St Mary’s, the PI was waiting and why not, muttered Joan to her friend, He should be fucking offering hors d’oeuvres for what I’m paying. She was moody and distraught and unraveled until Barbet gave a gentle dis/course correction: “He’s on our side, Joanie. He helped find her.” At this, she wept, and Barbet said darling why don’t you go to the bathroom and wash your face? Get it together before seeing Mom.
A really good idea.
She thanked him, then thanked the PI as well.
Joan did as she was told, and stared in the mirror. The thought of that bathroom where her mother was attacked made her shudder. How could someone do that? What kind of monsterworld was this? Who decided that Marj Herlihy, a kind, gracious, intelligent lady in the autumn of her life, would be courted, cheated, robbed, beaten, and burned from her home? And this—it was too much! She threw more water on her face, drying herself with rough paper toweling. She started to leave but got dizzy and went to sit in a stall.
All was water. She rubbed the belly where her baby floated. Remembered the story of the 6 year old boy in New Orleans who led younger children to safety through the parish floods. To sanctuary: Darynael, Degahney, Tyreek, Zoria…why did the names stick in her head and what the fuck was up with black people and their baptisms? It was like something out of a Dave Chappelle sketch. Deamonte was separated from his mother but shepherded them to high ground. (The bastardization of diamond. Wasn’t there a Diamond Sutra? She thought she’d seen a copy of it among Esther’s books, in Napa. Buddhists always spoke of “diamond-pointed” this and “diamond-pointed” that.) His last name was Love. They finally reunited Diamond-Pointed Love with his mother, and her name turned out to be…Katrina. The world was an ecstatic poisoned mystery. All was Katrina and Kali, all was Durga, the Great Mother and Great Destroyer, all was Love and Money and Diamonds and Rust.
She breathed, like Barbet suggested, for the baby’s sake. Inspired. She didn’t want its tiny spirit toxified by this night’s madness but how on Earth would that not be possible? How could Joan stop her body from strafing the womb, mutating her baby’s blood cells, altering rhythm of soul and heart?
She rejoined Barbet and the PI in the waiting room. An officer who’d responded to the call was chatting with them — he knew the PI, at least by name, duly impressed by the reputation, as is said, that preceded him.
Joan was introduced.
Then, just like a TV show, the handsome doctor walked in, asking if she was Mrs Herlihy’s daughter.
HE took them to a room just beyond the examination areas.
“Your mom’s going to be all right. But I want to tell you, straight out: she was raped.”
Joan crumpled.
Barbet grabbed her under the armpits.
He told her to breathe.
The doctor asked if she was OK.
She said yes.
The doctor paused until Joan gave the go-ahead.
“There was some damage. Some anal and vaginal tearing — I really think minimal, in that we’re dealing with a woman of her age and the violence of the assault.”
“Don’t. Don’t say that,” said Joan.
There was quiet, and then she told him to go on.
“She’ll have to be tested down the line for HIV whether they find the assailant or not. She’s in shock but she’s comfortable. There’s no question she needs to be admitted — of course, that can be to a hospital of your choice. Whether someplace closer to home — Cedars or UCLA or St John’s”—implicit in the remark was a winking knowledge of Joan’s rarefied economic strata, which she assumed the canny MD had grokked by her dress, Barbet’s pedigree (she was certain he thought her partner was queer), the well-heeled presence of the PI, etc—“for observation, fluid intake, all the goodies. Again, because of her age. How are Mom’s cognitive functions? Is she generally lucid? Does she hold up her end of a conversation?” Joan stared at him blankly. “Because she’s a little out there — not making a whole lot of sense right now, part of that’s the morphine and part of that’s — it may be trauma, it may be a host of things. That would be another reason to do a more extensive work-up. You’d be surprised, but people can be remarkably resilient. They bounce back. Before you see her — and she doesn’t look too bad, considering what she went through — I want to tell you that she was helped enormously by a group of homeless folks she encountered sometime not too long after the incident. In particular, she was ministered to by a lady who’s with her now, kind of a legend around here. Dottie Ford. She’s a vet.”