'Sometimes I do, too.' Kate's voice trailed away as she stared at the contents of the bag. 'I found them in the top of Ginger's bureau. It's the strangest way to package pills I've ever seen. On that one sheet are nearly two months worth of them, packaged individually and labeled by day and date when to take each one. Looks sort of like it was put together by a computer.'
'It was, ' Kate said, her thoughts swirling. 'Pardon?'
'I said it was put together by a computer.' Her eyes came up slowly and turned toward the window. Across the street, its glass and steel facade jewellike, was the pride of Metropolitan Hospital of Boston. 'The pharmacy- dispensing computer of the Omnicenter. The Omnicenter where Ginger Rittenhouse never went.'
'I don't understand.'
Kate rose. 'Mrs. Tucker, you've been a tremendous help. I'll call if we need any further information or if we learn something that might help explain your friend's death. If you'll excuse me, there are some phone calls I must make.'
The woman took Kate's hand. 'Think nothing of it, ' she said. 'Oh, I felt uncomfortable at first, rifling through her drawers, but then I said to myself, If you're not going to do it, then…'
'Mrs. Tucker, thank you very much.' One hand still locked in Sandra Tucker's, Kate used her other to take the woman by the elbow and guide her out the door. The tablets were a medium-strength estrogen-progesterone combination, a generic birth control pill. Kate wondered if Ginger Rittenhouse had been too shy to mention to her roommate that she took them. Computer printed along the top margin of the sheet were Ginger's name, the date six weeks before when the prescription had been filled, and instructions to take one tablet daily.
Also printed was advice on what to do if one dose was missed, as well as if two doses were missed. Common side effects were listed, with an asterisk beside those that should be reported immediately to Ginger's Omnicenter physician. Perforations, vertical and horizontal, enabled the patient to tear off as many pills as might be needed for time away. The setup, like everything at the Omnicenter, was slick-thoughtfully designed, and practical- further showing why there was a long list of women from every economic level waiting to become patients of the facility. Kate ran through half a dozen possible explanations of why she had been told Ginger Rittenhouse was not a patient at the Omnicenter, then she accepted that there was only one way to find out. She answered,
'Doctor Bennett, ' when the Omnicenter operator asked who was calling, emphasizing ever so slightly her title. Immediately, she was patched through to Dr. William Zimmermann, the director. 'Kate, this is a coincidence. I was just about to call you. How are you? ' It was typical of the man, a dynamo sometimes called Rocket Bill, to forgo the redundancy of saying hello. 'I'm fine, Bill, thanks. What do you mean coincidence'?'
'Well, I've got a note here from our statistician, Carl Horner, along with a file on someone named Rittenhouse. Carl says he originally sent word to you that we had no such patient.'
'That's right.'
'Well, we do. Apparently there was a coding mistake or spelling mistake or something.'
'Did he tell you why I wanted to know?'
'Only that this woman had died.'
'That's right. Does your Carl Horner make mistakes often? ' The idea of an error didn't jibe with Marco Sebastian's description of the man.
'Once every century or so as far as I can tell. I've been here four years now, and this is the first time I've encountered any screw up by his machines. Do you want me to send this chart over to you?'
'Can I pick it up in person, Bill? There are some other things I want to talk with you about.'
'One o'clock okay with you?'
'Fine. And Bill, could you order a printout of the record of a Beverly Vitale.'
'The woman who bled out on the inpatient service?'
'Yes.'
'I've already reviewed it. A copy's right here on my desk.'
'Excellent. One last thing.'
'Yes?'
'I'd like to meet Carl Horner. Is that possible?'
'Old Carl's a bit cantankerous, but I suspect it would be okay.'
'One o'clock, then?'
'One o'clock.' + Ellen Sandler clutched her housecoat about her and sat on the edge of her bed staring blankly at a disheveled blackbird foraging for a bit of food on the frozen snow beyond her window. She was expected at the office in less than an hour. The house was woefully low on staples. Betsy's math teacher had set up a noontime conference to investigate her falling interest and grade in the subject. Eve needed help shopping for a dress for her piano recital. Darcy had come home an hour after weekday curfew, her clothes tinged with a musty odor that Ellen suspected was marijuana. So much to do. So much had changed, yet so little. The silence in the house was stifling. Gradually, she focused on a few ongoing sounds, the hum of the refrigerator, the drone of the blower on the heating and air conditioning system Sandy had installed to celebrate their last anniversary, the sigh that was her own breathing.
'Get up, ' she told herself. 'Goddamn it, get up and do what you have to do.' Still, she did not move. The hurt, the oppressive, constricting ache in her chest seemed to make movement impossible. It wasn't the loneliness that pained so, although certainly that was torture. It wasn't the empty bed or the silent telephone or the lifeless eyes that stared at her from the mirror. It wasn't even the other woman, whoever she was. It was the lies-the dozens upon dozens of lies from the one person in the world she needed to trust. It was the realization that while the anguish and hurt of the broken marriage might, in time, subside, the inability to trust would likely remain part of her forever.
'Get up, dammit. Get up, get dressed, and get going.'
With what seemed a major effort, she broke through the inertia of her spirit and the aching stiffness in her limbs, and stood up. The room, the house, the job, the girls-so much had changed, yet so little. She walked to the closet, wondering if perhaps something silkier and more feminine than what she usually wore to the office would buoy her. The burgundy dress she had bought for London caught her eye. Two men had made advances toward her the first day she wore it, and there had been any number of compliments on it since. As she crossed the room, Ellen felt the morning discomforts in her joints diminish-all, that is, except a throbbing in her left thigh that seemed to worsen with each step. She slipped off her housecoat, hung it up, and pulled her flannel nightgown off over her head. Covering much of the front of her thigh was the largest bruise she had ever seen.
Gingerly, she explored it with her fingers. It was somewhat tender, but not unbearably so. She did not know how she had gotten it. She had sustained no injury that she could remember. It must, she decided, have been the way she slept on it. She selected a blue, thin wool jumpsuit in place of the dress, which, it seemed, might not cover the bruise in every situation. She dressed, still unable to take her eyes off the grotesque discoloration. Her legs had always been one of her best features. Even after three children, she took pride that there were only a few threadlike veins visible behind her knees. Now this. For a moment, she thought about calling Kate for advice on whether or not to have a doctor check things out, but she decided that a bruise was a bruise.
Besides, she had simply too much else to do. A bit of makeup and some work on her hair, and Ellen felt as ready as she ever would to tackle the day. The face in her mirror, thin and fine featured, would probably turn some heads, but the eyes were still lifeless. She was leaving the room when she noticed the note tacked to the doorjamb. Each day it happened like this, and each day it was like seeing the note for the first time, despite the fact that she had tacked it there more than a year before. 'Take Vit, ' was all it said. Ellen went to the medicine cabinet, took the sheet of multivitamins plus iron from the shelf, punched one out, and swallowed it without water. Half consciously, she noticed that there was only a four-week supply remaining, and she made a mental note to set up an appointment with her physician at the Omnicenter. Although she was limping slightly as she left the house, Ellen found the tightness in her thigh bearable. In fact, compared to the other agonies in her life at the moment, the sensation was almost pleasant. The sign, a discreet bronze plate by the electronically controlled glass doors, said, 'Metropolitan Hospital of Boston, Ashburton Women's Health Omnicenter, 1975.' Kate had been one of the first patients to enroll and had never regretted her decision.
Gynecological care, hardly a pleasant experience, had become at least tolerable for her, as it had for the several thousand other women who were accepted before a waiting list was introduced. The inscription above the receptionist's desk said it all. 'Complete Patient Care with Complete Caring Patience.'
Kate stopped at the small coatroom to one side of the brightly lit foyer, and checked her parka with a blue-
