42 ask dr. google

Sherona looks like a very plump and very serious cat who has succeeded in swallowing a somewhat difficult canary.

“They all know the boy,” she announces moments after sliding into the passenger seat, displacing an aggrieved Mr. Yap. “Nurses, janitors, everybody. He’s a sweet boy and they love him.”

“How sick is he?”

“Sick as they get,” she says. “Been in a vegetative state for six weeks. Feeding him through a tube, like they do.”

“Vegetative state?”

“He’s there and he’s not there. Nurses say he’ll look right at you and smile, but it’s just a reflex. Some habit of the muscles and brain. He can breathe on his own, but that’s about it. Mostly likely, he’ll never improve.”

“Oh, my God.”

Dead but not dead, I’m thinking. The ultimate nightmare.

“He’s on a heart pump,” Sherona continues. “I asked about a new heart for the poor boy, the nurses look all hurtful and say he’s not a candidate for transplant. They think his daddy’s taking him home to die.”

“That’s the destination he gave? New London?”

Sherona nods. “You think that’s where he’s at?” she asks doubtfully.

“No chance,” I say. “The guy is a technical whiz, but he’s not a heart surgeon. He’s got a plan, a destination.”

At that moment Connie returns and I have to get out and move into the back seat with the nervous Pekingese.

“Hope you did better than me,” she says to Sherona, sounding sheepish. Looking into the rearview mirror to make eye contact, she adds, “Sorry, Kate, the records are in the business office and the office is locked and this security guy threatened to have me arrested if I didn’t quit messing with the doors.”

“Tommy’s brother is in a coma,” I tell her. “He’s dying.”

“It sounds so strange, that Tomas has a brother,” she says almost wistfully. “I can’t get used to the idea. Coma, huh?”

“You want to know where the ambulance took the boy, right?” Sherona interrupts, no patience for chitchat or lame excuses.

“More than anything,” I tell her.

“Best get back on the road,” she suggests firmly. “Ambulance service has a dispatcher. Let’s see what he says.”

She directs us to a chain-fenced parking facility several miles from the hospital. A district of freight warehouses and trucking firms. We park in the street, but even before we get out, the dogs are barking. Attack dogs inside the perimeter of the chain-link fence that encloses a number of boxy, orange-and-white-striped medical transport vehicles. The dogs are showing a lot of teeth. Not what you’d call a friendly location. As we approach the main gate—Sherona in the lead, all business—motion detectors set off bright lights and an armed security guard emerges from a metal shack, yawning.

As it happens, the guard is Caucasian, but ethnicity is no immunity to Sherona’s persuasive charms. Within three minutes he’s apologizing for the barking dogs—he does not control the animals—and explaining that the heavy security is necessary because, as he puts it, “the junkies think an ambulance is a drugstore on wheels.”

“We never leave narcotics in the unattended vehicles, but that don’t stop ’em from breaking in,” he adds. “Now, what can I do you ladies for?”

Out of politeness he’s addressing all three of us, but it’s Sherona who has his undivided attention. I’d been aware of our pastry chef’s impressive skills in the kitchen, but this is my first experience watching her mind-meld with males. It’s uncanny, and Connie and I look at each other and shake our heads. Not so much a sexual allure on Sherona’s part, more a way of presenting herself that makes men want to please and protect her. This from a woman almost as wide as she is tall. Makes me realize that her shyness around me on the job, and with Connie, as well, apparently has more to do with the racial divide and class distinctions than any lack of confidence on her part. Out here in the big bad, black-and-white world, Sherona is Oprah and Dr. Phil all rolled into one, and I’m fortunate to have her on my side.

Sherona gives the guard an abbreviated version of what’s going on, and asks may she please confer with the dispatcher. It’s three in the morning, but the guard affects to find this reasonable and makes a phone call from the shack.

“Hank’s waiting for you,” he says, and seems more than a little disappointed that our charismatic colleague will be passing out of his orbit.

The building that contains the dispatching center for Hale Medical Response is directly across the street, behind an iron-barred door. Sherona lets it be known that it might be better if she approached the dispatcher on her own.

“That’s fine,” I say. “That’s great.” And refrain from adding, “You go, girl,” only because I don’t want to come across like some sort of wannabe to the sisterhood.

Connie and I wait in the car, fretting while Sherona does her thing.

“Who knew?” Connie says. “Is this the same woman who spent six months in a shelter for the abused?”

“Amazing, huh? I wish Shane could see her in action—he’d probably offer her a job. If we’re still in business after this is over, she gets a raise. You, too.”

“Oh, we’ll be in business,” Connie says confidently, reaching over to pat my hand.

Mr. Yap, no doubt jealous, climbs into her lap and nuzzles at her chin. Connie coos at him softly, eyes keen for the door to the dispatcher’s office.

Fifteen minutes pass. More than enough time for the strange fit of giddiness to be displaced by another heavy dose of dread. My very blood feels heavy, turgid. It’s true that tremendous progress has been made in the last eight or nine hours. The man in the mask has been identified and his motive revealed. But he’s still out there in the wind, heading for an unknown rendezvous where, I am absolutely convinced, my son will die. It’s all happening now, today, in the dog hours of the night, and every minute we idle here, our quarry is another minute farther on down the road. Another minute closer to taking Tommy’s life.

My mind supplies the next phrase—if he hasn’t already done so—but I force that terrible possibility out of my thoughts. No room for doubt. Doubt is fatal. Watching Tommy’s teammates taught me that, if nothing else did. The kids who doubted they could hit the ball never made contact. At best they closed their eyes and swung just to get it over with. Whereas the better players like my son never doubted they’d make contact, never stepped into the batter’s box anticipating failure. Each swing was a stroke of confidence, even if the result was a whiff or a pop-up.

Connie and I both inhale sharply as Sherona exits the barred door and strides purposefully to the car. Her strong arms pumping like a majorette leading a parade. The determined expression on her face letting us know that something is up, facts have been learned.

“All kinda things going on,” she announces, panting just a little as she settles into the passenger seat. “Best get you back on the highway. Go south.”

She doesn’t have to tell Connie twice. As we glide through the deserted streets of the freight district, Sherona fills us in. “Silly kind of man,” she says. “Keep sayin’ how I’d make a good wife for somebody like him, when he means exactly like him. But he knows about the missing ride, that’s what counts, right?”

“Missing ride?”

“That’s what they call the vehicle, the ambulance. Call it a ‘ride.’ Four rides on the street, six more in the lot on standby. Upstairs, above where the dispatcher works? They’ve got a bunk room, like for firefighters. I ask do they slide down a pole, he says no. Never mind about that. The ride that picks up the Cutter boy, he’s a driver name of Tim. Tim’s real reliable, always calls in, keeps in touch, like they do. Only he doesn’t keep in touch. I ask can the radio break, he tells me sure, the radio can break but they also got the cell phone.”