Nesha’s voice had become increasing lower while reading. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back on the seat. Rebecca took his hand in hers.
“We have to speak to her again,” she said softly. “Maybe if we ask her the right questions....”
Rebecca drove the Olds up Bathurst Street while Nesha slouched in the passenger seat, eyes glazed over, staring out the side window. Bathurst was lined with senior’s buildings, which often meant that old men in plaid hats held up traffic driving big cars too slowly. She manoeuvred around them in the fast-falling dusk past Lawrence, past Wilson, past Sheppard, past Finch. In twenty minutes she pulled into the parking lot of Sunnydale Terrace.
They approached the front desk. A semi-circle of people waited to speak to the pudgy blonde who had taken Rebecca up to Chana’s room the other day. Pulling Nesha by the hand, she skirted the crowd and headed for the stairs.
Nesha seemed to come awake once they were on the second floor. He strode to Chana’s room and knocked quietly, then opened it. Rebecca knew something was wrong when he turned on the light and stopped on the threshold. Chana was lying on her back, one eye open, one closed. An IV dripped into her arm and the metal sides of the bed had been raised up as a restraint. The open eye saw nothing; she was unconscious. Her mouth hung partly open, her skin a paper-thin white.
Nesha approached the bed, his eyes large with fear. “Meema Chana!” he murmured. “Meema Chana, it’s me! I’ve come back.”
Rebecca fought the urge to pull him away and picked up the chart at the foot of the bed. The attending physician, Dr. Chan, had written “Provisional Diagnosis — CVA,” cerebral-vascular accident, and had prescribed blood thinners. Blood samples had been sent out to a lab for testing but Rebecca knew by looking at her that it was serious. She put the chart down and lifted Chana’s wrist to take her pulse. The rate was high and irregular. Chances were she’d thrown off an embolus. Rebecca checked her pupils: they were fixed and dilated, a bad sign. Drawing back the covers at the bottom, she pinched her leg. No response.
She turned reluctantly to Nesha. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It looks like she’s had a stroke.”
He took her small immobile hand. “Meema Chana, I’m here. Wake up.”
Rebecca couldn’t bear it and left them alone. She stepped outside and breathed in the nursing home smell of stale urine. Down the hall a few rooms away, the frail old man she had seen last time hovered as if waiting. At once he began a quirky waddle toward her, punctuated with his cane. Curious, she met him part way.
“Do you know what happened to Mrs. Feldberg?” she asked.
“Here today, gone tomorrow,” the little wisp of a man muttered. “Weren’t you here the other day?”
“Has her husband come to visit in the last few days?”
He peered up at her through thick bifocals and fluttered a hand in the air. “He don’t come no more. That’s what happens. You come here, people forget about you. It’s no good.”
“Did she have any visitors yesterday?”
The old man leaned on his cane, nodding, a satisfied smirk on his face. “That’s what I wanted to tell someone. No visitors, no. But a workman came late last night.”
“Workman?”
“Plumber or something. Wore overalls and carried a toolbox. Saw him come out of her room.” “What time was that?”
“Couldn’t sleep last night. I’m a bad sleeper, too old you know. I got up for a glass of water and heard something outside. So I opened the door and saw him come out. Maybe midnight.”
“Isn’t that unusual, a plumber coming here at midnight?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you see what he looked like? Hair colour? Age?”
“Had a cap on. Just an average fella. All I know was he was younger’ n me.” He chuckled. “Maybe a young fella of sixty.”
“This is important: do you think it could’ve been her husband?”
The man squinted at her through his thick lenses. “Now that’s an interesting question. Sorry I can’t answer it.”
“Did you tell someone downstairs?”
He waved the suggestion away. “Aw, they’re idiots. Don’t listen to a word I say.”
Rebecca excused herself and went downstairs. The blonde was still being monopolized by visiting relatives. Rebecca approached the reception desk and spotted, further back, a woman wearing a nurse’s cap busy with some papers.
“Excuse me,” Rebecca said, “I’d like some information about Mrs. Feldberg.” When the woman stared back at her without moving, she added, “Am I not speaking English? I’m a doctor and I want information on one of your patients.” Damn she was riled. If this woman didn’t watch out, Rebecca would take everything from the past three days out on her.
The middle-aged nurse rose heavily and trudged toward the desk.
“When was Mrs. Feldberg found in her present condition?”
The woman’s grey eyes observed her with barely concealed anger. “Night nurse found her going off her shift this morning. Maybe seven.”
“Did she mention anything unusual? Something that didn’t look right?” The woman tilted her head. “For instance, did it look like she’d been in any kind of a struggle?”
Her eyes grew into circles. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that in Mrs. Feldberg’s condition a stroke could’ve been caused by undue stress, a threat perhaps. Did you know that a workman went into her room at midnight? Possibly a plumber?”
“I... I don’t understand....”
“Can you check if a workman was called to fix something in Mrs. Feldberg’s room last night?”
The nurse flipped the large lined page of a book on a nearby desk.