Chapter Eleven Linda #3
Linda surveyed the premises with darting eyes while the doctor spoke.
Everything had to be perfect because she was paying for the best. Imani deserved the best. Still, she knew when she was being a hard-ass, when she was being unfair during previous visits.
Judgment burst in her veins if she spotted the slightest smudge of dirt in a corner or a room that appeared to be in disarray.
If she smelled the faintest whiff of urine.
The people here were hard workers, even with inevitable mishaps.
Linda had hired an independent investigator to scope out the place.
She had to make sure that Imani was being cared for by the kind of staff who’d turn her over every two hours to prevent bedsores.
Who would carefully monitor her vital signs in case there was any change.
They reached the end of the corridor and hooked a left. Dr. Singh stopped at room 1012. “I’ll leave you to it, then, Linda. A nurse was just with Imani, gave her a bath. If I don’t see you before you leave, please be well. Stay safe out there.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
Linda slowly entered the room, sat down, and stared at Imani.
She hadn’t seen her in some time, though she never let more than six weeks go by without visiting.
The woman’s closely shorn hair was covered by a black skullcap.
Linda swore she’d become thinner since her last visit but couldn’t be sure.
Imani had certainly lost weight since she’d been admitted into the facility months after losing consciousness.
Edwarda O’Bara, a Miami resident, was only sixteen years old when she succumbed to a diabetic coma from which she never recovered. She died in 2012 after being unconscious for forty-two years, the longest coma in American history. Imani had been in a coma for twelve. Because of Linda.
She took Imani’s hand. Her skin was still soft, moisturized daily. Tears started to stream down Linda’s face, dripped onto fingers that held Imani’s. What always happened when they touched.
“How’ve you been, beautiful?” Linda began. “All’s good with me. There’s some crazy shit that’s going down in DC, but business is good. Best it’s ever been, in fact. I got you. We’ll be fine.”
And that was all Linda cared about, really—making sure Nueva Investigations soared so she could take care of her girl.
Maxine was perfectly capable of handling the agency’s books, was trustworthy, had hinted countless times she wanted the additional responsibility.
Linda would have none of it. Maxine might’ve already put two and two together if she paid close enough attention to their invoicing, might’ve already deduced that Linda made an average net profit of more than $120,000 annually.
Linda had paid off the mortgage to the agency property years ago so she could be debt-free, so she could have her small, spartan living space all paid up as well.
Her agency’s revenue could thus be devoted to paying for Imani’s care, so that Imani’s parents would never have to take a cent out of their pockets for medical expenses once their daughter had aged out of their insurance coverage.
Linda didn’t care if the New Rochelle facility doctors thought she was a supremely devoted close friend or had figured out that the two were lovers.
Didn’t matter at all. She wasn’t going to let anything happen to her girl.
“Someone I hung out with yesterday, we’re starting to work together…
this guy Fonsi, he’s kinda special, like me.
Has a gift. A medium, talks to ghosts. Helps a lot of people over in the Bronx.
He’s helping me with a case. He’s kinda scatterbrained and nosy as fuck.
Couldn’t stop yammering, trying to get in my business.
But he’s cool. Hard worker, runs his own biz, too. ”
Linda paused. “Something about him, I don’t know, I like. You’d like him, too. Call him a sweetie pie in that voice of yours, be hugging up all on him. And he’s family, dating this Brazilian dude. He’s confused about it but doesn’t realize I know that.”
As Linda spoke, she touched the voices in her mind, her tortured Broken Hearts. Found the voice that belonged to Imani, the gossamer phantom who was never too far away.
She heard Imani’s girlish chuckle. The around-the-way-Bronx-girl twang she added to almost everything she said.
The things she whispered in Linda’s ear as they lay together in Linda’s bed when Papi worked the night shift.
Words that blended in Linda’s consciousness, a messy swirl she fully embraced…
You’re like a gym rat, you getting so big and hard…
Gunz like Serena… Better sashay in them drawers…
Are you sure about going into the academy?
… Want some? Then say it in Spanish, bitch…
With the words came images, sights, sounds.
How Imani twirled and danced and did neck rolls whenever the videos “Pretty Girl Rock” and “Work It” played on 106 & Park.
How when she was all serious and moody, she’d pick up the guitar she’d learned how to play at ten years old and sing husky and solemn.
Linda placed her cheek on Imani’s hands, kissed her knuckles.
She tried her best to ignore the boniness.
To remember her girl as someone who was thicker bodied and vibrant.
Who loved to run her fingers through Linda’s curls.
Who one day decided she wanted to be as close to her girlfriend as humanly possible once she understood how Linda’s empathy worked.
Soon after, Linda destroyed her mind.
“I’m sorry.” Words Linda whispered every visit. “So sorry. I miss you.”