Out of the Darkness: A Mary Jane Morris Mystery

Jorgens

AWAKE

I’ve always wanted to play a spy because you are never what you seem. — Benedict Cumberbatch

A voice came out of the darkness.

She might be able to walk again and some of her sight and memory may return, but I’m afraid her detective days are over.

My leg hurt and I had vague memories of bedpans, needles in my arms, and being washed. Everything was dark and the words were swirling. Why was I in a hospital? A strange man claimed to be my boyfriend. I pulled the blanket over my head and told him to get out. The people around me pretending to be doctors and nurses were there to learn my secrets. Torture was sure to follow.

Then the nightmares began, starting with a shipwreck.

The howling wind drove the rain into my face and tore away the last of the sails. Lightning splintered the mast and I heard cries from the hold. Men were trapped down there, but there was no way to reach them. The hull groaned as a giant wave rolled us over. She was going down. I jumped in and fought the currents to reach the lone ragged tree on the shore.

I woke up calling out.

Abandon ship! Abandon ship!

A nurse gave me a shot and sat with me for a while wiping the sweat from my face. Someone at the door asked about the crazy lady who thought she was at sea. Then I passed out.

The next night was no better.

I was swimming in scuba gear forty feet down in dark water. The bottom was littered with broken crab and oyster shells, but barren like a moonscape with no grasses in sight. Ahead through the murky water I could make out a diver hovering over the dim outline of a shipwreck. I knew it was dangerous and yelled into the radio to stop, but he ignored me and disappeared into the wreck.

I sat up and tore the tubes from my arms.

We have to go back! We have to find him!

We’ll find him, said the nurse as she gave me a shot. We’ll find him and he’ll be alright.

Good. He’s very important to me.

The following night I was lost in an old dark house.

I stumbled through a maze of shadowy passageways when my flashlight died, and everything was pitch black. Outside of the window I could see fireflies swarming toward the house, but they weren’t fireflies. They were men with torches, and they were coming after me.

The next night, my ghosts came to call. First my father.

I’ll be sitting on the front porch waiting for you when you get well. We’ll sip fine old scotch, and watch the boats pass up and down the river.

Don’t you give up, Mary Jane, said my mother. Morris women never give up.

Tough break, Mary Jane, whispered my ex-partner Davy, but you’ve been through worse.

I woke up on the floor and hands lifted me back onto the bed. The rhythmic beat of the heart monitor said I was still alive. I felt someone holding my hand. I knew that hand. It was the hand of my handsome boyfriend Lorenzo."

Welcome back to the land of the living.

Where am I?

George Washington Hospital.

Why?

We’ll talk about that later. For a while I thought we’d lost you.

What time is it?

Eleven.

Morning or night?

Morning.

I felt the soft bandages on my eyes with my fingers.

Everything is dark.

You hit your head and after you got here it affected your sight. Blunt force trauma can cause a cerebral contusion leading to swelling of the brain. Once the bleeding inside the brain stops, the swelling will recede, and your vision should be normal.

Should be?

It could take a few days, or a few weeks. It affected your memory too.

Strange, I remember you and Jackson and Sally and my dead partner Davy. But the things that happened to me are a complete blank.

Give it time. You’ve had quite a week.

Week? What day is it?

You came in on Monday. Today is Sunday.

How did I get here?

You drove up to the emergency room in your Land Rover, asked for me, and then it was lights out.

I guess I thought that if I got back to you everything would be alright.

Good thing you had that first aid kit in your truck and managed to bandage your leg. Otherwise you would have bled to death. No telling where you came from. The tires were muddy. Do you remember anything at all?

It’s all lost in the fog. My leg hurts.

A nasty gunshot wound. The bone was splintered and had to be pinned and put in a cast. The big problem was the infection. It was touch and go. Our strongest antibiotics weren’t working. The only ones that worked were the ones you brought from Costa Rica.

Lorenzo told me about a new kind of Intensive Care Unit, a fan-shaped amphitheater where the nurse in charge can see every patient’s face, and the families and medial staff have different entrances. My ICU was the old kind with the rooms strung out on a long hallway and the nurses’ station either far away where they couldn’t hear you if you couldn’t reach the call button, or just outside your door where you can hear the nurses chatter about their boyfriends 24/7. So much for sleep being nature’s healer.

One thing I did remember. I never did like painkillers, or rather I liked them too much. I become addicted to them when I was injured in my cross-country days. Lorenzo allowed two pills in the morning and two at night, but no more. When I used up my quota, I tried everything with the nurse, pleading, bribes, threats, but she didn’t give in. She was a good nurse.

I looked at myself in the mirror. What a disaster.

Mary Jane, I said to that horror in the mirror. Get your act together.

When Lorenzo came that afternoon, I wanted to be in a good mood for him. I would be brave and strong and talk about all the fun things we would do together when I got out of there. I did up my face, fixed my hair, and sat in the chair next to my bed. The moment he walked in, I began bawling like a baby.

Why did this happen to me?

He gave me a hug and stroked my hair.

I suppose because you’re strong enough to bear it.

I smiled and wiped away the tears. The man knew what to say.

I’m not sure the dreams I had were dreams, or memories. That will be my new career. Raving lunatic.

You’re good at it too, but the pay isn’t so good.

I had a dream about you too, you dirty man.

Really? Sounds interesting.

I’ll tell you later when nobody is around. I’m hungry.

Another good sign.

And I’m cold.

I’ll have them bring you some soup.

He climbed into my bed and snuggled up to me. As I lay beside him, the voice from the darkness echoed in my head. My days as a detective may be done.

Lorenzo, I’m not sure I can handle this. I’m not used to feeling helpless. I feel like I’m waiting for a sign, something that would help me make sense of it all.

He got up and walked over to the window.

Tell me what you see.

Rooftops, streets backed up with traffic, the Watergate. You can see the river between the buildings. The crews are out there rowing.

I wish I was out there with them.

You and your river.

Mark Twain had his river, the Mississippi. I have mine.

I’ve got to make my rounds. I’ll be back around three. I love you.

I reached for the glass of orange juice on the tray and knocked it over. Diagnosis: terminally clumsy. Next time I’ll ask for a mug with a handle. I fell asleep and woke up refreshed the next morning. It was good not to dream about shipwrecks and dark houses.

A BLUR

Cheerful nurses can be so depressing.

Good morning! How are we today? Did anybody show you how to adjust your bed? You just push one of the little arrows on the side there, see?

Then she remembered that I couldn’t see.

Oh, I’m so sorry.

That’s ok.

I’m not used to trusting people. If I can’t see, I will always be wondering. If I’m lost, how will I find my way home? If I cross the street, will I be hit by some idiot texting in a truck? I could be mugged and never see it coming. The big question wouldn’t be how will I protect someone. It would be who will protect me?

I asked Lorenzo to read to me about what it’s like being blind. He found an article by Cristina Hartmann on a website called Quora that tells it like it is. She listed the little problems that would plague me, like how I would read the mail, write checks, or add a tip to a credit card slip. I realized that blind persons are all detectives, and their lives are continuing mysteries.

If my eyes didn’t get better, I would be listening to movies, not seeing them, and I wouldn’t be able to drive. As for sports, my options would be limited. My computer and phone could read to me, and they could do searches and take dictation. But if I was even partially blind, faces would be out of focus. That meant I wouldn’t be able to read peoples’ expressions and body language, crucial in my line of work. A seeing-eye dog is complicated. A white cane doesn’t shed hair, poop, or develop a mind of its own. She said the worst part is the feeling of incompetence.

You break glasses, walk into people, and step on pets’ tails. People are always watching, and I feel a constant pressure not to stumble or fall.

I could look forward to temper tantrums, feelings of worthlessness, and depression, especially since I would have to deal not just with my own sorrow but the grief and guilt of others. On the plus side, when I approached crowds would part like the Red Sea. I could expect better service at restaurants, stores, offices, and on planes. In general people would be kind, but some of them would overcompensate and treat me like I was helpless and brainless.

It turns out that not seeing heightens your other senses. I wasn’t at risk of becoming Ray Charles or Andrea Bocelli, but I noticed that I could hear things in people’s voices I hadn’t heard before. My nose got more sensitive too.

Do I smell roses?

Yes, said the nurse. A big bouquet of red ones. There’s a card.

Could you read it to me?

’Dear Mary Jane Morris, So sorry about what happened. I was unable to prevent it. You are in danger. Go to a place where no one can find you. From Russia with love.’

Probably a joke from one of my friends. You don’t need to mention this to anyone.

I asked her to call a florist I knew near the Russian embassy.

Hello, this is Mary Jane Morris. I just wanted to thank you for the beautiful red roses you delivered yesterday. The card seems to have been lost. Could you tell me who sent them? Probably a friend at the Russian Embassy.

Oh yes, Miss Morris. They were ordered by a nice looking gentleman from the embassy, very distinguished with silver hair. He didn’t leave his name.

I called my friend Szabo who claims to be Serbian even though Szabo is a Hungarian name and he’s always talking about Sicily. Ironic that this consummate con man is one of the people I trust. To give you the flavor of the man, I’ll tell you about one of his business ventures. He talked the city of Miami into suspending the ordinance against collecting seaweed from the beach and bid low on the job. His crews loaded the seaweed into trucks and carted it away. The condo owners, hotels, and city government were delighted. Nobody asked what he was doing with it. He paid Venezuelans and Argentines top dollar to wash it, grind it up, and make kelp pills that sold for thirty dollars a bottle. He made a fortune until the Cuban mafia found out about it and chased him out of town.

Now he makes his living selling expensive Persian rugs to embassies and wealthy housewives. In the evenings, he drives people around in his Mercedes. I think he does it because they invite him to their parties. He has a wicked sense of humor and knows the best wines and gypsy songs. The bored wives find him sexy, and he enjoys spying on spies. Unknown to his clients, he is fluent in several languages, including Russian.

Szabo, I’m having problems with Russians.

You and everybody else.

It appears they want me dead.

When it rains it pours. In Sicily they say ‘rocks on a drowned man’s back.’ What did you do to them?

Nothing.

They also say in Sicily you’re only singing me half the Mass.

Nothing that I know of. I can’t remember. Tell me about them.

The agents operating out of the embassy have a reputation for being professional, ruthless, and impossible to catch. Two brothers named Ivanov run the operation. My passengers say they used to be tops but lately their success rate has fallen off, and they’re under a lot of pressure from Moscow.

Let me know if you hear more.

They’re not the sort you mess around with.

They’re the ones who are messing around with me.

Let me know when I can sell you a nice rug. For you, I make special deal.

I was getting antsy. Lying in bed wired to machines in a white room smelling of disinfectant wasn’t my cup of tea. I wanted to get out there and get my hands on the man who shot me. Even more, I needed to find out what happened to Adam."

I asked Lorenzo what he would do if he couldn’t practice medicine any more. He had no idea. Who would I be if I wasn’t Mary Jane the private eye? Mary Jane the cripple? There’s not much of a market for blind detectives in wheelchairs who can’t remember what day it is. My father was a fanatic about old movies and foreign films. Once we saw a Japanese film called The Blind Swordsman, but I couldn’t imagine him roaming the streets of D.C.

If you subtract the detective from Mary Jane, what’s left? I remembered in one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, he talks about how writing shaped him. My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. In his case his hands were stained with ink, not dye. His nature was shaped by a restless imagination, as he wrote plays for nobles and Elizabethan truck drivers, many of them about killing the king. I remembered enough of my work as a detective to know that my hands were stained with gunpowder and blood, and I wasn’t sure they could ever be washed clean.

Who would I be if I wasn’t a private eye? In most jobs, important parts of you go unused. But when you’re a detective you use everything. You’re an actor, bloodhound, researcher, psychologist, soldier, and sometimes judge and jury all at the same time.

My roommate Sally’s son Jackson came to visit. I looked after him when his mother was on assignment for the City Paper. He tagged along on some of my cases and we’d been in a few scrapes together, about which his mother gave me continual holy hell.

J. J., it looks like the end of our detective days.

You could always be a writer. Your know lots of stories, and you’re really good at making things up. You could dictate them to me.

I’m not sure I can sit for months and write. I don’t have the patience. Besides, I would always know how things were going to turn out.

We could go back to Costa Rica. The piranhas didn’t really bother me all that much.

Jackson’s passion is photography. He is never not taking pictures. I heard the shutter of his Nikon click from different directions.

Why the pictures?

So when you get well, we’ll remember that Mary Jane can come back from anything.

The boy knew what to say. I smiled and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I woke up and heard a familiar squeaking noise. It was a wheel on the wheelchair of my pal George Howell that he never bothered to fix. He was a Navy pilot who got shot down over Iraq, and spent a month in a prison before he escaped. He never did tell me how he did that.

George, you’re never going to have any luck stalking women if you don’t oil that wheel. How are you?

He took my hand and held it.

Still dreaming of flying. I feel the surge of the engine and the wings lifting me up into the clouds. Then I wake up and see my wheelchair.

I winced when he touched my leg.

Sorry. You’ve got to get back in shape, M. J. I miss our kayak races.

Even if I can’t see where I’m paddling?

You’ll always be behind anyway. I’ll put a little bell on my paddle so you can follow the sound.

Mark my words macho man. One day in the name of all the women of the world, I’m going to race you to the Wilson Bridge and send you down to dismal defeat.

That’s my Mary Jane. Do you remember when I couldn’t bring myself to go to rehab at the Veterans Hospital? Well, you were the reason I went at all. You were the red-haired Scottish engine that drove me through the door and up onto the treadmill. Nobody else could have done that.

MEMORIES

Lying there unable to remember or see, I realized that I’d become the model citizen. I couldn’t remember what happened last week, much less last year. I couldn’t see what was happening, and pretty much was expected to believe what I was told and do what I was told. The ideal American voter. Time to change all that. This was the day the bandages were coming off.

Are you ready? asked Lorenzo.

I took a deep breath.

I’m ready.

Lorenzo gently peeled off the bandages one at a time. At first it was just a blur. Then shapes began to appear and my favorite face in the world slowly came into focus. I reached out and touched him on the cheek.

You look older.

He put his arms around me and I felt a surge of relief.

I was so afraid my life was gone. Look, I’ve made your shirt all wet.

The next morning, the sun streamed through the window and everything seemed like it was in Technicolor. Things seemed fresh and new as if I ‘d never seen them before. But if my sight was back, my memories weren’t. Recent things I could remember fine, but I still couldn’t recall what happened the day I was shot or what happened to Adam. They say after a blow to the head or an emotional trauma, some memories are pushed down so deep that they never surface again. I wasn’t about to let that happen. My mind became another mystery that I had to solve.

My smug male doctors, used to giving orders and having their opinions go unchallenged, hovered around me like vultures over a carcass. Each one pronounced that my memory and vision problems fell precisely in his field of expertise. Each knew exactly what to do, but cautioned in a deep authoritative voice that the treatment would be long and difficult, and there was no guarantee of success. Each expressed doubt about the others, whispering in conspiratorial tones that I should trust them and them only. Out of nowhere came the memory of a nursery rhyme.

"Miss Susie called the doctor. The doctor called the nurse.

The nurse called the Lady with the alligator purse.

Measles said the doctor. Mumps said the nurse.

Nothing said the lady with the alligator purse."

I read somewhere that Clara Barton, the founder of the Red Cross, carried an alligator purse.

Many memories remained in hiding, only peeking out occasionally. Others seemed to have vanished altogether, but then how would I know? I couldn’t remember them. Over the next few weeks, the doctors took turns prescribing treatments. They gave me thiamin for something called the Wernicke-Korsakoff syndrome, which sounded like something from a Mel Brooks movie. They tried hypnotic age regression, but it didn’t work. The therapist fell asleep. They tried acupuncture, cognitive therapy, and neurofeedback. They used audio stimulation where I listened to sounds that supposedly helped the left and right brains work together. I wasn’t allowed alcohol or sugar, so I suffered withdrawal from scotch and chocolate to try and bring my memories back. Nothing worked.

I fell into the plodding rhythm of things. It was like being on an unending escalator. Breakfast with dreadful coffee. Take care not to spill. TV news, more depressing and filled with dark humor by the day. Pills, shots, and a bath. Nurses changing the sheets, and doctors