I locked the door and the one leading to the master bedroom, flushed the toilet, and let out my breath. The water was as blue as the tiles.
I found myself staring down at a tiny azure whirlpool. Turning on the water, I washed my face and dried it, catching a glimpse of myself in the mIrror.
Dire and old with suspicion. I tried on a few smiles, finally settled on one that didn't approximate the leer of a used-car salesman.
The mirror was the face of a medicine cabinet.
Child-proof latch. I undid it.
Four shelves. I turned the water up full blast, rifled quickly, starting at the top and working down.
Aspirin, Tylenol, razor blades, shaving cream. Men's cologne, deodorant, an emery board, a bottle of liquid antacid. A small yellow box of spermicidal jelly capsules. Hydrogen peroxide, a tube of earwax-dissolving ointment, suntan lotion.
I closed the cabinet. When I turned off the water I heard Cindy's voice through the door, saying something comforting and maternal.
Until she'd thrust Cassie at me, the little girl had accepted me.
Maybe I'm not supposed to be a mother... I'm a horrible mother.
Stretched past the breaking point? Or trying to sabotage my visit?
I rubbed my eyes. Another cabinet beneath the sink. Another child-proof latch. Such careful parents, pulling up the carpets, washing the toys...
Cindy was cooing to Cassie.
Silently, I got down on my knees, freed the latch, and opened the door.
Beneath the snake of the drainpipe were boxes of tissues and rolls of plastic-wrapped toilet paper. Behind those sat two bottles of green mint mouthwash and an aerosol can. I examined the can. Pinescented disinfectant. As I replaced it, it fell and my arm shot forward to catch it and mask the noise. I succeeded but the back of my hand knocked against something, off to the right, with sharp corners.
I pushed the paper goods aside and drew it out.
White cardboard box, about five inches square, imprinted on top with a red-arrow logo above stylized red script that read HOLLOWAY MEDICAL CORP. Above that was an arrow-shaped gold foil sticker: SAMPLE, PRESENTED TO: Ralph Benedict, M.D. A string-and-disc tie held the box shut. I unwound it, pushed back the flaps, and exposed a sheet of corrugated brown paper. Under that was a row of white plastic
cylinders the size of ballpoint pens, nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. A folded slip of printed paper was rubber-banded to each one.
I fished out a cylinder. Feather-light, almost flimsy. A numbered ring girdled the bottom of the shaft. At the tip was a hole surrounded by screw thread; on the other end, a cap that twisted but didn't come off.
Black letters on the barrel said INSLJEcT. I removed the printed paper. Manufacturer's brochure, copyrighted five years ago. Holloway Medical's home office was in San Francisco.
The first paragraph read: INSUJEcT (TM> is a dose-adjustable ultra-lightweight delivery system for the subcutaneous administration of human or purified pork insulin in 1 to 3 unit doses. lNsUJECr should be used in conjunction with other components of the Holloway INsu EASE (TM) system, namely, INsuIECT disposable needles and INSUFIIL (TM) cartridges.
The second paragraph highlighted the selling points of the system: portability, an ultra-thin needle that reduced pain and the risk of subdermal abscesses, increased 'ease of administration and precise calibration of dosage.' A series of boxed line drawings illustrated needle attachment, loading of the cartridge into the cylinder, and the proper way to inject insulin beneath the skin.
Ease of administration.
An ultra-thin needle would leave a minuscule puncture wound, just as Al Macauley had described. If the injection site was concealed, the mark just might escape detection.
I groped around inside the box, looking for needles.
None, just the cylinders. Shoving my hands into the recesses of the cabinet yielded nothing more.
