Free Locked In by Marcia Muller Page B

spite of their having
     a full-time housekeeper and a maid, chores at the Kelleher-Savage home were often left undone, what with the band members
     and recording company people and friends constantly traipsing through the house.
    Back to the search for Bill Delaney. She’d called his cellular minutes ago. Same lack of response. No way of knowing whether
     it was Callie who’d written down the number or when. The phone could’ve been a throwaway or the account canceled long ago.
     With no information on Delaney, an ordinary name in this city with its high Irish population, locating him wouldn’t be easy.
    Okay, if a hooker had his cell number, what could he be?
    A fellow sex worker. A pimp. Someone in the porn industry. A lawyer…
    Yes!
    Google search of ABA members. Many Delaneys. She worked her way through them, both in the city and around the state. Narrowed
     it down by type of law practice. Came up with two possibles, one on Forty-eighth Avenue near Ocean Beach, the other on Shotwell
     Street, close to where the former All Souls Victorian stood on Bernal Heights. It was Saturday, but ambulance chasers who
     bailed hookers out of jail were always reachable.
    As she passed through the living room on the way out, she called to Ricky, Molly, and Lisa, “When you go to the zoo, tell
     the baby giraffe hello for me.”
    Ricky had an arm around either daughter. They were watching something on TV that sounded nonsensical. He grinned and said,
     “Good hunting, Red.”

HY RIPINSKY
    S he has got to be told today, before the visitors start coming,” he said to Dr. Saxnay.
    The older man sighed. “You’re right, of course. We’ll give her the weekend to take it in, then allow the first visitors on
     Monday.”
    “I’d rather they start coming right away.”
    “The diagnosis is going to be a shock.”
    “She’s aware it’s bad. All that time when she could hear and no one knew it. Besides, with Sharon, even knowing the worst
     is better than uncertainty.”
    Ralph Saxnay said, “Well, you can attest to that better than I.” He got up from the desk and led Hy toward McCone’s room.
     “You go in first.”
    It was an attractive room—he hadn’t paid attention to that before—with pale blue walls and matching blue upholstery on the
     visitors’ armchair near the high hospital bed. None of this backache-making plastic hospital-room stuff that he could swear
     was designed to drive family and friends away. Today the room was fragrant, filled with the flowers and plants from well-wishers
     that had arrived steadily since word got out that she’d been admitted here. The blinds were raised, giving a view of the silver-leafed
     eucalyptus grove, and the nursing staff had apparently completed their morning routine.
    Shar was awake, propped against the pillows. He went to her, kissed lips that were moist with Chap Stick. Looked into her
     eyes.
    She was blinking frantically.
    Yeah, she knows something’s wrong. And she wants me to tell her what.
    Saxnay had come up behind him. He seemed to intuit what was going on.
    “I’ve come to talk with you about your CT scan results,” he began, moving to where Sharon could see him.
    McCone blinked once.
    “Frankly, they are not as good as we’d hoped. Now that we know you’re conscious and aware, we can put a name to your condition:
     locked-in syndrome.”
    The doctor proceeded to explain: the same litany of symptoms and causes Hy had been given: awareness, ability to reason, to
     feel emotion and touch. Saxnay didn’t downplay the seriousness of the prognosis, and throughout his speech, McCone’s gaze
     remained fixed and unblinking on the doctor’s.
    “I don’t mean to say your condition is hopeless,” Saxnay concluded. “Patients have made partial recoveries. Much depends on
     you—your spirit, your determination. And, of course, you have friends and family to rally round you. That means a lot.” He
     paused. “Have I explained clearly enough for