‘Have you seen Hannah?’ I ask him.
He shakes his head. ‘No. Why?’
I glance at him, wondering if he and Hannah are still seeing each other. She hasn’t said anything about it and I haven’t asked as I’ve been too preoccupied. ‘Are you two . . . dating?’ I blurt.
He blanches. ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head furiously and blushing. ‘We’re just friends.’
Friends. I suppose that’s the lingo these days. No one dates anymore. Hannah did try to tell me that once. They hook up or hang out or Netflix and chill. They don’t date.
‘If I see her I’ll tell her you’re worried about her,’ he says.
I nod and hurry off into the stairwell, propping the door open with my foot. I try Hannah’s phone. It rings through to voicemail. I hang up and try again. This time it doesn’t even ring. She’s switched it off. Strange.
‘Hannah?’ I say, when her voicemail kicks in again. ‘It’s me. Call me back as soon as you get this.’
Where could she have gone? And why did she leave June – she knows the rules about not leaving her alone, not even for a minute. I fumble through the buttons to my own voicemail and start playing old messages, not even listening to them all the way through before hitting delete on each one, trying to clear space. They’re mostly from journalists anyway, a few from friends sending love and best wishes for a speedy recovery. Delete. Delete. Delete.
The phone rings in my hand. Hoping it’s Hannah, I’m disappointed to see it’s Dave. ‘Ava, is Laurie with you?’ he barks, the moment I pick up.
‘No. Why?’
‘She hasn’t been home all night. I’ve tried calling but she’s not picking up. And now her phone’s switched off. Do you know where she might be?’
‘Gene says she was at the hospital yesterday evening and left around midnight.’
‘OK,’ he mumbles.
‘I know about you and Gene being in business together,’ I snap.
There’s a silent hum on the end of the line and I wonder if he’s hung up but then he stammers. ‘Oh God, Ava, I’m so sorry.’ He pauses, then adds, ‘You didn’t tell Laurie, did you?’
‘No,’ I tell him, ‘but you need to.’
‘I know,’ he half sobs. ‘I just . . . she’ll leave me . . .’
‘You need to tell the truth,’ I say, though a part of me wonders at the irony of me saying that.
‘I can’t,’ he cries.
I close my eyes. ‘I know,’ I whisper.
Chapter 46
Still worrying about Hannah, I hunt down Dr Warier in the ER. His scrubs are blood-spattered and his face is no longer smooth and clean-shaven but darkened by a day’s worth of stubble. ‘Dr Warier?’ I say, chasing after him.
He turns. ‘Mrs Walker,’ he says, surprised to see me outside of the ICU. ‘How are you?’
I shrug. How am I meant to answer that question?
‘Has the specialist been?’ he asks, pulling off his latex gloves and ditching them into a nearby medical-waste container.
‘He’s on his way from the airport,’ I tell him. ‘My friend Laurie knew him in college, that’s why he agreed to come at such short notice.’ And without payment, I think to myself, though perhaps now I can at least offer him something.
Mentioning Laurie reminds me of my call with Dave. I wonder where she is. Perhaps she’s gone to the airport to meet the specialist? He was meant to land at eleven this morning and spend the afternoon running tests on June.
‘Well,’ Dr Warier says, ‘I hope he finds something we couldn’t. He’s one of the finest neurologists in the country, so if anyone can give you hope it will be him.’
I nod my gratitude. Dr Warier is the only person who didn’t take offence to our insistence on a second opinion about June, who actually seemed to welcome it. A nurse comes over with some paperwork for Dr Warier and when he’s done signing whatever needs signing he looks up and sees me still hovering by his side.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, there is actually.’
We exit the elevator together and hurry towards June’s room. In my absence the specialist has arrived and is standing over June’s bed, alongside Gene and a nurse. There’s no sign of Laurie though.
‘Dr Philips,’ I say to the specialist, a man in his early fifties with salt and pepper hair and an intimidating air of authority, ‘this is Dr Warier. He’s the ICU physician who took care of June and me when we were first brought in.’ I turn to Dr Warier. ‘Dr Warier, this is Dr Philips.’
‘I know,’ says Dr Warier, shaking the older man’s hand vigorously. ‘It’s a pleasure, sir. I’ve read most of your papers.’
‘Is Laurie with you?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘No, she was meant to meet me at the airport but didn’t show up. I thought we’d had crossed wires and that I was meant to meet her here.’
That’s strange. I give an anxious smile. ‘I’m sure she’ll turn up.’
He nods and turns back to June. ‘I’ve just been looking through all her notes,’ he says, flicking through the papers he’s holding. ‘I’ve ordered an MRI, a CT and a PET scan as well as new lab tests. I think we’re about to take her up for the MRI.’
‘OK,’ I say.
Two orderlies in green scrubs wheel June’s bed out into the hallway. There’s a nurse in charge of her ventilator and heart monitor, and both the doctors, and Gene and me. We flank the bed on all sides, June’s own Praetorian guard. I stroke her hair out of her face. It’s looking lank and greasy and I wonder when it was last washed or if she’ll ever be able to do something as mundane as shower ever again. I can’t go there so I push the thought away.
‘We’re taking her up for an MRI,’ Dr Philips explains to Jonathan, who is still guarding the
