The Purloined Paintings

One-1

One

“TOM, I HAVE GOT TO get out of here.”

This is the third time today, the seventh time in two days, and I have no idea how many times in three days that Helen has made this statement to me. The unfortunate truth is that the morphine they have her on is making her feel too good, and she’s getting restless.

“OK, honey,” I say, trying to placate her, “let’s talk to Martin when he comes in today and see what he says.”

“You know what he’s going to say,” she says with a scowl. “He’s going to say that normally, they would send me home with a visiting nurse twice a day to change my dressing, but right now, because of the nursing shortage, they can’t. I mean, I know healthcare workers have been through a lot, but I cannot believe they’ve actually gone out on strike!”

“Helen, I do not want to get into this again.“

“Well, we’re going to, so you might as well get used to it. Tom, I cannot stand another day within these four walls. I don’t care how many lovely visitors from the church bring me food, which I do appreciate, being trapped here is worse than being a trapped animal!”

I am about to argue with her further when thankfully, Dr. Martin Maycord, the trauma surgeon who saved her life, comes in. He smiles and says sarcastically, “And how is my most agreeable patient today?”

“Even less agreeable than I was yesterday, if you want to know the truth,” Helen says.

“And I assume this is because of your ongoing complaints about wanting to go home?”

“Yes, it is. I see no reason why I cannot take care of changing my dressing myself.”

“OK, then,” Martin says, crossing his arms. “Show me exactly how that would work. You’ve seen the nurses do it enough times.”

Helen seems surprised at this and says, “Well, first I wash my hands, right?”

“Exactly. The sink is right there,” he indicates with a nod of his head.

She carefully gets out of bed, using the method the physical therapist taught her so that she will not aggravate her broken ribs. Then she walks slowly to the sink, where she uses her left hand to turn the water on.

Sadly, that’s as far as she gets. Helen cannot use her right arm for much of anything right now, thanks to the muscle damage done by the bullet.

I walk over to her and place my hand on her arm. “Come on, let’s—”

She pulls away from my hand. “I can do it, Tom,” she says through gritted teeth. Slowly, she turns and walks the short distance back to her bed. When she pauses at the edge, I go to her and help her back in as I have numerous times since she’s been here.

She looks at Martin, obviously defeated but still defiant. “Then can’t you just send someone over a couple of times a day to change it?” she asks.

“Ask someone to leave the hospital twice a day, drive to your apartment, change your dressing, go over your breathing exercises with you, and then return?” Martin says, his frustration with Helen obvious. “Do you know how many man-hours that would take each week? Hell, Helen, sorry, Tom, we’re already bringing in first responders to work in the hospital instead of out on the ambulances where they belong.”

I think about this and say, “Martin, I don’t know if I can be of any use or not, but I am a certified first responder. I worked in the infirmary for several years at Our Lady of the Mount Monastery.

“Tom, I would love to have your help, but I think you have your hands full being a parish priest and police chaplain and of course caring for our charming patient here.”

“Wait a minute,“ Helen says, a grin spreading across her face and excitement filling her eyes. “He’s not taking care of me right now. I’m still in the hospital. But if you let me go home, he could come by a couple of times a day, change my bandage, and do whatever else needs to be done. Then you would have one less patient in here.”

Martin opens his mouth, but then pauses thoughtfully, and says, “Tom, can you do things like temperature and blood pressure checks?“

“Sure, if I have the equipment.”

“Have you ever dressed a gunshot wound before?“

“Only once, a week or so ago in that basement. Surprisingly enough, we didn’t get a lot of GSWs in the monastery. However, we did have an elderly priest fall onto a rebar. It went all the way through his shoulder and after the doctor treated him, I took care of him.”

Martin nods. “OK, I can give you some pretty detailed instructions about what needs to be done if you’re willing to do it.”

At this, Helen shoots me a look that says if I am not agreeable, I should probably think about a different career, one that doesn’t involve the use of my limbs.

“Of course,” I say. “I’ll be glad to. Especially if it will get her out of here sooner.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I can write the discharge papers now,” Martin says. “We had a nasty bus accident this morning and I could use another bed.”

He looks at Helen, smiles, and says, “Pack up, Detective, you’re going home.”

Helen grins at this and raises her left fist triumphantly before quickly falling back into bed.

“Wait just a minute,” Martin says sternly. “Helen, before you leave I need to know something. Do you plan to go back into law enforcement, including being able to qualify on the pistol range?”

She looks surprised at the question and says, “Of course. I thought I made that clear.”

“You have and now I want to make something clear also. If your goal at the end of this healing process is to be able to write legibly or pick up a sack of potting soil or mix up a bowl of pancake batter, you can go about your recovery pretty much as haphazardly as you wish. But if you want, say within three to six months, to be able to fire a gun with the accuracy necessary to keep your certification, you have got to take your recovery seriously.”

“Which means?”she asks, still defiant.

“Which means that today and for the next week you go to your house and pretend that you are still in the hospital. You rest, you do your breathing exercises, you take short walks, but you do not use that arm for anything, not even to scratch your nose. When I see you a week from Monday, if all is well, I will prescribe light physical therapy. You will need to do the therapy faithfully. A lot of it will involve hard work, which I don’t think will be a problem, but much of your recovery will involve resting and being careful, which I think will challenge you.

“Helen, I cannot guarantee that you will make a full recovery, but I will guarantee that your best shot at it is to do this my way. I’ve put more than one Baltimore cop back on the street, but I’ve also seen a few who had to take early retirement because they messed around and didn’t take what happened to them seriously. Do we understand each other?”

Helen says nothing at this but simply nods her head.

“Good,” Martin says with a smile. “Tom, I’ll have the nurse give you instructions on everything you need to do, and we’ll send you home with the necessary materials and equipment. I’ll—”

A cell phone buzzes. A quick check tells me it’s not mine. Martin, however, fishes his out of his pocket and answers.

“Hello . . . What? . . . What are you talking about? I don’t know anything . . . Damn . . . No, no, listen, don't do anything. I’ll be over there in about twenty minutes.”

He hangs up. Martin, usually so composed, is flustered.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“What? Oh, I’m having some work done on my house and one of the workmen damaged something. I need to go. Helen, I’ll sign those discharge papers. But you better do as I say. I spent a lot of time on your shoulder, and the last thing I want is you messing up all my excellent work.”

I know Martin believes that he’s made his point.

I, for one, say a brief prayer that he has.

***