my thumb, oddly sure it was the old man in the Dodge he’d come back this way looking for me, of course he had, it gave the story that final finishing roundness.
Only it wasn’t the old guy. It was a tobacco- chewing farmer in a Ford pick- up truck filled with apple baskets, a perfectly ordinary fellow: not old and not dead.
Where you goin, son? he asked, and when I told him he said, That works for both of us. Less than forty minutes later, at twenty minutes after nine, he pulled up in front of the Central Maine Medical Center. Good luck. Hope your ma’s on the mend.
Thank you, I said, and opened the door. I see you been pretty nervous about it, but she’ll most likely be fine. Ought to get some disinfectant on those, though. He pointed at my hands.
I looked down at them and saw the deep, purpling crescents on the backs. I remembered clutching them together, digging in with my nails, feeling it but unable to stop. And I remembered Staub’s eyes, filled up with moonlight like radiant water. Did you ride the Bullet?
he’d asked me. I rode that fucker four times.
Son? the man driving the pick- up asked. You all right?
Huh? You come over all shivery. I’m okay, I said. Thanks again. I slammed the door of the pickup and went up the wide walk past the line of parked wheelchairs gleaming in the moonlight.
I walked to the information desk, reminding myself that I had to look surprised when they told me she was dead, had to look surprised, they’d think it was funny if I didn’t . . . or maybe they’d just think I was in shock . . . or that we didn’t get along . . . or . . .
I was so deep in these thoughts that I didn’t at first grasp what the woman behind the desk had told me. I had to ask her to repeat it.
I said that she’s in room 487, but you can’t go up just now. Visiting hours end at nine.
But . . . I felt suddenly woozy. I gripped the edge of the desk. The lobby was lit by fluorescents, and in that bright even glare the cuts on the backs of my hands stood out boldly eight small purple crescents like grins, just above the knuckles. The man in the pick- up was right, I ought to get some disinfectant on those.
The woman behind the desk was looking at me patiently. The plaque in front of her said she was yvonne ederle.
But is she all right? She looked at her computer. What I have here is S. Stands for satisfactory. And four is a general population floor. If your mother had taken a turn for the worse, she’d be in ICU. That’s on three. I’m sure if you come back tomorrow, you’ll find her just fine. Visiting hours begin at She’s my ma, I said. I hitchhiked all the way down from the University of Maine to see her. Don’t you think I could go up, just for a few minutes?
Exceptions are sometimes made for immediate family, she said, and gave me a smile. You just hang on a second. Let me see what I can do. She picked up the phone and punched a couple of buttons, no doubt calling the nurse’s station on the fourth floor, and I could see the course of the next two minutes as if I really did have second sight. Yvonne the Information Lady would ask if the son of Jean Parker in 487 could come up for a minute or two just long enough to give his mother a kiss and an encouraging word and the nurse would say oh God, Mrs. Parker died not fifteen minutes ago, we just sent her down to the morgue, we haven’t had a chance to update the computer, this is so terrible.
The woman at the desk said, Muriel? It’s Yvonne. I have a young man here down here at the desk, his name is She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I gave her my name. Alan Parker. His mother is Jean Parker, in 487? He wonders if he could just . . .
She stopped. Listened. On the other end the nurse on the fourth floor was no doubt telling her that Jean Parker was dead.
All right, Yvonne said. Yes, I understand. She sat quietly for a moment, looking off into space, then put the mouthpiece of the telephone against her shoulder and said, She’s sending Anne Corrigan down to peek in on her. It will only be a second.
It never ends, I said. Yvonne frowned. I beg pardon? Nothing, I said. It’s been a long night and and you’re worried about your mom. Of course. I think you’re a very good son to drop everything the way you did and come on the run.
I suspected Yvonne Ederle’s opinion of me would have taken a drastic drop if she’d heard my conversation with the young man behind the wheel of the Mustang, but of course she hadn’t. That was a little secret, just between George and me.
It seemed that hours passed as I stood there under the bright fluorescents, waiting for the nurse on the fourth floor to come back on the line. Yvonne had some papers in front of her. She trailed her pen down one of them, putting neat little check marks beside some of the names, and it occurred to me that if there really was an Angel of Death, he or she was probably just like this woman, a slightly overworked functionary with a desk, a computer, and too much paperwork. Yvonne kept the phone pinched between her ear and one raised shoulder. The loudspeaker said that Dr. Farquahr was wanted in radiology, Dr. Farquahr. On the fourth floor a nurse named Anne Corrigan would now be looking at my mother, lying dead in her bed with her eyes open, the stroke- induced sneer of her mouth finally relaxing.
Yvonne straightened as a voice came back on the line. She listened, then said: All right, yes, I understand. I will. Of course I will. Thank you, Muriel. She hung up the telephone and looked at me solemnly. Muriel says you can come up, but you can only visit for five minutes. Your mother’s had her evening meds, and she’s very soupy.
I stood there, gaping at her.
Her smile faded a little bit. Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Parker?
Yes, I said. I guess I just thought Her smile came back. It was sympathetic this time. Lots of people think that, she said. It’s understandable. You get a call out of the blue, you rush to get here . . . it’s understandable to think the worst. But Muriel wouldn’t let you up on her floor if your mother wasn’t fine. Trust me on that.
Thanks, I said. Thank you so much. As I started to turn away, she said: Mr. Parker? If you came from the University of Maine up north, may I ask why you’re wearing that button? Thrill Village is in New Hampshire, isn’t it?
