Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
BACK IN NEW YORK
Within a minute of pressing the button, a man with a nice smile and green surgical scrubs came into her room.
“Goldie—Karen Maraschino.”
“Good. How’re you feeling?”
“E-everything hurts,” she moaned.
“I’m not surprised. You were doing a Sleeping Beauty routine for quite a while. But the good news is now that you’re awake, I’m optimistic about a full recovery. You’re an incredibly lucky young woman. Do you remember what happened?”
“I-I was crossing Mercer Street… it was snowing, I think.”
“You were sideswiped by a passing car,” the doctor said, taking her chart out of a plastic holder on the wall next to her bed. “It spun you around like a top, and you banged your head on the street pretty hard when you fell, which caused your brain to swell and the resulting coma.”
He referred to her chart. “You’ve been out for eighteen days.
You have a couple of lacerations on your face and a hairline fracture on your right arm, but you’re healing nicely.
You also had surgery to stop some internal bleeding.
The procedure is called a thoracotomy. I made a small incision along your left ribcage to get at the bleeding, but everything went well, and in another year, you’ll hardly notice the scar.
The rest of your body is basically one big bruise, so hurting means you’re healing. As I said, you were very, very lucky.”
“I’m back,” Goldie mused, looking toward the window but not really seeing anything except the rooftop of another building.
“Yes, you are,” the doctor said, not aware of her total meaning.
“You’re hooked up like the Bride of Frankenstein.
You’ve got a catheter, we’ve been feeding you through a tube, and you’ve got a saline drip going.
We’ll start to get you unplugged in a little while.
But first, would you like some water? Ginger ale, maybe? ”
“Ginger ale would be great.”
“I’ll have one of the nurses bring you some. And we’ll notify your family and friends that you’re awake.”
“M—my friends?”
“Markie Santina and entourage. He wanted to be notified as soon as you woke up and handed out hundred-dollar bills to the nursing staff like Hershey bars to make sure that happened. He’s also paying for all your expenses, considering you have no health insurance.”
“So—that ginger ale is gonna cost about thirty bucks, huh?” Goldie joked.
Doctor Zawicki smiled. “Markie Santina, he’s kind of a mobster, isn’t he?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
The physician shrugged. “The Daily News, The Times, The Post, the chief of hospital security, and my uncle, the cop.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Doc,”
The doctor looked at her with a half-smile of disbelief.
“Fake news, huh? Okay… you rest up. I’ll see what I can do about that ginger ale.”
Within an hour of waking up, Goldie had some ginger ale and Jell-O, her catheter, feeding, and saline tubes were removed, and she’d been walked to the bathroom, where she discovered she had blonde hair on her head again.
There were also some large scabs on her forehead and left cheek.
As Stu Frey had promised, she remembered everything that had happened in 1942, but she was glad to be back in modern times and familiar surroundings.
She’d awakened at 8:33 a.m. on December 12th, a Thursday.
By 9:40, Markie Santina came into her room, accompanied by two bodyguards who waited outside the door.
One of whom was Bruno Carmichael, whom she had last seen in the lobby of the condominium she had shared with Markie.
Markie breezed in wearing an expensive black leather waistcoat reminiscent of Tully’s, a red silk scarf, and an olive turtleneck with black slacks. He also carried a dozen pink roses in a vase and had that Richard Gere smile that she traditionally found irresistible.
“There she is!” he greeted warmly with his thick Bronx accent. “How ya doin’, baby? You scared the bejesus outta me, you know that?”
“Ay, how ya doin’, Markie?” she reciprocated weakly, eying the roses. “Those for me?”
“And those, and those, and those,” he replied, pointing out other flowers and plants in the room. “I mean it, Goldie. I was scared sick. But don’t worry ‘bout nothin’. I’m taking care of all expenses. Everythin’. You just concentrate on gettin’ better.”
He set the roses down on the windowsill, then went over to the side of her bed, leaned over, and gently kissed her. She accepted the embrace, but was confused by it.
“So—what does all this mean?” she asked after the kiss. “The flowers, the private room… did you and The Queen of Frump from NYU have a fallin’ out?”
“We spent seven years together, Goldie. I promised I’d take care of you, and I’m still doin’ it. I also feel terrible about the way we left things the day you ran out. I feel partially responsible for what happened.”
“Oh, don’t feel that way, baby,” she chided. “Feel entirely responsible.”
“I am sorry, Goldie. Really and truly sorry.”
She looked into his brown eyes and gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay… thanks for keepin’ watch over me while I was out of it.”
“Sure. I called your mom and sister, and that plant over there is from Tom.”
“My dad?”
“Yeah. He was here for a couple of days, but then had to get back to work in Pittsburgh. But I’m sure he’ll be callin’. Everybody’s been real worried.”
She nodded. “I’ll be sure to call him later. I, uh, I want you to know, Markie, that although I hate what you’ve done, I also think you’re tryin’ to make up for it in your own way. So, I ain’t gonna be a problem. I’m gonna take your exit package and—well—exit.”
“That’s my girl,” Markie smiled. “I knew you’d come around to seein’ the smart way of doin’ things.
” He clasped his hands together. “Well, alright then, I’m gonna make sure your new apartment is all clean and ready for ya.
I’ll put all your favorite food and drinks in the kitchen and make sure your cable and the utilities are hooked up.
Eh, the doctor give you any idea when you can get outta here? ”
“No. We haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“Well, don’t worry about it. I’m gonna take care of everythin’.”
A wave of old affection came over Goldie. Or maybe it was just gratitude.
“Hey, Markie, y-you really gonna marry Kristen DiVarno?”
“Yeah… it’s gonna be good for my standin’ in the family… but you’ve made me very happy, Goldie. And who knows what might happen between us in the future, eh?”
She cocked her head at her former boyfriend quizzically. “What does that mean?”
“What?”
“Are you sayin’ you’re gonna marry Kristen, but you wanna keep me on the side? I thought you said she was the ‘whole package.’”
“I’m just sayin’ after your accident and everythin’, the thought of you not bein’ in my life was very upsettin’. Really upsettin’! As for the future, it’s—y’know—unwritten.”
“Yyyeah,” she drawled, “I ain’t gonna be no back-door babe like in a Stones’ song.”
“One thing at a time,” he encouraged. “Now that you’re goin’ to take the apartment, the car, and the bank account, maybe there’s somethin’ you can do for me.”
“I’m in the hospital because you broke my heart. But, by all means, Markie, what can I do for you?”
“It’s nothin’ really,” he understated. “A token of goodwill.”
“What?”
“Your diaries. When the boys were packin’ up your stuff, we couldn’t find ‘em.”
“What do ya want with my diaries?”
“Ay, Goldie, c’mon now… we were together a long time. Who knows what you’ve written down in ‘em.”
“There’s nothin’ incriminatin’ in my diaries. They’re just full of girl stuff. Notes about clothes I bought. Movies we went to. Restaurants we ate at. Anniversaries, some of which you forgot.”
“Then it won’t be a big deal to let me look through ‘em, huh?”
“It will be if you read about how many times I faked orgasms.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“Not all the time,” she qualified. “Not even most times.”
“I gotta check out the diaries, Goldie. It’s just a precaution.”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna keep their location private,” she decided. “It’s just a precaution.”
He furrowed his brow disapprovingly. “I’m not likin’ what I’m hearin’ here.”
“Markie, I loved you, and I’d never do anything to hurt you.
My diaries are my private thoughts. But if their existence bothers you, good.
Consider them an insurance policy that says you’re gonna leave me and my family in peace.
They’re not at my mom’s, or my sister’s, or my dad’s.
They’re in the same place where I keep the first corsage you bought me, the charm bracelet my dad got me, and the key to the hotel suite from our first trip to Mexico.
They’re with my personal, private treasures. And that’s what they are, private!”
He looked at her for a moment as if he might understand, but then had to switch gears as Goldie’s mother, Carla, arrived.
She was forty-seven, was once a looker like Goldie, but had been worn down by a lack of education that never went beyond two semesters of junior college, a failed marriage, and a series of jobs that never paid more than thirty thousand dollars a year.
She was a gigantic contradiction about her daughter’s relationship with Markie.
On the one hand, she knew he was involved in criminal activities.
She didn’t know specifics, but she knew they were bad, and this went against her Catholicism and sense of right and wrong.
On the other hand, she liked that Goldie lived in a seven-figure condo, wore fine clothing and jewelry, and had been able to enjoy a more comfortable lifestyle than she’d ever had.
So, she treated Markie respectfully. Like a mother-in-law who didn’t approve of her son-in-law, but acknowledged that he made her daughter happy.
Markie and Carla chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, mostly about how relieved they were that Goldie was awake, then he excused himself so mother and daughter could catch up.
He promised to visit Goldie again soon, but in the meantime, told her not to worry about anything for a third time.
Once he and his two bodyguards were gone, Goldie briefly told her mother that she and Markie were on the outs, then apologized, saying she had to rest, which she did.
She fell asleep, and Carla stayed in her room for the next several hours.
She also spoke to Doctor Zawicki about Goldie beginning a physical therapy regimen to get her muscles back in good working order.