In the living room, the clock struck the half hour. Toby gave a sigh and dragged herself out of the chair.
It was time to go to work.
“Toby, we have to talk.”
She looked up from a wheezing three-year-old and saw Paul Hawkins standing in the exam room doorway. “Can you wait a minute?” she asked.
“It’s pretty urgent.”
“Okay, let me give this epinephrine shot and I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll wait in the staff kitchen.”
As Maudeen handed her the vial of epinephrine, Toby saw the nurse’s questioning look. They were both wondering the same thing: Why was the ER chief here at 10 P.M. on a Thursday night? He’d been dressed in a suit and tie—not his usual hospital garb. Already feeling uneasy, Toby drew two-tenths of a cc of epinephrine into a TB syringe, then forced a cheerful note into her voice as she said to the child, “We’re going to make your breathing much, much better. You have to sit very still. This will feel like a bee sting, but it’ll be over quick, okay?”
“Don’t wanna bee sting. Don’t wanna bee sting.”
The child’s mother tightened her grip around the boy. “He hates these shots. Just go ahead and do it.”
Toby nodded. Bargaining with a three-year-old was a hopeless proposition anyway. She injected the drug, eliciting a shriek that could peel paint off a wall. Just as suddenly, the screaming was over, and the boy, though still sniffling, was eyeing the syringe with a covetous look.
“I want it.”
“You can have a new one,” said Toby, and she handed him a fresh syringe, minus the needle. “Bathtub fun.”
“Gonna give my sister a shot.”
The mother rolled her eyes. “She’s gonna love that.”
Already the boy’s wheezing seemed to be better, so Toby left Maudeen in charge and went to find Paul in the staff kitchen.
He stood up as she walked in but didn’t speak until she’d closed the door.
“We had a hospital board meeting tonight,” he said. “It just wrapped up. I thought I should come right over and explain what happened.”
“I assume this has to do with Harry Slotkin again.”
“That was one of the issues we discussed.”
“There were others?”
“The matter of the autopsy came up as well.”
“I see. I have a feeling I should sit down for this.”
“Maybe we both should.”
She took a chair across the dining table from him. “If it was a ’torch Dr. Harper’ session, why wasn’t I invited for the barbecue?”
Paul sighed. “Toby, you and I could have toughed out the crisis with Harry Slotkin. In fact, so far you’re lucky on that case. The Slotkin family isn’t talking lawsuit yet. And the negative publicity seems to be over. From what I hear, any fresh news stories were squelched by Brant Hill. And Dr. Wallenberg.”
“Why would Wallenberg do me any favors?”
“I guess it wasn’t good for Brant Hill, having it known that one of their wealthy residents was wandering around like some street person. You know, they’re not your usual Sun City of retirees. Their success depends on their platinum status, on being the best and charging the bucks for it. You can’t attract new people if there’s any question about the well-being of your clients.”
“So Wallenberg was protecting his cash cow and not me.”
“Whatever the reason, he helped you out. But now you’ve gone and pissed him off. What was going through your head? Calling in the medical examiner? Turning it into a coroner’s case?”
“It was the only way to get a diagnosis.”
“The man was no longer your patient. An autopsy should have been Wallenberg’s decision.”
“But he was avoiding the issue. Either he didn’t want to know the cause of death or he was afraid to find out. I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”
“You made him look bad. You made it look like some sort of criminal case.”
“I was concerned about the public health issue—”
“This isn’t a public health issue. This is a political mess. Wallenberg was at the meeting tonight. So were Doug Carey’s allies. It was a barbecue all right, and you were the main course. Now Wallenberg’s threatening to admit all Brant Hill patients to Lakeside Hospital instead of Springer. Which is going to hurt us. Maybe you don’t realize that Brant Hill’s just one link in a big chain. They’re affiliated with a dozen other nursing homes, and all of them refer their patients to us. Do you have any idea how much money we make on their hip surgeries alone? Add the TURPs, the cataracts, and the hemorrhoids, and you’re talking a lot of patients, most of them with supplemental insurance on top of Medicare. We can’t afford to lose those referrals. But that’s what Wallenberg’s threatening.”
“All because of the autopsy?”
“He has a pretty good reason to be upset. When you called the ME, you made Wallenberg look incompetent. Or worse. Now we’re getting calls from newspapers again. It could be another round of bad publicity.”
“Doug Carey’s tipping them off. It’s just the sneaky kind of thing he’d do.”
“Yeah, well, now Wallenberg’s pissed that his name could be dragged into the public eye. The board’s pissed that they could lose all their Brant Hill referrals.”
“And of course everyone’s pissed at me.”
“Are you surprised?”
Slowly she let out a breath. “Okay, so you had a barbecue and now I’m a crispy critter.”
Paul nodded. “Wallenberg wants your contract terminated. Of course it has to go through me first, since I’m ER chief. I wasn’t left with a lot of maneuvering room.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That there was a problem firing you.” He gave an uneasy laugh. “I used a delaying tactic that you might not approve of. I told them you might fight back by filing a sex discrimination suit. That made them nervous. If there’s anything they don’t want to deal with, it’s a whiny feminist.”
“How flattering.”
“It was the only thing I could think of.”
“Funny. It’s something I never would have considered. And I’m the woman.”
“Remember that sexual harassment suit one of the nurses filed? It dragged on for two years, and Springer ended up paying a fortune in attorney’s fees. This was one way I could make them stop and consider their actions. And buy you some time until things cool down.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Toby, I’m in the hot seat. They’re pressuring me to resolve the situation. And I don’t want to hurt you, I really don’t.”
“Are you asking me to resign?”
“No. No, that’s not why I’m here.”
“What are you asking me to do?”
“I’m thinking maybe you should take a leave of absence for a few weeks. In the meantime, the ME’s report will come back. I’m sure it’ll show natural causes. That will let Wallenberg off the hook.”
“And all will be forgiven.”
“I hope so. You’re scheduled to go on vacation next month anyway. You could take it now. Extend it by three or four weeks.”
For a moment she sat thinking it over, playing a mental game of dominoes. One action produces a result that produces another result. “Who’ll fill in for me?” she asked.
“We can pull Joe Severin in to take your shifts. He’s only a part-timer now. I’m sure he’d be willing.”
She looked straight at Paul. “And I’d never get my job back. Would I?”
“Toby—”
“Wasn’t it Doug Carey who brought Severin on staff? Aren’t they buddies or something? You’re not taking all the personalities into account. If I go on leave, Joe Severin steps right in. I won’t have a job to come back to, and you know it.”
He said nothing. He just looked at her, his expression unfathomable. For too many years, she had let her attraction for Paul Hawkins obscure the relationship. She’d read more into his smiles, his friendliness, than had really exi
sted. That she realized it only now, at her most vulnerable moment, made the blow even more painful.
She stood up. “I’ll take my vacation as scheduled. No earlier.”
“Toby, I’m doing what I can to protect you. You have to understand, my position isn’t secure either. If we lose those Brant Hill referrals, Springer’s going to be hurt. And the board will be looking for fall guys.”
“I’m not blaming you, Paul. I understand why you’re doing this.”
“Then why won’t you do what I suggest? Take the leave of absence. Your job will still be here.”
“Can I have that in writing?”
He was silent.
She turned toward the door. “That’s what I thought.”
9
Molly Picker stood looking at the pay phone, trying to scrape up the courage to pick up the receiver. It was the second visit she’d made to this phone booth today. The first time she hadn’t even stepped inside but had turned around and walked away. Now she was standing right in front of the phone and the door was shut behind her, and there was nothing to stop her from making the call.
Her hands shook as she picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Operator.”
“I want to make a collect call. To Beaufort, South Carolina.”
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Molly.” She gave the number, then leaned back with eyes closed, heart pounding, as the operator put through the call. She heard it ring. Her fear was so intense she thought she might throw up, right there in the booth. Sweet Jesus, help me.
“Hello?”
Molly’s back snapped straight. It was her mother’s voice. “Mama,” she blurted out, but then the operator cut in:
“You have a collect call from Molly. Will you accept?”
There was a long silence on the other end.
Please, please, please. Talk to me.
“Ma’am? Will you accept the charges?”
A long sigh, then: “Oh, I guess so.”
“Go ahead,” said the operator.
“Mama? It’s me. I’m calling from Boston.”
“So you’re still up there.”
“Yeah. I been wantin’ to call—”
“You need money or something. Is that it?”
“No! No, I’m doin’ okay. I’m, uh . . .” Molly cleared her throat. “I’m holdin’ my own.”
“Well, that’s good.”
Molly closed her eyes, wishing her mother’s voice didn’t sound so flat. Wishing this conversation would go the way she’d fantasized it would. That Mama would break down crying and then ask her to come home. But there were no tears in Mama’s voice, only that lifeless tone that cut straight to Molly’s heart.
“So is there a reason you’re calling?”
“Uh . . . no.” Molly rubbed a hand across her eyes. “Not really. . .”
“You wanna say something or what?”
“I just—I guess I wanted to say hello.”
“Okay. Well, look. I gotta finish cookin’ here. If you don’t have much more to say—”
“I’m pregnant,” whispered Molly.
There was no response.
“Did you hear me? I’m gonna have a baby. Think of it, Mama! I’m hopin’ it’s a girl, so I can dress her all up like a princess. ’Member how you used to stitch up those dresses for me? I’m gonna get me a sewing machine, learn how to sew.” She was laughing now, talking rapidly and desperately through her tears. “But you gotta teach me, Mama, because I never could get it right. Never did learn how to do those blind hems—”
“Is it gonna be colored?”
“What?”
“Is the baby gonna be colored?”
“I don’t know—”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Molly clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob.
“You mean you don’t have any idea?” said her mother. “You lost count or what?”
“Mama,” whispered Molly. “Mama, it doesn’t really matter. It’s still my baby.”
“Oh, it matters. It matters to people ’round here. What you think they’re gonna say? And your daddy—it’s gonna kill your daddy.”
Someone was rapping on the phone booth door. Molly turned to see a man pointing at his watch, waving at her to get out of the booth. She turned her back on him.
“Mama,” she said. “I want to come home.”
“You can’t come home. Not in your condition.”
“Romy’s tellin’ me to get rid of it, to kill my baby. He’s sending me to the doctor today, and I don’t know what to do. Mama, I need you to tell me what to do. . .”
Her mother released a weary sigh. Quietly she said: “Maybe it would be for the best.”
“What?”
“If you got rid of it.”
Molly shook her head in bewilderment. “But it’s your grandbaby—”
“That’s no grandbaby of mine. Not the way you got it.”
The man knocked at the door again and yelled at Molly to get off the phone. She pressed her hand over her ear to block out his voice.
“Please,” Molly whimpered. “Let me come home.”
“Your daddy can’t deal with this right now, you know he can’t. After the shame you put us through. After I told you and told you what to expect. But you never listen, Molly, you never have.”
“I won’t cause no more trouble. Romy and me, we’re all through. I just want to come home now.”
The man was pounding on the booth now, shouting at her to get the fuck off the phone. Desperately Molly braced her back against the door to keep him out.
“Mama?” she said. “Mama?”
The answer came back with a note of triumph. “You made your bed. Now you go lie in it.”
Molly stood clutching the receiver to her ear, knowing that her mother had already hung up yet unable to believe the link was broken. Talk to me. Tell me you’re still there. Tell me you’ll always be there.
“Hey, bitch! Get off the fucking phone!”
Wordlessly she let the receiver drop from her hand. It swung free, clattering against the booth. In a daze she stepped outside, not really seeing the man who was still cussing her out, not hearing a word he said. She just walked away.
Can’t go home. Can’t go home. Not now, not ever.
She walked without seeing, without feeling her own legs moving, her own feet stumbling in their platform shoes. Her anguish had blocked out all physical sensation.
She never saw Romy coming at her.
The blow struck her under the chin and sent her stumbling against the building. She caught herself on the window bars and clung to the wrought iron to keep from falling. She didn’t understand what had just happened; all she knew was that Romy was yelling at her and that her whole head was ringing with pain.
He grabbed her arm and hauled her through the front door. In the foyer, he hit her again. This time she did fall, sprawling onto the steps.
“Where the fuck you been?” he shouted.
“I had—I had things to do—”
“You had an appointment, remember? They want to know why you aren’t there.”
She swallowed and stared at the step. She didn’t dare look him in the face. She only hoped he’d accept a lie. “I forgot,” she said.
“What?”
“I said I forgot.”
“You are one dumb bitch. I told you this morning where you had to be.”
“I know.”
“You must have shit for brains.”
“I got to thinking ’bout other things.”
“Well, they’re still waiting on you. You get your ass in the car.”
She looked up. “But I’m not ready—”
“Ready?” Romy laughed. “All you gotta do is get on the table and spread your legs.” He pulled her to her feet and thrust her toward the door. “Go on. They sent you the fuckin’ limousine.”
She stumbled outside onto the sidewalk.
A black car was
parked at the curb, waiting for her. She could barely make out the driver’s silhouette through the tinted glass.
“Go on, get in.”
“Romy, I don’t feel so good. I don’t want to do this.”
“Don’t mess with me. Just get in the car.” He opened the door, shoved her into the backseat, and slammed the door shut.
The car pulled away from the curb.
“Hey!” she said to the driver. “I want to get out!” There was a barrier of Plexiglas between her and the front seat. She pounded on it, trying to get his attention, but he didn’t react. She looked at the tiny speaker mounted in the partition and suddenly felt a chill of recognition. She remembered this car. She had ridden in it once before.
“Hello?” she said. “Do I know you?”
The driver didn’t even turn his head.
She sat back against the leather seat. The same car. The same driver. She remembered that blond, almost silvery hair. The last time, when he had driven her to Dorchester, there had been another man waiting for her, a man in a green mask. And there had been a table with straps.
Her chill turned to panic. She glanced ahead and saw that an intersection was coming up. The last one, before the expressway turnoff. She stared at the traffic light, praying: Turn red. Turn red!
Another car cut in front of them. Molly lurched forward as her driver slammed on the brakes. Behind them horns blared and traffic screeched to a halt.
Molly shoved open the door and leaped out of the car.
The driver yelled: “Get back here! You get back here now!”
She darted between two idling cars and scrambled to the sidewalk, her platform shoes clacking on the pavement. Goddamn heels almost tripped her up. She recovered her balance and began running down the street.
“Hey!”
Molly glanced back and was startled to see that the blond man had left his car parked near the curb and was chasing her on foot, dodging through a river of honking traffic.
She ran, a clumsy, clacking gait, crippled by her shoes. At the end of the block she glanced back.
The driver was gaining.
Why won’t he leave me alone?
She reacted with the automatic response of prey—she fled.
Darting right, she turned onto a narrow street and struggled up the bumpy brick sidewalk leading up Beacon Hill. Only a block of running uphill and she was out of breath. And her calves ached—these damn shoes.