If Clyde knew about Ronan’s death, then Amy knew, too.
“Clyde told me about what happened to Mr. Ronan,” I said.
“Ronan didn’t hang himself. Clyde just says that to shut me up.”
“You think he’s lying?”
“When is he not lying? Google it—you won’t find a damn thing. He says it’s in some secret police database, but he’s full of crap. I know what’s true and what isn’t—I always have, even if no one believes me, not even you.”
“It can’t be …”
“Look, I don’t want to talk about it now. They tell me I’m supposed to focus on happy thoughts.” She leaned against the window, pressing her palm against the dim hospital glass. “I should thank you for coming. You’re a good friend. You’re my only friend, really.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“It’s mostly true.” She leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “I need a favor, Duck. The doctor will sign my release tomorrow morning if I can show that there’s a stable environment waiting for me at home.”
“What does that mean?”
“They don’t want me living alone, you know…without supervision. Otherwise I’ll have to stay here for at least two weeks. I could petition the court, but if I’m ruled a danger to myself, or someone else, they could ship me out to a state hospital, where they send the violent schizophrenics and the angry bi-polar chicks who beat the crap out of their kids. No thanks.” She flipped her ponytail over her left shoulder. “I think the court would release me, but I don’t want to risk it. And I don’t want to be here for two weeks. I can’t afford to stay here that long. So … I need someone to sign as a responsible party.”
“You want me to sign?”
“Exactly,” she said.
“That’s it? I just need to sign a form and they let you go?”
“Yes,” she said, “and well, you’ll need to stay around for a while, a week at most. You’ll stay at the house…”
“Which house?”
“My house,” Amy said. “There’s plenty of room. It’ll be easy. It’s not like you need to change my bedpan or anything. Just drive me to the outpatient meetings and, you know, stick around.”
“Is this a joke?”
“No, it’s not a joke. What the hell is wrong with you, Duck?”
At the table the cranky nurse looked up from her phone, her eyes zeroing in as Amy’s voice turned loud and sharp. “Everything okay?” the nurse asked. “Amy?”
“I’m fine,” Amy barked, before her voice softened. “Sorry. I’m fine.”
“How about another five minutes with your visitor and then some quiet time back in your room?” the nurse said. “We don’t want another meltdown like in Art Therapy.”
Clearly it wasn’t a question. Amy turned her back and flipped off the nurse.
“What happened in Art Therapy?” I asked.
“Nothing. An appearance by Captain Sick…”
The name struck me. During high school Amy had invented a character, Captain Sick, a harbinger of doom whose presence meant something bad was lurking. His name became shorthand for our nervousness and apprehension. Captain Sick could show up anywhere from third period Geometry to her Aunt Becky’s hospital room the day before she died. Sometimes Amy would draw his figure, a dark hooded man with a bowtie and no face. On hangover days she’d draw pages of him chasing her across the backyard with a whip. Though he was Amy’s invention, I’d embraced him, too. When my play opened, I kept waiting for him to appear backstage with a smoke bomb and a bad review.
We never spoke it, but we knew he’d been there the day Sarah Carpenter had disappeared.
“Captain Sick …it’s that bad?”
“Forget about Captain Sick,” she said, her voice soft but frantic. “I need your help, Donnie. Clyde won’t do it, and I don’t want him to, either. I’d ask my parents but they’re away on a cruise, and my mother would probably suggest they keep me here forever. Jill is still a minor, so she doesn’t count.” She pulled over a chair and sat down. “There really is no one else I can ask.”
“You can’t stay here?”
“You’d prefer I rot in a mental hospital than take care of me for a few days?”
“No…”
“Am I really such an inconvenience?” She looked at me with her big brown eyes, her sad-puppy-please-adopt-me-from-this-kill-shelter brown eyes, her hand touching my arm. “You always said if I ever needed you…”
“I know what I said,” I told her. “But I’m not sure I can get away for that long.”
“You’re already here. Just don’t go back. What could be easier?”
“I have a business to run…”
“California can survive a few days without your goddamn pizza, Duck. If you lose money, I’ll pay you back… eventually.”
Two Spanish-speaking women came into the lounge, an older pair, one of them carrying a jar of salsa, the other a baguette. They sat at a table and broke the bread into pieces, their voices hyper and high-pitched. From the couch, Glenn looked over his shoulder and glared.
“It’s not the money,” I said. “The thing is…I’m not alone.”
Amy closed her eyes, and for a moment her face seemed to melt, the muscles in her jaw quivering as she inhaled, clenching her lips. Across the room the Hispanic women started dipping the bread into the salsa and setting it out on paper plates, as if preparing for a church social. I put my hand on Amy’s shoulder, but she pushed it away, and I felt like a bastard and a colossal dick. Had I really flown three thousand miles not to help her? And didn’t the idea of living with her for a week excite me in ways too obvious to ignore? She dropped her head and I waited for
