Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

Oddly enough, in the years I’d lived in Santa Teresa, I’d rarely been to Peephole, and I was looking forward to seeing it again.

“Mr. McNally?”

He became aware that someone was addressing him. He opened his eyes. He didn’t recognize the woman who was bending close. She had a hand on his arm, which she was shaking insistently. Her expression showed impatience or concern and since he didn’t know her, he wasn’t sure which. The overhead light was bright and the ceiling tiles looked institutional, designed to dampen sound, though he couldn’t remember the name for them.

“Mr. McNally, can you hear me?”

He wanted to reply but there was a heaviness that filled his body, and the effort was too great. He had no idea what was going on and no memory of events that might explain his lying on his back, immobilized, with this woman leaning over him.

Something hurt. Had he had surgery? The pain wasn’t acute. More like a dull ache that radiated through his body with a thick layer of white on top, as cold and heavy as a blanket of snow.

The woman stepped aside and two copies of Carolyn’s face came into his visual frame, one slightly offset, like a watery duplicate. Nausea stirred as the surface ripples widened and dissipated near the edges of his view.

She said, “ Walker.”

He focused and the two images locked into one, like a magic trick.

“Do you know where you are?”

Again, he wanted to respond but he couldn’t move his lips. He was so tired he could scarcely pay attention.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Her look was expectant. Clearly, she wanted an answer, but he had none to give.

“You were in an accident,” she said.

Accident. That made sense. He took in the words, searching for corresponding images of what had occurred. Nothing came to him. Had he fallen? Had he been struck in the head by a bullet or a stone? Here, he was on his back. Before here was blank.

“Do you remember going off the road?”

Nope. He wanted to shake his head so she’d know he heard her, but he couldn’t manage it. Road. Car. The concept was simple and he got it. He knew there’d been an accident, but he couldn’t imagine his relationship to it. He was alive. He supposed he’d been hurt and he wondered how badly. His brain must still function even if his body was temporarily… or perhaps permanently… out of commission. Carolyn knew and he was willing to take her word for it, but the idea was odd.

“Do you know what day this is?”

Clueless. He couldn’t even remember the last day he remembered. She said, “Monday. The kids and I got back from San Francisco late this afternoon and your car was gone. I unloaded the suitcases and I was letting the kids watch a few minutes of TV when a police car pulled into the drive. There was a wreck on the pass. Your car was totaled. It’s a wonder you’re not dead.”

He closed his eyes. He had no recollection whatsoever. He had no idea why he’d been on the 154 and no memory of a collision. From his perspective, there was only a yawning black hole, a blank wall that separated this current moment from the recent past. Dimly, he remembered leaving the bank on Thursday, but the door had slammed shut on anything after that.

A doctor appeared, a neurologist named Blake Barrigan, whom he recognized from the country club. Barrigan was interested in Walker ’s cognitive functions and ran him through a series of tests. Walker knew his own name. He knew Ronald Reagan was president of the United States, even if he hadn’t voted for the man. He could count backward from one hundred by eights, a task he wasn’t sure he could manage ordinarily. Barrigan was middle-aged and solemn, and while Walker could see his mouth move and knew he was conveying reassurances about his condition, he was too tired to care.

The next time he opened his eyes he was in a private room and people were talking in the hall. He consulted his body; his right elbow ached and his chest felt compressed where they’d apparently taped his ribs. He touched the right side of his head and felt a painful knot. He probably had minor injuries he wasn’t aware of yet. He could smell cooked meat and the scent of green beans with a metallic edge, reminiscent of the canned variety of his youth. The clatter outside the door suggested a meal cart with food trays.

A nurse’s aide came in and asked if he was hungry. Without waiting for a response, she lowered the rail on one side, cranked up his bed, and placed a tray on his rolling bed table, which she pushed within range. There was a carton of orange juice and a small container of cherry Jell-O sealed with an elasticized plastic cover like a little shower cap. “What’s today? Sunday?”

“Monday,” she said. “You were admitted from the ER an hour ago, so you missed dinner. Do you remember coming in?”

“Is my wife here?”

“She just left. A neighbor was watching the children and she had to put them to bed. She’ll be back in the morning. Are you in pain?”

He shook his head in the negative, stirring the headache he hadn’t been aware of. “I don’t understand what happened.”

“Dr. Barrigan can explain everything when he gets here. He has a patient on the surgical floor and he said he’d look in on you again before he left for the day. Can I get you anything else?”

“I’m fine.”

Once his supper tray had been removed, he opened the bed table drawer and found a pocket mirror. He checked his reflection. He had two black eyes, a purple knot on his forehead, and a smoky discoloration on the right side of his face. He must have hit the windshield or steering wheel on impact. He put the mirror away, realizing he was lucky he didn’t have cuts or broken facial bones.

At 9:00 a nurse appeared with a tray of meds. She verified his name by checking his hospital bracelet and then handed him a small pleated paper cup with two pills in it. When he was a kid his mother had given him cups the same size filled with M &M’s.

“To help you sleep,” she said when she saw the look on his face. “Do you need a urinal?”

The minute she said it, he realized his bladder was full and the pressure close to painful.

“Please.”

She set down her tray and removed a lidded plastic urinal from the cabinet beside his bed. The device had a handle and a slanted spout and looked like something his kids could invent a hundred uses for at the beach. “I’ll leave this with you. You can ring when you’re done.”

“Thanks.”

She pulled the curtain along its track, shielding him from the curious eyes of those passing in the hall. He waited until she was gone and then rolled to his left and angled his penis into the opening of the urinal. Despite his best intentions, nothing would come. He tried to relax. He put his mind on something else, but the only thing he could think about was his need for relief. He would have laughed if the need to pee hadn’t been so imperative. He’d suffered something similar when he and Carolyn were undergoing infertility treatments and he was asked to ejaculate into a cup so his sperm could be examined under a microscope and then washed before each of the five fruitless intrauterine inseminations they’d undergone.

He took a deep breath, hoping his bladder would relent. A pointless enterprise. He gave up for the moment and when the pressure was unbearable, he rang the nurses’ station. Fifteen minutes passed before the aide appeared. She palpated his abdomen and then went to consult a nurse, who returned to the room accompanied by a student nurse. She had a catheterization packet with her, and she opened it and took out the Foley, a pair of latex gloves, and a packet of lubricant. She viewed the situation as a teaching opportunity. She grasped his penis and explained how to pass the Foley into the bladder by way of his urethra.