A Mother's Trial Read Free Page A

There they had found one vein completely missing and the other unusable. That is why the surgeons—and it had taken two of them—had worked so hard to place the line in Mindy’s inner elbow. Shrieking in panic, she had been held down, her screams ringing through the ward. After this there was only one other vein available in the other arm. In an emergency they could try the jugular. At that point, Priscilla understood that they might run out of time.

4
     
    An hour and a half later, Steve Phillips sat on the floor by Mindy’s bedside with his sons, Erik and Jason. Priscilla thought it was important, and so did he, for the whole family to spend as much time together as possible, even if it had to be at the hospital. Mindy, after all, had not been with them very long, and she needed to feel that she belonged.
    His family, it seemed to him, was just about perfect—but for the death of Tia. His two sons were blond and sturdy: Erik had just turned eight and was a smart kid—he took after his mother in that, Steve acknowledged—and Jason was five, sweet and serious. They were a happy and loving family, a solid family, despite the arguments they sometimes had.
    Mindy was out of her crib and playing with the boys on the floor. She was full of piss and vinegar today, Steve thought. Things were definitely on the upswing this morning. Steve had given her the bottle of Cho-free himself, and she had practically inhaled it. The nurse had been in and noticed it, smiling. It appeared they might even be allowed to take Mindy home. Damn, he hoped so.
    Neither he nor Pris did much to hide their emotions. That was why Debby Roof had suggested that they meet with Dr. Shimoda. To let it out, talk about the pressures, hang it all out there to dry—that was how he looked at it. They had met at the hospital last Sunday. Afterward he had stayed for almost twenty minutes, confiding to Debby that Mindy’s illness was putting a strain on their marriage. It was worse than the pressures on Erik and Jason, though that was the topic they had mainly discussed in the meeting with Sara. Talking had been a relief, he thought, eyeing Mindy as she crawled toward him, trailing her tubing. He smiled down at her and helped her to stand against him.
    Priscilla always wanted to talk everything through. Partly it was her social worker’s training, partly just her personality, but when things turned rough for him, Steve retreated to the garage, puttered around morosely, and immersed himself in TV. Sometimes when he talked he felt he might explode, and he was too big a man for that.
    He couldn’t have held a position in juvenile hall as a group counselor very long without that basic insight. If he exploded around those kids, he could do irreparable damage. It was the same at San Quentin, where he had worked for a year as a correctional officer in ‘69 and ‘70. Day after day he had walked into that yard unarmed. When he thought about it, all he had between himself and oblivion at the hands of some space-case with a hand-sharpened spoon was a brass whistle. So he didn’t explode. Not physically.
    He thought it was all right to yell. He was big enough at 6 feet and 215 pounds, with a big bull neck disappearing into wide shoulders, to intimidate a lot of people. And he knew that if you have a nice South Carolina drawl and talk in pictures so sharp and real that the guy you’re facing really sees what’s in store for him should he put one foot outside the line you’ve set up for him, that sucker listens. That’s what he’d learned. Maybe it was intimidation, but if they didn’t cross Steve Phillips, he damn well wasn’t going to cross them. And that was the bottom line, he felt. Or at least it was as good a way as any to put himself across. Because underneath was something a lot softer than he cared to admit.

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    At six P.M. that same Wednesday evening, Sara finished the last of her progress notes on Mindy’s chart. Her head in her hand, she sat