“Here we go.” Sliding my arms beneath her, I lift the woman who brought me into the world into the air and carry her bodily to my room. There I set her on the foot of my bed, grab my cell phone from the bedside table, and dial Drew Elliott’s cell phone. I do not pray, as a rule. Like my father, I don’t believe there’s any deity out there to hear such things.

But I am praying now.

Monday
Chapter 20

At five thirty a.m., my cell phone rang at the hospital. Serenity had just received a call from the Cat Lady, during which the old woman asked for Serenity’s word that neither she nor I would ever reveal the name or location of her former daughter-in-law, if she passed it to us. Serenity instantly agreed, and thirty seconds later she had a name, a time, and a New Orleans address.

I spent Monday morning at St. Catherine’s Hospital with my mother while Drew ran a battery of tests to confirm or rule out a stroke, including an angiogram and an MRI. Throughout this process—which was mostly hurry-up-and-wait—I received a steady stream of updates from the courthouse describing the voir dire process. The texts were authored by Rusty Duncan, a local lawyer whose friendship with me dates back to nursery school at St. Stephen’s Prep. Rusty’s a funny son of a bitch, as well as smart, and he peppered his texts with quips and sarcastic commentary about Quentin’s unusual questions for the potential jury members. The basic picture Rusty painted was of a circus in which citizens who normally tried everything short of self-mutilation to avoid jury duty were lying through their teeth to get a chance to hear the lurid details of my father’s case and ultimately decide his fate.

About midday Drew Elliott came to me in the cafeteria with what he believed was good news. “Earlier I believed Peggy had a TIA,” he said, “a transient ischemic attack. But now, believe it or not, I’m thinking her symptoms may have resulted from a complex migraine headache. They can mimic the symptoms of stroke. Peggy has no history of migraines, but God knows she’s under unbearable stress.”

Despite his optimism, Drew insisted on additional tests, and also on keeping Mom in the hospital overnight. When Mom told him she planned to be in court tomorrow for the beginning of the trial proper, Drew absolutely forbade it.

“Peggy, I could be wrong about the migraine,” he said. “And if there was a clot—and we missed it or it was reabsorbed—then there could be another one coming down the pike. And statistically, the next one would be bigger and more damaging.”

“I don’t care,” Mom said flatly. “And if the big one is coming, what’s the difference if I’m lying in bed or sitting in court downtown?”