A Stranger in the House, Page 2

  “I’m afraid there’s been an accident,” Officer Fleming says, his voice grave, his eyes filled with sympathy.

  He knew it. Tom feels numb.

  “Your wife drives a red Honda Civic?” the officer asks.

  Tom doesn’t respond. This can’t be happening.

  The officer reads off a license plate number.

  “Yes,” Tom says. “That’s her car.” His voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from somewhere else. He looks at the police officer. Time seems to have slowed down. He’s going to tell him now. He’s going to tell him that Karen is dead.

  Officer Fleming says gently, “The driver is hurt. I don’t know how badly. She’s in the hospital.”

  Tom covers his face with his hands. She’s not dead! She’s hurt, but he feels a surge of desperate hope that maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe it’s going to be okay. He removes his hands from his face, takes a deep, shaky breath, and asks, “What the hell happened?”

  “It was a single-vehicle accident,” Officer Fleming says quietly. “The car went into a utility pole, head-on.”

  “What?” Tom asks. “How can a car go into a pole for no reason? Karen’s an excellent driver. She’s never had an accident. Someone else must have caused it.” Tom notices the guarded expression on the officer’s face. What is he not telling him?

  “There was no identification on the driver,” Fleming says.

  “She left her purse here. And her phone.” Tom rubs his hands over his face, trying to hold himself together.

  Fleming tilts his head to the side. “Is everything okay between you and your wife, Mr. Krupp?”

  Tom looks at him in dismay. “Yes, of course.”

  “You haven’t had a fight, things got a bit out of hand?”

  “No! I wasn’t even home.”

  Officer Fleming sits down in the armchair across from Tom, leans forward. “The circumstances—well, there’s a slight possibility that the woman driving the car, the one who had the accident, may not be your wife.”

  “What?” Tom says, startled. “Why? What do you mean?”

  “Since there was no identification on her, we don’t actually know for sure at this point that it was your wife driving the car, just that it’s her car.”

  Tom stares back at him, speechless.

  “The accident happened in the south end of the city, at Prospect and Davis Drive,” Officer Fleming says, looking at him meaningfully.

  “No way,” Tom says. That was one of the worst parts of the city. Karen wouldn’t be caught there in broad daylight, much less be there by herself after dark.

  “Do you know of any reason why your wife, Karen, would be driving recklessly—speeding and running red lights—in that part of town?”

  “What? What are you saying?” Tom looks at the police officer in disbelief. “Karen wouldn’t be in that part of town. And she never goes above the speed limit—she would never run a red light.” He slumps back against the sofa. He feels relief flood through him. “It’s not my wife,” he says with certainty. He knows his wife, and she would never do something like that. He almost smiles. “That’s someone else. Someone must have stolen her car. Thank God!”

  He looks back at the police officer, who continues to observe him with deep concern. And then he realizes, the panic instantly returning. “So where’s my wife?”

  Chapter Three

  I need you to come with me to the hospital,” Officer Fleming says.

  Tom can’t quite follow what’s happening. He looks up at the officer. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “I need you to come to the hospital with me now. We need to get an identification, one way or another. We need to know if the woman at the hospital is your wife. And if it isn’t, we need to find her.” He adds, “You told me you made a 911 call. She’s not home and her car has been in an accident.”

  Tom nods rapidly, understanding now. “Yes.”

  He quickly gathers his wallet and keys—his hands are trembling—and follows the officer out of the house, where he gets into the backseat of the black-and-white cruiser parked on the street. Tom wonders if any of his neighbors are watching. He thinks fleetingly of how it must look, him in the backseat of a police car.

  When they arrive at Mercy Hospital, Tom and Officer Fleming enter through Emergency into the noisy, crowded waiting area. Tom paces nervously back and forth across the smooth, polished floor while Officer Fleming tries to find someone who can tell them where the accident victim is. As he waits, Tom’s anxiety climbs. Almost every seat is full, and there are patients on gurneys lining the hall. Police officers and ambulance attendants come and go. Hospital staff work steadily behind Plexiglas. Large TV screens hang from the ceiling playing a series of mind-numbing videos about public health.

  Tom doesn’t know what to hope for. He doesn’t want the injured woman to be Karen. She may be very badly hurt. He can’t bear to think about it. On the other hand, to not know where she is, to fear the worst . . . What the hell happened tonight? Where is she?

  Finally Fleming beckons to him across the crowded waiting room. Tom hurries over. There’s a harried-looking nurse by Fleming’s side. She says gently, looking at Tom, and then back at the officer, “I’m sorry. They’re doing an MRI on her now. You’ll have to wait. It shouldn’t be too long.”

  “We need to make an ID on this woman,” Fleming presses.

  “I’m not going to interrupt an MRI,” the nurse says firmly. She glances sympathetically in Tom’s direction. “I tell you what,” she says, “I have the clothing and personal effects she was wearing when she came in. I can show them to you if you like.”

  “That would be helpful,” Fleming says, looking at Tom. Tom nods.

  “Come with me.” She leads them down a long corridor to a locked room, which she opens with a key. She then rummages through several overstuffed cupboards until she pulls out a clear plastic bag with a tag on it and rests it on a steel table. Tom’s eyes are immediately glued to the contents of the bag. Inside, there’s a patterned blouse that he instantly recognizes. A wave of nausea overwhelms him. Karen had been wearing it that morning when he left for work.

  “I need to sit down,” Tom says, and swallows.

  Officer Fleming pulls out a chair and Tom sits down heavily, staring at the transparent bag containing his wife’s effects. The nurse, now wearing latex gloves, gently pulls the items out onto the table—the patterned blouse, jeans, running shoes. There is blood splattered all over the blouse and jeans. Tom throws up a bit into his mouth, swallows it back down. His wife’s bra and panties, similarly bloodstained. A separate ziplock baggie holds her wedding band and engagement ring, a gold necklace with a single diamond that he’d bought her for their first wedding anniversary.

  He looks up in disbelief at the police officer by his side, and says, his voice breaking, “Those are hers.”

  —

  Officer Fleming returns to the police station and meets up with Officer Kirton in the lunchroom a short time later. They grab coffees and find a place to sit.

  Kirton says, “So the car wasn’t stolen. That woman was driving her own car like that. What the hell?”

  “It doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “She must have been high as a kite.”

  Fleming sips his coffee. “The husband’s in shock. As soon as he heard where the accident occurred and how it happened, he didn’t believe it was his wife. He almost had me convinced it had to be someone else.” Fleming shakes his head. “He looked stunned when he recognized her clothes.”

  “Yeah, well, lots of housewives have a secret drug habit that hubbie knows nothing about,” Kirton says. “Maybe that’s why she was in that part of town—then she got high and freaked out in the car.”

  “Maybe.” Fleming pauses and takes another sip of his coffee. “You never know with people.” He feels bad for the
husband, who looked like he’d taken a punch to the stomach. Fleming’s seen a lot in his years on the force, and he knows that some of the people you’d least expect are hiding serious drug problems. And hiding seriously sketchy behavior to support their habits. Lots of people have ugly secrets. Fleming shrugs. “When we can see her, maybe she’ll tell us what the hell she was up to.” He takes a last gulp and finishes his coffee. “I’m sure her husband would like to know, too.”

  —

  Still in the Emergency waiting area, Tom paces fretfully and waits. He tries to remember if there was anything different, anything unusual, about his wife in the last few days. He can’t think of anything, but he’s been so busy at work. Had he missed something?

  What the hell was she doing in that part of town? And speeding? What the cop had told him about what she did tonight is so out of character that he can’t bring himself to believe it. And yet . . . that’s her in there with the doctors. As soon as he can talk to her, he will ask her. Right after he tells her how much he loves her.

  He can’t help thinking that if he’d been home earlier, like he should have been, instead of—

  “Tom!”

  Hearing his name, Tom turns around. He’d called his brother, Dan, when he got to the hospital, and now Dan is walking toward him, his boyish face etched with concern. Tom has never been so grateful to see anybody in his entire life. “Dan,” Tom says with relief.

  The brothers hug briefly and then sit in the hard plastic seats across from one another, away from the crowd. Tom fills him in. It feels odd to Tom to be leaning on his younger brother for support; usually it’s the other way around.

  “Tom Krupp,” a voice calls out loudly across the bedlam of the waiting area.

  He stands up immediately and hurries over to the man in the white coat, Dan right behind him.

  “I’m Tom Krupp,” Tom says anxiously.

  “I’m Dr. Fulton. I’ve been treating your wife,” the doctor says, sounding more matter of fact than friendly. “She suffered trauma to her head in the accident. We did an MRI. She has a serious concussion, but fortunately, there’s no bleeding in the brain. She’s very lucky. Her other injuries are relatively minor. A broken nose. Bruising and lacerations. But she’ll recover.”

  “Thank God,” Tom says, and sags with relief. His eyes well up with tears as he looks at his brother. He only now realizes how tightly he’s been holding himself.

  The doctor nods. “The seat belt and the air bag saved her life. She’s going to be sore for a while, and she’ll have a hell of a headache, but she should be fine, in time. She’ll have to take it easy. The nurse will go over with you how to manage the concussion.”

  Tom nods. “When can I see her?”

  “You can see her now,” the doctor says, “just you, for now, but not for too long. We’ve moved her to the fourth floor.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Dan says.

  At the thought of seeing Karen, Tom feels a new prickle of anxiety.

  Chapter Four

  Karen can’t move. She’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. With the increasing awareness of the pain, she moans.

  She tries hard—it seems to take a tremendous effort—and forces her eyes to flutter open. There are tubes going into her arm. She is propped up slightly, and the bed has metal rails on the sides. The sheets are institutional, white. She knows immediately that she’s in a hospital bed and is filled with alarm. She turns her head ever so slightly and feels a painful thudding. She winces and the room begins to spin. A woman who is obviously a nurse enters her blurry field of vision and hovers there, indistinct.

  Karen tries to focus, but finds she can’t. She tries to speak, but she can’t seem to move her lips. Everything feels leaden, like there’s something heavy weighing her down. She blinks. Now there are two nurses. No, it’s just one; she’s seeing double.

  “You’ve been in a car accident,” the nurse says quietly. “Your husband’s outside. I’ll get him. He’s going to be so happy to see you.” The nurse leaves the room.

  Tom, she thinks gratefully. She runs her tongue clumsily around the inside of her mouth. She’s so thirsty. She needs water. Her tongue feels swollen. She wonders how long she’s been here, and how long she will be here, immobilized like this. Her entire body hurts, but her head is the worst.

  The nurse comes back into the room, delivering her husband to her as if she’s brought her a present. Her vision is growing less blurry now. She can see that Tom looks anxious and exhausted, unshaven, like he’s been up all night. But his eyes make her feel safe. She wants to smile at him, but she can’t quite manage it.

  He leans over her, gazing at her with love. “Karen!” he whispers, and takes her hand. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  She tries to speak, but nothing comes out, only a kind of hoarse whimper. The nurse promptly holds a plastic glass of water with a bent surgical straw to her mouth so that she can drink. She sips greedily. When she’s done, the nurse takes the glass away.

  Karen tries once more to speak. It takes far too much effort, and she gives up.

  “It’s okay,” her husband says. He lifts his hand as if to brush the hair away from her forehead, a familiar gesture, but he drops his hand awkwardly. “You were in a car accident. But you’re going to be okay. I’m here.” He looks deeply into her eyes. “I love you, Karen.”

  She tries to lift her head, just a little, but is rewarded with a sharp, searing pain, dizziness, and a wave of nausea. Then she hears someone else entering the door of the small room. Another man, taller and leaner than her husband, almost cadaverous, and wearing a white coat and a stethoscope around his neck, approaches her bed and looks down at her as if from a great height. Her husband lets go of her hand and steps aside to give him room.

  The doctor bends over her and shines a small light in her eyes, one after the other. He seems satisfied, and puts the light away in a pocket. “You’ve sustained a severe concussion,” he says. “But you’re going to be all right.”

  Karen finally finds her voice. She looks at the disheveled, careworn man standing beside the doctor in his white coat and whispers, “Tom.”

  —

  Tom’s heart is full, looking at his wife. They’ve been married just under two years. Those are the lips he kisses every morning and every night. Her hands are as familiar to him as his own. Right now, her lovely blue eyes, surrounded by all the bruising, look full of pain.

  “Karen,” he whispers. He leans closer to her and says, “What happened tonight?”

  She looks at him blankly.

  He presses her; he must know. His voice takes on a note of urgency. “Why did you leave the house so quickly? Where were you going?”

  She starts to shake her head, but stops and closes her eyes for a moment. She opens them again and manages to whisper, “I don’t know.”

  Tom looks back at her in dismay. “You must know. You had a car accident. You were speeding and hit a pole.”

  “I don’t remember,” she says slowly, as if it takes every bit of her remaining energy to say it. Her eyes, looking into his, seem alarmed.

  “This is important,” Tom says almost desperately, leaning closer. She pulls back, deeper into her pillows.

  The doctor intervenes. “We’re going to let you rest now,” he says. He speaks in a low voice to the nurse, and then gestures for Tom to come with him.

  Tom follows the doctor out of the room, casting one last glance back at his wife in the hospital bed. It must be the head injury, he thinks, concerned. Maybe it’s worse than they thought.

  His mind racing, Tom follows Dr. Fulton down the hall. It’s eerily quiet—Tom remembers it’s the middle of the night. The doctor locates an unused room for them behind the nurses’ station.

  “Have a seat,” the doctor says, and sits down in an empty chair.

  “Why can’t she remember what h
appened?” Tom asks, frantic.

  “Sit,” Dr. Fulton says firmly. “Try to calm down.”

  “Sure,” Tom says, taking the only other chair in the cramped space. But he’s finding it difficult to be calm.

  The doctor says, “It’s not unheard of for patients with head trauma to suffer from retrograde amnesia, for a short period.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “After physical trauma to the head, or even emotional trauma, a patient can temporarily lose memories of what happened right before the trauma occurred. The memory loss can be mild, or more catastrophic. Generally, with a blow to the head, we also see another kind of amnesia—problems with short-term memory after the accident. You’ll probably see that for a while, too. But sometimes it can be retrograde as well, and more extensive. I think that’s what we’re seeing here.”

  The doctor doesn’t seem too concerned. Tom tries to tell himself that this should be reassuring. “Is she going to get her memory back?”

  “Oh, I certainly think so,” the doctor says. “Just be patient.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help her get it back more quickly?” He’s desperate to know what happened to Karen.

  “Not really. Rest is what she needs. The brain has to heal. These things happen in their own time.”

  The doctor’s pager buzzes and he looks at it, excuses himself, and leaves Tom alone with all of his unknowns.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Brigid Cruikshank, a close friend of Karen’s from across the street, sits in the lounge on the fourth floor of Mercy Hospital with her knitting on her lap, unspooling the soft yellow yarn from a cloth bag at her feet. The lounge, brightened by large windows that look out over the teeming parking lot, is not far from the bank of elevators. She’s working on a baby sweater, but she finds herself dropping stitches and getting angry at the sweater, when really, she knows, it’s not the sweater she’s angry at.