The Wrong Goodbye

“Then why did we come all this way to see him?”

“Because unless I’m much mistaken, he’s going to lead us to someone who might. You got the time?”

“Last I saw, the clock on the dash read quarter to one.”

“We’d best get moving, then, unless you feel like waiting around here till next week.”

By the look on his sweaty, heat-flushed face, I’d say he didn’t much relish the thought of spending the week in such steamy environs. Which was fine by me, because I sure as hell didn’t —though my reluctance had nothing to do with the heat. No, for me it was more the frickload of angry, crawly Deliverants on our tail that made me reluctant to stay anyplace for one second longer than we had to.

Inside, the lobby of the nursing home was quiet. A ceiling fan turned lazily above an empty seating area comprising a rose damask sofa and two matching armchairs, all at least as old and timeworn as the building itself. A wooden reception desk ran the length of the far wall, and behind it sat a plump, silver-haired woman in pale blue scrubs, her nose buried in an Elmore Leonard novel. As we approached, she set the book down and flashed us a tired, perfunctory halfsmile that looked as if it had walked into the room only to forget what it was doing there.

“Can I help you, darlin’?” she asked, her vowels stretching pleasantly beneath the weight of her drawl.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m here to see Mariella Hamilton.”

“And your relation to the patient?”

“I’m her grandson.”

“Her grandson,” she echoed, incredulous.

“That’s right.”

“What about him?” she asked, raising an eyebrow as she took in Gio’s massive frame. “He her grandson, too?”

“No,” I said, flashing her my best we’re-all-friendshere smile. “But he’s an old friend of the family —grew up a few doors down. I’m sure she’d like to see him.”

The woman shook her head. “Sorry, darlin’, but if he ain’t family, he’ll have to wait here. The rules, you understand.”

Gio made like he was gonna object, but I cut him off. “That’s fine,” I said. “He’ll wait.”

The way the woman eyed the two of us, it was clear she didn’t believe a word of what I’d said. But then she shrugged, as if deciding she didn’t care much either way. “Mariella’s in room 2123,” she said, her words tinged with weary resignation. “Just follow the hallway to your left until you reach the staircase, and–”

“Thanks,” I said. “I know the way.”

Mariella Hamilton was a tiny, frail specimen of a woman, nestled in the soft white blankets of her hospital bed like a champagne flute wrapped for transport. Looking at her, I couldn’t fault the nurse downstairs her skepticism at my claim we were related. Her skin was the color of brown sugar —a far cry from my meatsuit’s pasty white —and stretched tight and shiny across her fragile bones. Though she couldn’t be a day under eighty, her hair was still largely black, and pulled into a severe bun, so that what few streaks of white were present swirled like creamer through coffee atop the contours of her head. Her eyes were closed, as always, and her hands were crossed atop her breast. Clipped to one finger was a sensor, which ran to the heart monitor that blipped a quiet rhythm from its perch beside the bed —the same rhythm it had blipped, without fail or deviation, for the last twenty-seven years.

I leaned in close and kissed her forehead. Then I took a seat in the chair beside the bed, gathering her hands into my own. I closed my eyes and bowed my head, my lips moving in silent prayer. It was only when the sound of footfalls echoed through the room that I raised my head again, blinking against the sudden brightness as I turned to see the source of the interruption.

Turns out the interruption was a hulking kid of maybe twenty-three, with thick arms, dishwater hair, and dull, close-set eyes that glowered out at the world from beneath a brow that could have sheltered woodland creatures in a storm. He was dressed in the same pale blue scrubs as the woman downstairs, though his were nowhere near as clean, and he was carrying a tray laden with alcohol swabs, a rubber tourniquet, and a handful of needle-tipped test tubes of the type used to collect blood. When he saw me sitting there, he froze. Confusion and good manners played tug-of-war with his face. Eventually, good manners won out, and he smiled, continuing into the room and setting his tray down on the bedside table beside me.

“Sorry to barge in on you like that,” he said, his words tinged with the same drawl as the nurse I’d spoken to downstairs. “Mariella here doesn’t get company too often. Truth be told, you scared the hell out of me!”

“Did I?” I asked.

“You did, at that,” he said, looping the tourniquet around Mariella’s arm above the elbow and tapping at one suddenly protruding vein. Seated as I was, the kid towered over me, the scent of soap and sweat and sick clinging to his massive frame.

“So,” he said, his eyes never leaving his task, “how is it you know ol’ Mariella?”

“Actually, I don’t. It’s Quinn I’m here to see.”

At that, the guy went rigid. Thick ropes of muscle flexed beneath the skin of his forearms, and his jaw clenched in sudden tension. A moment later, he appeared once more relaxed, but it was too late —I knew my words had hit their mark.

“I don’t think I know any Quinn,” he said, feigning levity. “You sure you got the right room?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I got the right room. Just like I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about.”

The kid was quick, I’ll give him that. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than he’d kicked the chair out from under me. My cheek exploded in white-hot pain as I slammed face-first into the floor, the upturned medical tray clattering to a rest beside me. Then he leapt on top of me, knocking the wind from my chest. He grabbed a fistful of my hair in one meaty hand and yanked, wrenching my head upward and exposing the tender flesh of my neck. My muscles burned in protest at the awkwardness of my position, and I wanted to thrash, to fight, to struggle against his iron grip. I wanted to, but I didn’t. It didn’t seem prudent, what with him holding a needle to my jugular and all.

“Who are you?” he hissed into my ear. Needle dug flesh, and I squeezed shut my eyes as I fought the urge to flinch. “What are you doing here?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out but a sort of dry, creaking noise. The pressure against my jugular doubled, and I tried again.

“I —I was… I was looking for you…” I wheezed. I couldn’t get any air into my lungs. My head was fuzzy; my vision dimmed. “It… it’s me —Sam!”

Suddenly, the weight atop me was gone. I rolled over to see the guy crouching awkwardly over me, and staring at me with an expression of shock and bewilderment. The needle he’d been wielding fell forgotten to the floor beside me.

“Sam? Is that really you?”

“Last I checked,” I said, dabbing at my blood-pricked neck with one hand.

Two things happened then that I confess I wasn’t expecting.

The first of them was he slapped me —hard. Getting slapped by a guy that size is hardly a dainty affair; it was more like getting socked in the face with a two-by-four. My head snapped back from the force of the blow, and rebounded off the floor with a fwack. Everything went kinda spotty for a minute, and my cheek burned in remembrance of his hand.

The slap I probably shoulda seen coming. But the second thing? The second thing I wouldn’t have predicted in a million years.

The second thing was, the dude grabbed me by the lapels of my suit coat, hoisted me up off the floor, and kissed me like he meant it.

10.

When he finally released me from his grasp, I slumped back to the floor, a bemused grin breaking across my face.

“I’ve got to be honest with you, sweetheart —that meat-suit of yours isn’t exactly my type. But still, it’s good to see you, Ana.”