“Did you see her?”
Bree shook her head. “They took her straight from emergency to surgery.”
I absentmindedly rubbed my left shoulder. My shoulders always ached when I was nervous or tense due to years of being hunched over a painter’s easel.
“I can take you to the waiting room. Olivia’s family will be happy to see you.”
“No, I don’t think that—”
“This way,” she said. She turned around and headed down the corridor. Just as she was about to disappear around a corner, I jogged after her.
“Down the hall” was almost the other side of Mars. I followed Bree’s brisk pace through the hospital corridors, weaving in and out of wards and around hospital staff in ugly white sneakers. I stared resolutely at the back of Bree’s trim ankles as she cruised down the hall, unable to stand the suffering lining the hallways. The deeper we traveled into the hospital, the more sterile the air became. I vowed never again to complain about the smell of moldy books donated by retired Martin professors.
We dodged a crash cart. “You seem to know your way around, Bree; have you been to this hospital before?”
Without breaking stride, her voice floated back to me. “No, but I’ve been in a lot of hospitals.”
Nearly toppling a food cart, I abandoned conversation.
After more turns than I could count, Bree halted abruptly in front of a heavy-looking forest green door. Through the door’s small window, I caught of glimpse of Dr. Blocken and Kirk filling an overstuffed loveseat, each crowded against an opposite arm, apparently in an effort not to touch each other. Although I couldn’t see her, I knew that Mrs. Blocken lay in wait, pacing the floor and undoubtedly accosting hospital staff anytime someone chanced by.
Bree eased open the door and entered the room, leaving it ajar for me. The occupants of the room glanced up expectantly, with equal parts dread and hope.
“Your coffee, Regina,” Bree said. “I’m sorry I took so long. I met India in the emergency room.”
Duly outed, I slid into the room. Dr. Blocken and Kirk blinked in disbelief. O.M., her hair now neon blue, didn’t look up from the rock star biography she read in the corner, and Mrs. Blocken jolted from her seat.
After sputtering for a few seconds, she managed a profanity-laced version of, “What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about Olivia,” I sputtered.
Mrs. Blocken pressed the heel of her right hand over her left eye as if blocking out my image and smearing her flawless makeup. Underneath her foundation, her complexion blotched. She removed her hand and seemed unable to speak. Dr. Blocken fidgeted, and then stood with phony assertiveness. A cuticle on his left hand was bleeding from being bitten to the quick. “India, we appreciate your concern for our daughter, but I think it would be better if you left.” His voice shook.
Mrs. Blocken’s naked anguish disconcerted me, and I merely nodded and backed out of the small waiting room. When the door clicked into the latch, I heard Mrs. Blocken’s first sob. I hurried down the hallway, unsure if I was heading in the right direction. I followed sign after sign pointing me to some unseen exit. After confusing twists and bends, I found myself outside in the humid air and burning sunlight. I was outside but on the wrong side of the structure. Rather than go back into the hospital and risk becoming lost again, I circumnavigated the building until I reached the parking deck. As I walked around the building, the corners of my eyes itched, and I bit the inside of my lower lip.
Chapter Nine
After my visit to hospital, I went straight home. Inside my apartment, I threw my shoulder bag on the couch beside Templeton, who didn’t stir at the bounce. His black limbs splayed in front of the fan. The answering machine’s blinking light stewed in a state of manic urgency. Sitting on the couch next to Templeton, I pressed play.
The first message was from my mother. “India, call me when you get in. I want to know how the hospital visit went.”
The second message was from Carmen. “India? I can never reach you. Mom told me about Olivia. What’s going on? Why is Mark involved? Why was she at Martin? Why didn’t you answer your cell?”
I had turned my cell off when I entered the hospital as instructed by the dozen no-cell-phone posters plastered throughout the building.
I did not recognize the third voice right off. “Miss Hayes, this is Detective Mains from the Stripling Police Department. I have some questions I need to ask you.” About Mark and Olivia’s relationship, no doubt. He ended with his phone number.
The final message was an especially cheery Bobby. “I hope Olivia’s okay. By the way, I thought I’d help you out a little bit. I called the guys over in admissions about freshmen head count. Unfortunately, enrollment is down this year, only 554 incoming.”
The machine signed off, and I fell back against the couch, closing my eyes as I considered who to call back, who not to, and how to cause Bobby the most bodily harm.
The phone jarred me awake. It was still bright outside. I glanced at the green ceramic clock hanging above the kitchen counter. Three-thirty. My face felt grimy and my contacts had fused themselves to my retinas. The phone rang relentlessly.
I gave in. “Hello,” I said, fully expecting my mother.
“This is Detective Mains. Did you receive my message?”
“Uh, yes, I was about to call you back,” I lied.
“I see. I’d like to meet with you about Olivia’s case.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, still waking up. “When?”
“How about right now?”
“Now?”
“I’m in your driveway.”
I jumped. Templeton remained as prostrate as a slug. I rushed over to the peephole in my front door and peered out. Mains, leaning against a dark American-made sedan, waved at me. I involuntarily gasped.
Mains ignored the exclamation. “I promise I’ll only take a few minutes.”
I scanned the apartment for anything remotely embarrassing—stray underwear, trashy romance novels, regurgitated feline hairballs. As a woman living alone, any one of these was apt to be strewn in the oddest places. I stumbled down my abbreviated hallway and slammed my bedroom and studio doors. I glanced in the hall mirror. Dear God, I was a mess. The skirt and blouse I had worn to work were wrinkled beyond recognition, my hair was matted to my head like a flattened toy poodle. By the front door, I found a stray rubber band that Templeton would likely try to eat later. I threw my hair up in a haphazard knot.
As calmly as possible, I said, “I suppose I could meet with you now.” I hung up the phone and opened the door.
My apartment consisted of the left half of a duplex facing the street. I chose it because of its low rent and its nearness to campus, imagining that I would walk to work. I could count on my left hand the number of times I had walked to the library. The resident of the right half of the duplex was my landlady, Ina Carroll, a self-professed bachelorette, never married because she hated to cook and claimed she didn’t want some man to make her learn. In the late eighties, Ina received a letter from a former United States senator reminding her to remember her Irish heritage. Since that fateful day, painted stone and ceramic leprechauns had peppered every recess of her property. Lately, Ina had diversified and bought a couple pots of gold for the wee lads. I had made the mistake of telling Ina that a large portion of my family tree was Irish, as well. Ever since, she’s forced corned beef and cabbage on me, despite my vegetarian protests.
Ina sat on one of the white resin chairs on her small stoop, watching Mains with raptor-like interest. Ina was four-feet-ten and never left the house without wearing lipstick. She had soft blue-white grandma curls and snappy green eyes. Her appearance deceived people into believing that she baked cookies and cooed over babies. Nothing
