Beverly Connor - Dust to Dust

Diane drove home to Frank’s house. It had taken a while for her to call it home. In the beginning, it was a temporary arrangement until she found a house of her own. It turned out to be more comfortable than she thought it would be, and a lot easier than her apartment with her bizarre neighbors had been. Of course, they all thought she was the bizarre one. It was why they asked her to move. She couldn’t blame them. There was an awful lot of havoc surrounding her when she lived there. Not so much at Frank’s. Perhaps it was because he was there. She was not alone. She was not as easy a target.

Diane pulled into the drive. The lights were on in the house, but Frank’s car wasn’t there. The lights were controlled by a timer so that it always looked like they were home in the evening. She walked up to the steps just as a car pulled in behind hers. It startled her for a moment. She turned the key in the lock, ready to bolt inside if she had to. The headlights went out and she heard a car door open.

“Hi, Dr. Fallon. I hope I’m not disturbing you. It’s Mark Tsosie. Jonas told me how to find your house. I was going to call when I got close, but with my cell phone I couldn’t get service until I was in your drive. I wanted to talk to you about the police here, if you think they are doing everything-”

Diane’s phone rang.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said.

She pulled the cell phone out of her pocket and answered it, listened a moment, said a few words, and flipped it closed.

“That was Paloma,” said Diane. “Marcella is awake. We can talk on the way there.”

Marcella lay so still in bed, it scared Diane. Her skin was almost as pale as her pillow. Her head had been shaved and bandaged. There were dark circles under her eyes. Diane glanced at the monitor beside her bed. It was calming to see the iconic heart flash with the steady beat of Marcella’s pulse.

Paloma said her mother didn’t remember anything about the day of the attack. She didn’t even know why she was in the hospital. She did remember she wanted to speak with Diane. The original need to speak with Diane obviously occurred a day or more before Marcella was attacked.

Diane pulled up a chair by her bed. The nurse told Diane she had five minutes for the visit, no more.

“Hello, Marcella. It’s good to see you awake,” said Diane.

Marcella opened her eyes. “Strange,” she whispered.

“What is strange?” asked Diane.

Marcella moved her eyes to Diane. “Desk,” she whispered.

“We’ve seen the desk. The writing on the back of the drawer,” said Diane.

Marcella nodded. The movement of her head was barely perceptible. “The pottery. Bone.”

“Yes. Is that the pottery that was in your workroom?” said Diane.

“Yes. Sent samples,” she said.

“The lab called,” said Diane.

“What?” asked Marcella.

Diane didn’t quite know what to do. She knew Marcella was asking what species, but she was afraid the answer would be too disturbing.

“Species,” whispered Marcella. It came out as almost a command, even in her quiet voice.

“ Homo sapiens ,” said Diane. Somehow the genus and species designation seemed more academic and less disturbing than calling it human.

Marcella closed her eyes for several moments.

“Strange. Look in pitcher.”

“The ones that were hanging in the living room?” asked Diane.

Marcella closed her eyes again and shook her head. “No. Pitcher. Water. Face.”

“The piece of pottery you were gluing back together?” said Diane.

“Yes. Examine?” she said.

“Have I examined it?” asked Diane. “No. I packed up your work and took it to your office in the museum.”

“Good. Examine face inside,” she said.

“Look at the back of the face?” said Diane.

“Yes. Strange. Sherds too. Look at them,” Marcella said.

“You need to leave,” said the critical care nurse who had hovered nearby during what had to be a weird conversation.

Diane smiled at Marcella, squeezed her hand, and stood up. “I’ll come back,” she told Marcella. “Get better.”

Marcella smiled faintly and nodded.

Diane started out the door and Marcella called behind her. She barely heard her.

“Artist,” she said, and she drifted off.

Diane looked at the monitor of the vital signs. Everything was still steady and regular. She left the room.

“She seems to be doing well,” Diane said.

Paloma and Mark stood with Jonas, who had come while she was with Marcella. He looked as anxious as Marcella’s daughter.

“The doctor said he is hopeful,” said Paloma.

Diane wondered whether she knew she was wringing her hands.

“She made a lot of sense when she spoke to me,” Paloma said. She looked at Diane and Diane could see that Paloma desperately wanted her to agree.

“She did,” said Diane. “She was weak, but we managed to carry on a conversation. She gave me instructions.”

Paloma smiled and looked at Mark.

“See.” He hugged her. “You see. I told you she was going to be fine.”

“Jonas. I’d like you to help me look at some of her work tomorrow,” said Diane.

“Be glad to, but surely she doesn’t want to work on her sherds?” he said. His expression said that kind of dedication to work would be going beyond reason.

“No. She wants me to see something she found,” said Diane. “The desk was one of the things that concerned her, but the sherds she was gluing together are another.”

Diane decided not to mention that the pottery Marcella was finding around her home was bone tempered. She remembered she hadn’t told them about the desk either. She would put that off. They didn’t need to have on their minds what it all might mean.

“Does this stuff she wants you to look at have anything to do with what happened to her?” asked Paloma.

“I don’t know,” said Diane. “I wouldn’t think so, but it was something that seemed to concern her. Most of Marcella’s side of the conversation was one or two words.”

Paloma nodded. “That’s the way it was with us. Still, she made sense.”

That was a concern for Paloma, Diane could see-that her mother would still have her brain function and that she would still be her mother.

“Yes, she did,” Diane agreed. “She seems very coherent.”

Mark drove Diane home. She hated for him to leave Paloma in the hospital, but they both seemed better now that Marcella was awake.

Frank’s car was in the drive when Diane arrived. She said good-bye to Mark and went into the house. She was too tired to eat much. She drank a handheld soup and took a warm shower. When she came out she lay on the bed and Frank massaged her back-something he did very well. She was enjoying his hands on her bare skin when the phone rang.

“Don’t answer it,” she said.

Frank did anyway. “She’s here,” he said, and handed the phone to her.

She turned her head and made a face at him. He grinned and continued stroking her back.

“Diane, I thought we were beginning to have a good working relationship.”

“Detective Hanks?” she said. “I thought we were too.” So why are you calling me this late? she thought. “What’s up?”

“Why didn’t you call me when Marcella Payden woke up?” he asked.

“I thought you had left word with the hospital to call you. I assumed you were informed.” It’s not my job to inform you , she thought.

Her muscles must have tensed, for Frank increased the pressure on her back, kneading her muscles with his fingers.

“If I had been thinking, I would have called,” she said. “But I’ve had a long day and was tired.” Making efforts to soothe over Hanks’ hurt feelings was a lot easier when Frank was there to rub her back.