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Where are you?
No response.
I call his cell phone.
No answer. And his voicemail box is full.
I call his office. Maybe he went there.
No answer. Not even his prickly secretary picks up.
I text him again.
What’s going on?
Again, no response.
Frustration mounting, I glance down at the time. It’s now after 5p.m. I’ve had no communication from him since early this morning. Has something happened to him? But surely, if he’d gotten into an accident, I would have been notified by the police or highway patrol, or even a hospital, by now.
Fingers crossed I’ll hear from him soon or he’ll be back. But for whatever reason he doesn’t come back, I need to be prepared for the storm coming in—a Category 4 hurricane no less. Seriously, when’s the last time LA had a hurricane? Global warming is for real.
Sitting at the kitchen island with my phone, I glance out the glass doors. The sky is grayer than I’ve ever seen it. Dark and ominous. I step outside. The air sticks to my skin. It’s thick and humid. And the wind is picking up. Our palm trees are swaying, the fronds flapping like condor wings.
Returning inside, I anxiously check the weather on my phone. I get the answer to my question.
The National Weather Service has issued a tropical storm warning for parts of Southern California, including Los Angeles for the very first time. Gusting winds are expected of up to seventy miles per hour and rain of up to seven inches. By the early evening, there will be heavy downpours and coastal flooding with rockslides and mudslides creating hazardous driving conditions. Residents are urged to stay indoors and off the roads.
A shiver skitters down my spine. That means Gabe won’t be able to get here if I need him. The Pacific Coast Highway will likely be closed, and it will be too dangerous, maybe impossible, for him to drive over any canyons.
Worry pulses through me. My greatest fears are that the pool will overflow and flood our house, or that the outdoor furniture will be swept up by the heavy winds and crash through the windows, sending glass flying everywhere. Or the roof will fly off, leaving us without shelter since we have no basement. And on top of all that, the power will go off and we’ll be trapped in this house without light or electricity because the motorized gate won’t open.
Since it’s Marley’s day off and I’m unsure if Ned’s on his way, I’ll be stuck here with my baby…alone. Well, except for my drunken mother, who I already know will be more of a hindrance than a help.
A bundle of nerves, I’m biting my nails when suddenly a bright idea comes to me. I’ll drive down to the Chateau Marmont with Isa and my mother. We’ll be much safer there than here. I try to remember where I left my car keys and put the remote to open the garage door. It’s been over six months since I’ve driven my car. Who knows if it’ll even start up? Squeezing my eyes shut, I search my mind.
Think, Ava, think!
I remember! I stashed them in the bottom kitchen drawer where Ned keeps a few basic tools he’s never used. I jump up from my stool and hurry to the drawer. There they are…in a plastic baggie next to a flashlight. Wasting no time, I go back outside and head to the two-car garage where I keep my car. Removing the remote from the bag, I press it, but the heavy garage door only lifts a few inches before it gets stuck. It was always acting up, but with my difficult pregnancy, I never got around to fixing it. I try one more time, but it doesn’t budge. I can’t get my car out of the garage. And I can’t get the door to close. It’s going to get flooded and all of Isa’s baby shower gifts stacked inside it may get ruined. And worse, I won’t be able to drive to safety if I have to.
My heart hammering, I hurry back into the house and hear my cell phone ping. Ned?
Except it’s not my phone. It’s my mother’s, charging on the kitchen counter. Out of curiosity, I amble over to it. There’s a text message. It’s from a 702 number I don’t recognize. From someone named Guido Lorenzo.
Nurse investigation going well. Full report coming shortly. In the meantime, read this.
Damn my mother. She must have had Nurse Marley investigated behind my back. Unable to stop myself, I click on the link embedded in the text. Written by a staff member, it’s an article from the Los Angeles Times, dated August 30, 2003.
DOCTOR GETS LIFE SENTENCE FOR DEATHS OF BABIES
Dr. Yzak Milov, best known as the Quack of Quail Valley, was convicted by a Los Angeles Superior Court jury of second-degree murder in connection with the deaths of four infants, and involuntary manslaughter in connection with the deaths of six women. He was also convicted of practicing medicine without a license and prescribing illegal drugs.
The fifty-five-year-old doctor, who received his medical license in his native Serbia, was not allowed to practice medicine in the United States after repeatedly failing a qualifying exam, and operated a birthing clinic in the basement of his Quail Valley mansion in Riverside County. Dubbed a “house of horrors” by witnesses during the trial, the clinic was rat infested, unsanitary, and relied on outdated equipment that was rusty and unsterile as well as illegal, often expired drugs. The stench of urine filled the air and victims reported being covered in dirty, bloodstained blankets during their deliveries. Stillborn infants were often disposed of in an incinerator. Others in the trash or toilet.
Milov preyed on uninsured, impoverished women with high-risk pregnancies, who didn’t have the financial means for hospital care. Experts have estimated that he monthly took in tens of thousands of dollars from his services and his “pill mill,” affording his wife, Renata, and their young daughter, whose identity is being protected, a Beverly Hills lifestyle. Renata, who was in the courtroom when her husband was found guilty, simply stood up and exited the building amidst an outcry of boos and hisses.
“You’re a murderer too! You knew and let them die!” cried out one tearful victim who had lost both her daughter and grandchild to Milov’s unscrupulous ways. “You deserve to die too!”
Throughout the trial, Milov maintained his innocence, attributing the deaths of his victims to “nature.” Following his conviction, he waived his right to appeal in exchange for an agreement by prosecutors not to seek the death penalty. He was sentenced to life in prison without parole.
