Jim Krueger: "So let's leave it alone 'cause we can't see eye to eye. There ain't no good guy, there ain't no bad guy. There's only you and me and we just disagree."
= = = =
Have you ever had that feeling that you've done something wrong but don't have a clue what it might be? Digging deep I can't fathom what I've done to cause my wife Dusty to snipe at me rather frequently.
We've been married for six years having tied the knot shortly after graduating from college. Dusty went on to get her masters. It took me five years of night classes to get mine. That being said, we've postponed having children while getting ed-u-ma-cated. My attempts to get Dusty to explain what's going on have only been met with the 'I'M FINE!' response. As all married men know, that means shut the fuck up and give her some space.
Our sex life is a roller coaster. Some nights she's clock watching and other nights I'm lucky to survive.
Being an avid reader of online stories I'm well aware of the warning signs of an affair. Dusty just isn't checking off many of those boxes. There's no mysterious phone calls, no girl's nights out, and her wardrobe remains about as unchanged as when she started her job.
My concern is that she's gotten bored with me or is suffering the onset of the seven-year itch. I, Dean that is, am in love. I'm not what you'd call a romantic but I do try to do some things spontaneous like buying flowers or mid-week dinners out. Dusty seems appreciative.
Lately though I find myself keeping my head down so as not to get hit by another 'I'M FINE!'
+ + + +
Friday afternoon at work was pretty average with the exception that month-end reports were due. Not one to wait until the last minute to get it done, I've already submitted mine and am working on some spreadsheets for our current projects.
It was just shy of three when my life twisted sideways. My cell phone indicated a call from Welburn County Hospital, our county's only hospital. I've never been a patient there, nor had I ever received a call from them, so curiosity won out.
"Hello."
"I'm looking for a Mr. Dean Nelson" from a female voice.
"That's me. How can I help you?"
"Mr. Nelson you are listed as the In-Case-Of-Emergency contact in Dusty Nelson's cell phone. What is your relationship with her?"
"I'm her husband. Is there a problem?"
"Yes there is. She's been admitted for a drug overdose. It's serious but not life threatening at this point. Regardless, she'll likely spend the weekend with us."
Denial.
"You must be mistaken. My wife and I don't do drugs, recreational or otherwise. Are you positive it's her?"
"One of the participants that was not stricken positively identified her."
"What do you mean participants?"
"Apparently there was a sex and drugs party going on and many of the people there unknowingly took fentanyl."
Fentanyl was a word I'd heard before but really wasn't sure what it was, so I did the natural thing "What's fentanyl?"
"Fentanyl is a synthetic opioid that can be one hundred times stronger than morphine. Pharmaceutical fentanyl was developed for pain management treatment of cancer but has become a way to enhance cocaine. If mixed improperly it can kill which is what happened to two of the participants."
My mind tried to wrap itself around that SEX and DRUGS statement "You said this was some kind of sex thing too?"
"Yes, many of the participants were engaged in sexual activity when they became ill. Several were unclothed when they were transported here."
"Was my wife clothed?"
"I'm not seeing any indication one way or the other. Do you know where we are located? We'll need you to confirm that her insurance information is still current. She's already a registered patient from previous treatments."
That was also news to me. What possible reason would Dusty have to have seen them previously? I sat stunned after that call ended. Too much to digest. Just for my peace of mind I tried Dusty's cell phone. Perhaps the hospital is wrong. My call went to messages so I simply left 'Call me'.
+ + + +
I didn't race over. My mind was still hitting that Sex and Drugs roadblock. Why wasn't Dusty at work? How long has this been going on? Was she naked? Was she whoring around? When did she start doing drugs?
After providing my identification, and of course the only thing they were really interested in: confirming Dusty's insurance coverage, I was allowed to enter her room. With an oxygen mask on and all of the IVs it would take a tattoo to identify Dusty. She, of course, didn't have any. Did she? At this point I'm not sure I know this woman. Sex and drugs? Her wedding band was missing so my matching one did little to help confirm that the lady lying there was Dusty. Granted she did kind of look like Dusty.
"Do you know where her wedding band is?"
"No. We don't generally remove any jewelry unless medically necessary" from the sympathetic eyes of the middle-aged nurse. She's probably seen this too many times.
"How long before she's awake?"
"The drug needs to be flushed from her system, which can take from several hours to several days. She's young enough, and appears to be in otherwise good health, so the chances of organ failure are reduced with every passing minute. We're still on a wait-and-see protocol with her. You're welcome to stay. Maybe hearing your voice will give her hope."
I doubt that! All I have now are accusations and hard questions for her to answer. I left, but not really. I made it to my car and just sat there. This can't be happening. Where did my happy life disappear to? Should I call her parents? I did nothing. I wanted to cry. I wanted to puke.
The nurses' station said they'd call if there was any change in her condition. Visitor hours were ending so I looked in at an unchanged scene before heading home. Only a few bites of microwaved leftovers went down and those few needed beer. I should talk to somebody before I explode, but I'm still numb. My kitchen walls got a blistering rant.
Turning on the news I got the thirty second clip of some body bags being taken from a residential 'drug orgy gone bad' scene. No names, but a general idea of which neighborhood. Maybe that's where Dusty's car is?
It was a fifteen minute drive to confirm that Dusty was likely there. Her car was parked a few houses down from the one draped with yellow police tape. Parking my car on the next street over, I used the spare set of keys for Dusty's car and drove it home. A thorough search produced a ring box hiding a matching wedding band. Also of interest were receipts for lingerie from a boutique shop near where Dusty works. My stomach was not absorbing these discoveries well at all.
Unable to sleep, I called for a ride-share and picked up my car. What has Dusty gotten mixed up in? How long has it gone on? Sleep avoided me until the whiskey lulled my body to relax.
My first stop in the morning was WCH but not to visit Dusty. I got myself checked for sexually transmitted diseases. Most results would be ready digitally within forty-eight hours. It took longer to set up my patient portal than the tests did.
Not having told anyone about Dusty's hospital stay, I was surprised to find a lady in jeans sitting close and holding Dusty's hand.
"Who are you?"
Startled she stumbled to her feet "Jean Simmons, I work with Dusty."
"Are you one of the sex and drug addicts too?"
"Uh, I, uh, well" was all she said before I took over.
"LEAVE! NOW! You've done enough harm already!"
"I just wanted to see how she was doing!"
"How come you're not in the hospital too? Are you her drug dealer?"
"NO! I mean I don't know. I'm not a drug dealer. I don't know why some of us didn't get sick. I should probably leave."
"Leave" was barked unkindly.
"Alright already, I'm gone."
What I really wanted to do was torture Jean until she told me things I didn't want to know. The fact that Dusty was there likely meant the end of our marriage. Did I really want to torment my brain with indelible images I'd never understand?
The whole time Dusty's medical machines never varied. An occasional beep at the nurse's station was my only stimulus. I was still in shock. I should have asked Jean more questions.
Opening the cabinet I found a bag with clothing. As any married man will attest, we can rarely tell you what outfit our wives wear to work. The bag contained slacks, blouse, shoes, anklet socks, and lacy panties. Once the implications hit me, that the bra was missing and she wore lacy panties, I took the bag of clothes and went home. Can't really call it home anymore. It's a house now. The more I looked through the house the sadder I became. Dreams and hopes lying scattered around now collecting dust.
+ + + +
Saturday afternoon I contacted several law enforcement locations before finding the department that was handling the investigation. They invited me in to get answers to my questions. That's not quite how it all went down.
Their accusations started almost immediately. Why did I move her car? How long have Dusty and I been doing cocaine? Were we swingers? Why wasn't I there? What kinds of drugs did we take? Did I know the people who died? Basically they got shit out of me. When you know nothing that's all you're going to get.
No, they wouldn't allow me to visit the crime scene. No, they weren't at liberty to disclose details about Dusty's activities or what she was wearing when she was transported from the house. No, they won't tell me how the victims ingested the drugs. They indicated that they were still trying to determine if others had been there and left. If there were people like that, only they would know the answers that the police hadn't disclosed.
The only information I was actually able to pry out of them was that they had Dusty's phone and that's how they provided the hospital with my contact information. No, I could not have the phone as it was crime scene evidence.
The Saturday night local news had a few more details. Web searches identified the two deceased. Neither of the names meant anything to me. They both worked with Dusty according to their online profiles. Speculation was that six were whisked away by paramedics and three others required no medical attention.
Real estate records indicated that the lady who died, Maggie, was on the title of the fatal party house. She worked with Dusty. I remember her from one of the company parties. I called WCH looking for the male listed on the house deed. They didn't have a patient by that name. Dead end for now.
Sunday morning found me wandering the halls of WCH. I was looking for Jean. Dusty had no visitors other than her guilty conscience. When I spotted Jean she was leaving a room. She didn't notice me so I followed her to another room. By noon I knew two of the other victims. Both are males and worked with Jean and Dusty.
When I last saw Jean she was swiping away tears as she boarded the elevator. Survivor's guilt? My return to the web later that night found a possible reason. Another man from the party had died. This one did not work with Jean and Dusty. So if everyone else worked together who was this guy?
The late news broadcast had an interview with a spokesperson from Dusty's company. He indicated that this office worked half-days on Friday and those involved were on their own time when things took a fatal turn. He, of course, had the crocodile tears for those deceased and hospitalized. Ending the interview was his real agenda. What company needs press like this?
Near 7 Pm WCH called to say that Dusty was awake. I didn't leave my recliner or blended whiskey. What am supposed to do? Rant and rave at someone struggling to overcome a drug overdose? Destroy her emotionally with my plans to divorce her?
