Chapter Seventeen
Several hours had passed. Vera had been breathing shallowly since entering the hospital accompanied by one of the young corrections officers from Wentworth. She looked about her antiseptic surroundings. She reached out and touched the clock by the bedside. She then touched Joan’s reading glasses, her cup. Everything was so precious. Vera loved these things that Joan had used. She could feel Joan through these inanimate objects. Everything could have been so different. She could have been by her side caring for her. Loving her.
Tears fell from Vera’s eyes. Would Joan pull through? Would she remember Vera? What would she remember? Would she remember the good times when she was governor and Vera was her deputy or would she remember a vengeful Vera who tormented her when she was held pending trial? Would she have a chance to right the wrongs? Vera could see that Joan was fond of Ann. What if it was something more? Even on good behavior, her earliest chance at parole was in 8 months. Joan would be living a different life by then. Perhaps a different life with Ann.
Eight months. Vera never understood why Joan did not tell the police about her euthanizing her mother. Joan had turned evidence concerning her improper conduct as Wentworth’s governor during the lengthy police investigation but never did she hint at the possibility that Vera murdered Rita. If she was implicated in her mother’s murder, even considering mitigating circumstances, Vera would not be up for parole for at least another thirteen years. How old would she be by then? How old would Joan be? Maybe everything was just to “teach her a lesson”. To make sure she lost the job which was so important to her. But Joan didn’t realize that the job was only important because she was there with her. Vera no longer aspired to the little crowns on her shoulder after Joan came to Wentworth. She had been more than satisfied to serve as her deputy.
The hours continued to slip by slowly. It was pure hell for Vera. She sat waiting in Joan’s room tormented by how she had treated her and how she had betrayed her.
If only she could live it over. If only it were a bad dream.