Spider Legs (10 page)

CHAPTER 15

Coma

E
LMO'S MOTHER WAS
still in a coma. Various plastic tubes in her natural and human-made orifices sustained her life like a parachute slowing the descent of a falling body. But the tubes merely delayed her descent into her oblivion; they did not stop it. She dozed in and out of near consciousness as condensation collected on tubes in her nose. Outside her window bawling winds and continuous rain imprisoned visitors and staff without umbrellas.

“Any chance she can recover?” Elmo asked Dr. Carter, as he shifted his gaze nervously from his mother, to her tubes, to the rain-spotted hospital window. He was wearing a hospital gown to protect his mother from any germs he carried on his clothing. On his head was a plastic hospital cap.

“Possible, but unlikely,” Dr. Carter said. “All the signs suggest brain injury.” Her pupils were dilated and did not constrict when Carter shone a light into them. She had no reflexes. “When we tried to take her off the respirator, her body made no attempt to breathe on its own.”

“What does that mean?” The question was mostly rhetorical; Elmo had enough of a general notion to know that he was likely to be making funeral arrangements before long. He wished again that he could have gotten Martha to come when there had been
time. Even a partial rapprochement would have been infinitely better than none.

“The contraction of the diaphragm for breathing is a primitive brain function orchestrated by cranial nerves three, four, and five. The fact that she could not breathe on her own suggests extensive neurological problems.” Dr. Carter went to a light board and studied a series of head Xrays. Then he bent down again, close to Mrs. Samules's face, and began to examine her unresponsive eyes with an ophthalmoscope, checking for the telltale signs of dangerous intercranial pressure.

An EKG machine in the corner of the room started to show chaotic electrical activity in the woman's heart. The machine transmitted the electrical status of her heart to the nurses’ station down the hall. Elmo tensed as he gazed at two clear bottles of fluid which hung from a rack by her bed, feeding an IV line in her right arm.

A nurse came in to take Mrs. Samules's blood pressure. “Her pressure's so damned low . . .”

“Give her some oxygen. Make it fast,” Dr. Carter said.

Elmo stayed for a few hours and sometimes there were moments of hope. His mother's eyes occasionally moved from side to side, although she did not appear to be aware of her surroundings. Her diaphragm started rhythmic contractions, so she could be removed from the respirator. But her favorable progress did not continue. She drifted in a shadow world, straddling life and death like a tightrope walker.

Elmo gazed at his mother's blood, more brown than red, flowing through a clear exsanguination tube and into a vibrating by-pass machine.

“It's feeding time,” a nurse said. She turned on an array of halogen bulbs on the ceiling to help her see more clearly, and then she walked past Elmo and funneled liquid food through a feeding tube that ran into Mrs. Samules's stomach through her nose. The nurse then removed the urine that accumulated in a bag attached to a pole by the side of her bed. As she leaned over the woman's face, she began to apply a lubricant to her eyelids.

“What's that for?” Elmo asked the nurse.

“It prevents the eyelids from sticking together.”

“Why is that a problem?” He hated this whole business, but was compelled to learn all he could about it.

“Comatose patients don't blink. They also secrete fewer tears, even when their eyes are closed.”

A wave of sadness passed over Elmo like a dark swell of ocean water. He watched as the nurse filled a syringe with a cocktail of free radical scavengers and lazeroids and then injected the solution into a port in her intravenous line. Blood, heated to 99 degrees, moved with phenyl tertiary butyl nitrone though the IV lines and into her body through a vein in her arm.

The nurse dimmed the lights. Before Elmo's eyes adjusted to the reduced illumination, all he could see was the red blinking bulbs on the cardiac monitors. Mrs. Samules was almost invisible.

Elmo walked down the hallway to a coffee machine, his massive arms swinging back and forth, his eyes sandy, his bones aching. His feet were still clad in elasticized hospital slippers and they made a scraping sound. His large shoulders slumped. He walked like a slug on the cold white linoleum floor.

It seemed that this end of the hospital held a startling array of patients with strange ailments. As he passed by each room he read from explanatory cards taped to the doors. In one room was a boy with Prader-Willi syndrome. He was a short, fat, and snail-like individual whose compulsive eating had caused his parents to put a lock on the refrigerator. The syndrome had a distinct genetic cause: the boy had two chromosomes 15 from his mother, instead of one from each parent.

“What is this wing of the hospital?” Elmo whispered to himself as his depression deepened like a twilight sky. The only sounds he heard were the soft groans of the wind at the hospital windows and the loud tapping of the rain against the glass of the skylights.

In the next room was a girl with Angelman syndrome caused by two chromosomes 15 from her father. Her head was small,
like a softball; her teeth were spaced inches apart; her movements were clumsy. Occasionally she laughed uncontrollably for no apparent reason. The man sharing her room seemed equally unusual. He suffered from osteogenesis imperfecta which caused an abnormality of his collagen—the main structural protein of the skin and bones. The famous painter Toulouse-Lautrec also had this disease which had made his bones fragile and stunted his growth. Elmo had to remind himself that each of these patients was more than a clinical specimen but a distinct individual loved by someone. Just as his mother was.

In fact, these people made Elmo himself seem relatively normal. All he had to worry about was keeping his mouth closed so as to conceal the length of his teeth, and keep his hands curled, and he could pass without much disturbance. Of course that wouldn't work the moment he got close to a normal woman, especially a girl like Lisa.

“It's hopeless, you dope,” he muttered. “Turn it off.” Yes, sure—as he might turn off his breathing. He might as well have stepped into a bullet, as into that smile of hers, unguarded. He had taken his injury, and might as well let himself dream until he recovered.

As he passed by Room P16 he heard a funny sound, and Elmo could not help but peek inside. In the room was a policeman talking to a man in bed. The dark-haired man kept repeating the words, “It was a spider. It was a spider.” Each time he repeated the four words, his voice rose in pitch and intensity. As Elmo listened, a soft ripple of goose flesh traveled up his arms. He poked his head farther into the room just as a 200-pound hawk-faced policewoman approached him. Her name tag said, “Ms. Phat.” She was certainly a contrast to that tall, lean Ms. Sheppard who had been at the meeting. Policewomen, like policemen, came in all types.

“Can we help you?” the policewoman said to Elmo in a voice as cold as her eyes. Both the policeman and the dark-haired patient turned and watched Ms. Phat and Elmo.

“Did he say spider?” Elmo asked.

“What's it to you?”

“I'm helping Captain Falow on a case involving what we believe to be a large sea spider,” Elmo said. He saw the policeman raise his eyebrows.

“We found him naked on an iceberg,” the policeman said. “He was covered with scratches and blood. Said he was attacked by a giant spider and that he was looking for his wife. Name's Garth James.”

James! That was Lisa's last name. This was her brother! Suddenly this tragedy was considerably more personal than it had been. Lisa must really be broken up.

Elmo looked over to the man on the bed. He recognized him from photos he had developed from the camera found on the schooner. Never in his life had Elmo felt so confused and scared. The entire sea spider business was beyond his ability to assimilate. But he had to be sure. “Were you from the schooner
Phantom?
”

The man in the bed seemed to be drowning in a dark sea of madness. He turned his head toward Elmo and began to scream. He raised a bandaged arm with no hand above his head and started to point it to Elmo. He continued to yell.

The policeman stood up and pressed the buzzer to summon a nurse. An orderly in gray-green fatigues sprinted from the far end of the hospital corridor and into the room of the screaming man.

“It's—out—there,” Garth chanted. Then he began to thrash around and then jumped out of the bed with the speed of a jackrabbit.

Ms. Phat blocked the only exit from the room with her fat body. The orderly came up from behind, grabbed Garth, and held him until the nurses came to inject a tranquilizer into his throbbing veins. Outside the rain drove against the hospital window with sudden fury.

Elmo left. He had learned something significant: that there had been a survivor. Garth James would surely have valuable information. But there was scant comfort in this discovery. Who
would tell the man about the fate of his wife? What effect was it having on Lisa?

And Elmo couldn't even try to comfort her. Because she didn't know he existed.

CHAPTER 16

Restaurant

M
ARTHA
S
AMULES LEFT
her tropical fish store and walked down Main Street to her favorite restaurant,
Terrie's Place.
The outside of the restaurant looked like a graceless mausoleum, drab and cold. The only cheerful aspect of its front was a small canopy to the street which had rows of tiny red lights defining the roof line. On the door were the words:

SHRIMP NIGHT—THURSDAY, ALL YOU CAN EAT.

She ascended the soapstone steps large enough for only one person at a time to pass.

“Good evening, Miss Samules,” said Gertie, a tall waitress in a slim skirt in stone wool and angora.

“Good to see you,” Martha said as she walked briskly in, elegant as a knife.

“Usual table?”

“Sure.” The interior of the restaurant was in vivid contrast to the stark exterior. The noise level was congenial, not annoying. An opulent carpet covered the floor in an elegant floral pattern. Around each table were overstuffed chairs strewn with needle-point pillows. There were mirrors everywhere. After Martha sat down, Gertie handed her a large menu.

Martha studied it for a minute. “Black bean soup is our soup of the day,” Gertie said.

“Thanks. I think I'll have a lobster with a small side order of linguini with mussels, scallops, and clams,” Martha said to Gertie. Her voice was soft and eminently reasonable.

Suddenly Martha saw Natalie Sheppard sitting alone in the far corner of the restaurant. She got up and walked over to the policewoman.

“Natalie, good to see you here,” Martha said as she smiled.

“Good to see you too,” Natalie agreed reluctantly.

“I'd love you to join me at my table.”

“Well—” Natalie arched her eyebrows.

“Please. I rarely get to eat with friends.” Of course Martha had no friends among the human kind, but she had seen the policewoman often pass her store, keeping order in the neighborhood, and regarded her as worthwhile.

“OK.”

Natalie walked with Martha to Martha's table. Gertie came over and took Natalie's order, chicken cacciatore. Martha sniffed with satisfaction at the entire arrangement. A single radiator near the table began to hiss and clank and constantly spit out a warm moist trail of vapor.

“Wish they would fix that thing,” Natalie said.

“I agree.”

One of the waitresses insisted on serving refreshments. Martha took a soft drink. Natalie took mineral water. When their meals finally arrived, they ate in relative silence, occasionally making small talk. Martha frequently had to pick out a piece of linguini caught between her long teeth. Natalie looked uneasy.

“How do you like this place?” Martha asked as she gestured toward the mahogany-paneled, antique-filled room.

Natalie shook her head. “This room is a bit dark for my tastes. The only reason I came was to try the food; I've heard so many good things about it.” She looked around at the strange decor.

The restaurant was loaded with antiques. The table upon which they ate appeared to be a Napoléon III. The table nearest
them was banded by ormolu and stood on toupie feet. Lining the shelves were beautiful 18th-Century Mandarin-pattern bowls made of porcelain.

“Watch this,” Martha said as she reached into the lobster and pressed one of its nerves in the abdominal cavity. Natalie watched with curiosity. Suddenly, the lobster's claw opened and closed ever-so-slightly.

“My God,” Natalie screamed. “How could you do that?”

“Anatomy, my dear. Anatomy,” Martha grinned. “It's knowing just what nerves and muscles to press to get a particular response.”

“Impossible! That lobster is dead and boiled.”

“Actually it's broiled, not boiled. But it doesn't matter. Even the dead can move. It does, however, work better with live specimens. You just have to know the right pressure points. It's like acupuncture.”

Natalie didn't seem to believe Martha. It must be some trick, she surely thought. That was of course why Martha had done it. She couldn't help showing off her bits of knowledge.

“Care for a mussel?” Martha lifted a spoon filled with some of the bivalve's tan flesh and waved it in Natalie's direction. Bright red tomato sauce dripped from the seafood and onto the amber table cloth. One piece of the flesh shot out of Martha's mouth and onto a nearby 19th-century Italian table with an intricate marquetry inlay. Another splattered against the limestone column supporting the roof. Martha realized that she was going into one of her moods and was about to make a scene. Well, so be it.

“No thanks.” Natalie looked increasingly uncomfortable.

Martha caught her own reflection in the shiny glass of a cabinet. In silhouette, in the dark light, she seemed an ominous figure, like a great vulture or dangerous vampire. She liked that. “Personally, invertebrates are my favorite foods. Mussels, squid, octopus, snails—I love them all.”

“I prefer fish.” Natalie's tone suggested that what she really would prefer was to be somewhere else.

“Fish have backbones. I hate those backbones. I choke on the spinal cords and ribs.”

Natalie looked apprehensive about the direction the conversation was taking. She didn't seem to know whether to laugh at the absurdity of the conversation or get up and leave. Now the room seemed darker, more depressing. Rancid grease hung in the air like a wet rag. Oh, yes, this was going to be a good scene.

Martha began to point out some of the anatomical features of the food she was consuming. Natalie pretended to be more interested in the rosewood pedestals with inlaid jade in the far corner of the room. But she couldn't keep it up. She hesitated and then picked up her fork. She wanted to eat instead of listen to Martha. Well, Martha intended to see about that.

“Look at this,” Martha said. “It's the clam's stomach. And this is its aortic arch.” She started dissecting the various specimens on her plate. She pushed aside the shells to give Natalie a better view. Natalie put down her fork, giving up her effort to eat. She tried to swallow some of her drink, without much better success.

Martha continued as Natalie looked regretfully at her plate. Her food was getting cold, and the sauce on her chicken was congealing. She sighed. “It's been interesting Martha, but now I have to leave.”

Oh, really?

Natalie started to get up.

Martha screamed. “I see parasites in my clam. Look! Hundreds of protozoa.” Martha turned in the direction of their waitress. “Gertie!” she screamed in a high screech.

Gertie scurried over. “What's the matter?” she asked timidly. Gertie's father had been a tyrant, always quick to anger, always quick to subdue his wife and daughter with verbal abuse. This did little to give the waitress confidence when confronting abusive customers.

“I see parasites in my clam!” Martha repeated.

“I can't believe this is happening,” Natalie said, looking ill. Gertie stared in amazement.

“Look at all these parasites,” Martha yelled as she smeared
the digestive contents of the clam's stomach on the table cloth. Tomato sauce was everywhere. “Look at this. It looks like the adrenal glands of sheep and cattle.” A few other people in the restaurant were staring intently at the unwholesome scene. Others were looking at their own plates with similar apprehension.

Natalie stood up.

“I'll get the manager,” Gertie whispered.

“Speak up, Gertie, I can't hear you!” Martha shouted.

“I said I'll get the manager!” Gertie's mind seemed to snap and she began screaming, “I'll get the manager,” over and over again at the top of her lungs as she fled.

From somewhere in the room, a diner dropped his fork. Another diner overturned her glass of water. There was something like a panic riot in the making.

Natalie slapped some money on the table and ran from the restaurant.

Martha was sorry to see her go. But once she got into one of her moods, nothing would stop it.