Damaged Read online

  “Patrick, you stay here. Let me answer the door.”

  “I have to tell them not to wake him up.” Patrick jumped out of his chair, but Mary tried to stop him.

  “Patrick, no, I can tell them—”

  “I have to tell them!” Patrick scooted past her into the living room, and she hustled after him, taking his arm gently as she opened the front door. She tried to put him behind her, but he peeked out.

  Two uniformed officers, the medical examiner, and several of his uniformed assistants filled the step, their official presence jarring even to her.

  A collapsible metal gurney with a flat body bag took up the front walk, and double-parked in front of the house were two police cruisers and the somber black Econoline van of the medical examiner, bearing his official emblem. Neighbors were already coming out of their houses and looking from their windows, so Mary let the officers inside quickly.

  “Officers, I’m Mary DiNunzio, and you can go straight upstairs and go right toward the end of the hall.”

  “Thanks, Ms. DiNunzio,” one of the cops said, stepping forward. He seemed older than the others, and he took charge of the situation. “I’m Officer Agabe-Diaz, a friend of Officer Diamond’s. He said to tell you that he’s trying to make that call but he doesn’t think he’ll get through ’til tomorrow morning.”

  “Please thank him for me.” Mary felt a wave of relief. So Officer Diamond had unofficially granted her request not to take Patrick into DHS custody until tomorrow morning.

  “No problem.” Officer Agabe-Diaz looked down at Patrick and ruffled up his head. “Hey buddy, you do me a favor? Go wait in the kitchen while we go upstairs?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Don’t wake up my Pops. I’m not allowed to wake up my Pops.”

  “Buddy, you go back to the kitchen now,” Officer Agabe-Diaz repeated, gesturing Mary and Patrick out of the way, while behind him, the other uniformed officer, the medical examiner, and his assistants climbed the stairs, their heavy shoes pounding on the steps.

  Mary put a firm hand on Patrick’s shoulder. She didn’t want him to see the gurney come into the house. “Patrick, let’s go in the kitchen and wait there. Come on.”

  “No!” Patrick broke free and ran over to the couch, where he sat down. “I want to wait here. I want to tell him about his soup. His soup is ready.”

  “Patrick, please, no.” Mary hurried around the coffee table to the couch. “Please, come with me.”

  “Patrick,” Officer Agabe-Diaz said, his tone newly firm. “Do what Mary says. Go in the kitchen with her. She’s going to stay with you in the kitchen.”

  Patrick permitted Mary to take him by the hand and lead him, but he stopped as soon as they got into the kitchen. He stood still, his hands at his side and his head cocked, listening to the mortuary assistants talking to each other in Spanish as they hoisted the gurney over the threshold on a three-count then carried it upstairs.

  Mary put an arm around his narrow shoulders, holding him to her hip. “It’s okay, honey. It’s all right.”

  “He sleeps like a log.”

  “I understand. Everything is going to be all right, you’ll see.” Mary could hear the noises upstairs, the heavy tread and the wheels of the stainless-steel gurney rolling down the hall.

  “Ms. DiNunzio?” Officer Agabe-Diaz lumbered toward the kitchen with a clipboard. “I will need some information and a signature.”

  “I gave the information over the phone, about how he was found.”

  “I know, just to confirm. Decedent’s name is Edward O’Brien?”

  “Yes.”

  “Middle name?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” Mary answered. “Can I find out and let you know later?”

  “Fitzgerald,” Patrick interjected, clinging to Mary’s hip and looking up at Officer Agabe-Diaz. “My Pops’s name is Edward Fitzgerald O’Brien and my name is Patrick Neil O’Brien. He’s seventy-two years old and I’m ten years old. I’m in fifth grade.”

  “Wow.” Officer Agabe-Diaz smiled down at him, making a note on the form on his clipboard. “Your grandfather is seventy-two? Do you know when his birthday is?”

  Patrick nodded. “November 8. He can’t kneel anymore. In church, he sits on the pew when you’re supposed to kneel on the pad. He says Jesus doesn’t mind.”

  “I’m getting pretty old myself.” Officer Agabe-Diaz made another note, subtracting to get Edward’s date of birth, then glanced at Mary. “Any next of kin we should notify?”

  “Not that I know of,” Mary answered quietly.

  “Will you be following up?”

  “Yes.” Mary assumed that the question was about funeral arrangements but she wasn’t about to clarify it in front of Patrick.

  “Okay then, if you would sign here.” Officer Agabe-Diaz showed her the form on the clipboard.

  “Sure.” Mary signed it quickly for Patrick’s sake.

  “Thank you.” Officer Agabe-Diaz put the clipboard discreetly behind his back, bending down to Patrick. “So you’re in the fifth grade, buddy?”

  Patrick nodded, his head still cocked, listening to the noises upstairs, the Spanish muffled now. Edward’s bedroom must have been overhead because the ceiling creaked.

  “Do you like school?” Officer Agabe-Diaz asked, in a conversational tone.

  Patrick shook his head, no. Mary cringed inwardly, realizing that all the school questions that came so easily to grown-ups were a minefield for Patrick. Still she was grateful because she could tell that Officer Agabe-Diaz was trying to distract Patrick from what they were doing upstairs.

  “How about recess, buddy? I bet you like recess.”

  Patrick shook his head no, and Mary felt his arm tighten around her. She realized he was hugging her, which caught her in the throat. Upstairs she could hear the men’s voices, then the gurney being rolled back down the second-floor hallway toward the stair. She knew that Patrick could hear it, too.

  Officer Agabe-Diaz asked him, “What sports do you play?”

  Patrick shook his head no.

  Officer Agabe-Diaz blinked. “Do you like video games? I like Xbox. I play with my son, Dave. He’s older than you are. We like Madden. Do you like Madden?”

  Patrick shook his head no, again. Mary found herself listening to Officer Agabe-Diaz’s questions from Patrick’s perspective, dispatches from a strange and unusual world where sons and fathers shared video games, a world that was never his own.

  “Patrick, I know, I bet you like Goosebumps. Do you like Goosebumps books? They’re scary, right? Bloody hands playing the piano! Cool, right?”

  Patrick shook his head, while upstairs, the men’s Spanish grew louder and they descended the staircase heavily.

  Officer Agabe-Diaz asked, “Patrick, what do you like to do? You like to watch TV?”

  Patrick nodded yes, and Mary knew they were about to carry Edward out, so she patted Patrick’s back, trying to soothe him.

  Officer Agabe-Diaz smiled. “Patrick, what’s your favorite show? Tell me about your favorite TV show. Modern Family? The Big Bang?”

  “The History Channel.” Patrick craned his neck, trying to peek past Officer Agabe-Diaz. “What are they doing? Did they wake up my Pops? I made the soup. I have to go tell him.”

  “No, you stay right here. They’re taking very good care of your grandfather.”

  “Patrick, it’s okay.” Mary hugged him closer.

  “No, no! He needs me!” Patrick let go of Mary, shoved past Officer Agabe-Diaz, and bolted out of the kitchen. Officer Agabe-Diaz went after him, and so did Mary.

  “Patrick!” Mary called to him, but Officer Agabe-Diaz reached him first, then everything seemed to happen at once:

  The mortuary assistants bumped the gurney against the doorjamb, jostling the black vinyl body bag. The uniformed officers rushed to help them as Patrick came running toward the stretcher, bursting into tears. Officer Agabe-Diaz scooped Patrick up just before he got there, then turned and handed him screaming and crying to Ma
ry, who hugged him as tightly as she could, almost falling onto the couch with him, so he would have a soft place to land as Officer Agabe-Diaz hustled the other police officers, the mortuary assistants, and the gurney out of the house and slammed the door closed behind them.

  “Pops, Pops, Pops!” Patrick screamed at the top of his lungs, blasting Mary’s eardrums, but she held him tightly, trying to soothe him, telling him it would be okay and holding him on the couch, making him stay so that he didn’t run back to the door and pull it open.

  She couldn’t hear anything outside over his screaming, but she could see headlights flash outside the window, so she knew the police cruisers were starting their engines and the mortuary assistants were loading the gurney inside the black van. Mary prayed that if she could just hold Patrick on the couch and hug him through the worst thing that had ever happened to him, then he would finally cry himself into a heartbroken sleep.

  Which was exactly what happened.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mary waited until Patrick had fallen asleep, extricated herself quietly, and stood up. Mary had a lot to do. Patrick had to be taken care of now that Edward was gone, and DHS would be here in the morning. She had to pack Patrick’s things and find Edward’s will.

  She went upstairs, glancing down the hall at Edward’s bedroom, which stood ajar. It was so hard to believe that he was gone, just like that, but Mary knew that was how death struck. She had lost her husband Mike, just like that. Death was such a coward, offering no warning. Striking by ambush. Just like that.

  Mary went to Patrick’s room and looked under the bed for a suitcase, but there wasn’t one. She checked the closet but there wasn’t one there, either. Edward had to have one, so she went back down the hallway to his room, noting that the room smelled even more unpleasant. She stripped the bed quickly, balled up the sheets, and went back down the hallway until she found the laundry room, tossed the sheets inside, and got them going.

  She went back to Edward’s room and looked under his bed, but there was no suitcase. She crossed to his closet, and at the bottom was an old tan suitcase with no rollers. She pulled it out and was leaving the room when she stopped at the photographs of Edward, Suzanne, and Patrick on the dresser. Mary packed them for Patrick and on the way out of the bedroom, stopped at the night table. She picked up Edward’s wallet and slid out the credit cards and ATM cards, so they could be canceled, then flipped through, seeing the only thing that remained were wallet-sized school pictures of Patrick, a high-school graduation photo of Suzanne, and Edward’s faded wedding photo. There were only a few dollars in the billfold so she left it. She picked up Edward’s watch, phone, and rosary then cleaned up, tossing the Ambien and diabetes paraphernalia in the wastebasket.

  Quickly she went to Patrick’s room and packed his clothes from the dresser and closet, which took no time because he had so little. She even had room for his drawings and art supplies in the zipper flaps, and when she was finished, she set the suitcase by the bedroom door.

  Mary took a last look around the room, checking to see that she hadn’t missed anything, but she hadn’t. Her gaze returned to the suitcase, and it struck her as somehow sad that everything that Patrick owned could fit into a single suitcase. She thought back to her own childhood and reflected that that never would have been possible.

  Mary found herself sinking onto Patrick’s bed, thinking back to her own childhood. The DiNunzios didn’t have much money either, but Mary had so many things—books, records, stuffed animals, toys, scrapbooks, clothes, earrings, drugstore makeup. She had so many prized possessions—a stuffed bunny named Pinky, an “autograph dog” shaped like a dachshund, signed by all of her friends, and a brag book she had made with her friends, with all of their pictures inside.

  She’d realized then that she had so much stuff because her life was so full, and she’d been given so much by her parents and by her friends. She owed everything she had become in life to that head start, which she’d been given by the sheer grace of God.

  Mary looked again at the suitcase and realized that in her haste to perform all of the tasks necessary to take care of Patrick, she had lost sight of the little boy, himself. She had been avoiding thinking about placing him in foster care, but the suitcase made that reality visible. And when she projected forward and imagined herself handing Patrick a suitcase and telling him good-bye, she couldn’t conceive of that happening. Somewhere along the line, Patrick had become much more than a case to her, and she couldn’t deny that she cared about him.

  Mary felt her eyes moisten, but blinked them clear. She looked at the suitcase without really seeing it anymore. She felt herself going inward and listening to her own heart. She was so close to changing Patrick’s future and she had to make sure that her plans came to fruition. She couldn’t do that if she were going to hand him off to foster care because she couldn’t be sure that he’d get the support he’d need at a foster home.

  Mary knew from her clients that parents of dyslexic kids had to put in hours and hours at home, drilling them, but deep inside, she knew it wasn’t about dyslexia at all. She wanted to make sure that Patrick got the same head start that she’d had and she couldn’t let him go to foster care. She couldn’t turn a blind eye to what she read in the papers about the broken foster care system.

  She couldn’t imagine Patrick being shuttled from house to house, and she doubted that any of them could offer him what she could. The whole idea behind the foster system was to get children permanently adopted, and Mary knew she could fulfill that function far better, improving Patrick’s prospects for permanent adoption. She knew she would never sleep at night, worrying that he wasn’t getting the help, attention, and even love that he needed. Mary realized that she simply couldn’t let Patrick go, not yet. She made a decision. She was going to step up for him and become his guardian.

  Mary straightened up, confirming in her mind that her decision was sound. Even if it were temporary guardianship, only until Patrick could be permanently adopted, then she would feel better. If she had him for a year or two, she could get him through the rough patch of his new school as well as his grieving Edward. She could help him improve to reading at grade level and help him with his anxiety, ease the transition, all of which would make him a better candidate for permanent adoption.

  The more Mary thought about it, the more she liked the idea. She had plenty of money and she could find the time. She was a partner now and she could arrange her own schedule. She could turn down referrals that came her way and she could work from home. She could make it work, if she had to. She took one last look at the suitcase and realized that she had to. She was going to try to become Patrick’s temporary guardian.

  But there was only one problem. Anthony. She was to be getting married in two weeks and she had to talk to him, to see if he agreed. She got her phone and called him, but the call rang a few times, then went to voicemail. She hung up and tried again, pressing REDIAL. She listened to the call ring and ring, then it went to voicemail, too.

  Mary tried one last time and left a message: “Honey, I know it’s late but it’s important. I need to talk to you. Please call me as soon as you can. Love you.” She hung up, then scrolled to the text function and texted him: know it’s late but need to talk. please call me ASAP xoxox

  She thought about calling Judy to talk it over, but decided against it. Mary knew what she wanted to do and she knew how she felt. Her decision was made. She was about to change her life, and Patrick’s.

  Mary was about to become a temporary guardian.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Mary still had to find Edward’s will, so she went into his office, which was small, well-organized, and neat, containing only a white bookshelf filled with old accounting journals, a gray file cabinet, and a computer workstation that held an old IBM desktop with a thick monitor. A keyboard and a wired mouse rested on top of a large desk calendar, which she remembered Patrick telling her about.

  Mary crossed to the desk, n
udged the mouse over, and scanned Edward’s shaky notations for yesterday, written in ink:

  9.2 hours sleep (up early for lawyer)

  sunny, 82

  blood sugar 125

  two egg whites, wheat toast, butter

  blood sugar 115

  sandwich in car

  parking lot in Center City $25/2 hrs (RIP OFF!!)

  tip $2

  legal fee (will be invoiced)($300 per hour!)(No retainer!)

  blood sugar 117

  dinner—chicken soup, peas, Tater Tots

  vanilla ice cream (Good!)

  Mary realized she was looking at the last day of Edward’s life, but she pressed the thought to the back of her mind. She wanted to find his will, and most people who had wills knew to leave them someplace easy to find. She went to the file cabinet, and the first drawer was labeled Bills.

  She confirmed it by opening the drawer, and inside was a rack of Pendaflex file folders, one for each of Edward’s bills, labeled in his shaky hand, starting with AAA (American Automobile Association). After the bills was a divider that read Patrick, so Mary thumbed through those folders to find Patrick’s old report cards and artwork. She remembered that Patrick had said something about Edward saving his artwork, and this must have been what he meant. She didn’t have time to look through it now, so she took it out of the drawer and set it aside to go through later.

  She went to the second drawer, labeled Documents, and hit paydirt. The first folder was the deed to the house and the second was the will. She slid out a thick booklet with a cover that read: Last Will and Testament of Edward F. O’Brien. Underneath that was the attorney’s name, James R. Geltz, Esq., with an office address nearby.

  Mary read Edward’s will, which named Geltz as the executor, so she would have to notify him of Edward’s death, as soon as possible. She read on to find that Edward hadn’t named a godparent or guardian for Patrick, which was what she had expected since no one else was in the picture. Patrick was Edward’s sole beneficiary, and Edward had bequeathed him the house, a life insurance policy for $50,000, a 2009 Ford Fiesta, Edward’s bank accounts at PNC Bank, and investments in a brokerage account at Cornerstone Financial. The will didn’t specify the balances in any of those accounts.