Monday's Child (8 page)

Seventeen

Before the nurse closed the curtain, Cheryl saw Jill Baker staring at her and felt a jolt of fear.

“Is anything wrong, dear?” the lab technician asked. “You’ve tensed up on me all of a sudden. Is something hurting you?”

Cheryl tried to take a breath so she could answer, but it was as though every muscle in her chest had tightened and now refused to move. The shot the doctor had given her had blunted the pain, thank God, but it hadn’t made moving any easier.

“Now there’s a foolish question,” the technician went on. “All anyone has to do is look at you. Of course something’s hurting, you poor thing.”

Cheryl widened her eyes to show her alarm, but to no avail; the technician had turned her attention back to the drawing of blood.

“I’ll be as gentle as I can. It’ll just be a minute, so hold on for me.”

“Jill,” she whispered with great effort. It sounded slurred even to her. “She’s here.”

“What was that?”

“I think she asked for a pain pill.” The nurse, who’d gone directly to the head of the bed, stepped around to where she was in Cheryl’s line of sight. “You shouldn’t try to talk, honey. Just relax.”

She tried again: “That . . . little girl.”

“What did she say?”

“I’m not sure.” The nurse turned away. “If I had that much Demerol in me, I’d be off in la-la-land.”

“I know what you mean.” The technician withdrew the needle from her arm, placed a cotton ball over the site and taped it. “There you go, bend your arm.”

Cheryl tried to keep her arm straight so that the technician would realize she was resisting and make eye contact again, but she might as well have been a rag doll for all the control she had.

“Actually,” the nurse said, “a margarita at lunch and I
am
in la-la-land. Ooh, a margarita! Doesn’t that sound great?”

“I’m all for it.” The technician had half-turned away and was sticking labels on the vials of blood. “You know any place that delivers?”

“I wish.”

“Well that’s it for me. I’m off.” The technician picked up her blood collection tray and disappeared through the curtain.

The nurse continued whatever she was doing at the head of the bed.

Cheryl closed her eyes, exhausted.

A disembodied voice woke her by saying her name.

“Cheryl with a C, last name Appleton, spelled like it sounds.”

There was a buzzing in her ears but she recognized the voice as Dr. Costa’s. Through partially open eyelids, she looked for him, turning her head ever-so-slightly one way and then the other, but he was not in the cubicle.

“It was a bus versus pedestrian, and as usual the bus won. She has simple fractures of the lower left asternal ribs. We’re going to tape her up.”

Being taped didn’t sound bad—it was certainly preferable to surgery—but whatever anyone said, there was nothing simple about her fractured ribs.

“Otherwise, she’s got more than her share of abrasions, which were debrided in ER, contusions, and what is essentially a total body sprain. She’s in a great deal of pain and can hardly move.”

Perversely, Cheryl felt a sense of satisfaction at hearing the doctor confirm the legitimacy of her injuries. Her own family doctor had once suggested that she was a prime candidate for hypochondria.

No one could accuse her of that now.

“I don’t have the heart to tell her she’s going to feel worse tomorrow.”

She didn’t want to hear any more.

“Fine. I’ll admit her to your service and tell the floor nurse that you’ll be in to check on her this evening when you make rounds.”

Dr. Costa came to her bedside some time later and she tried to tell him about Jill, to warn him about what the child had done and could do, but no matter how hard she tried to form the words, or how slowly she spoke, he misunderstood what she was saying, as the nurse and technician had. She finally gave up.

“We’re going to give you another injection, a muscle relaxant this time, so we can tape up your ribcage without hurting you, and then the orderly will take you up to your room.”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

He gave her a peculiar look. “Boy, you’ve really got a case of mush mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone with a worse case. I wish I was a mind-reader.”

So do I, she thought.

“Well, you’ll be able to talk again soon.”

All she could do was sigh.

Eighteen

“Thanks for coming to get us,” Georgia said as she got into Faye’s car after buckling Jill into the back seat. “I really appreciate it.”

“Anything to help.” Faye turned to look at her. “You weren’t able to reach Dave?”

“No.” Limiting her answer to a single syllable was the only way she was able to keep the grimness she felt out of her voice.

“No. Well, it’s probably busy down there.”

Georgia frowned, pretending to be occupied with her seatbelt.

“I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he can.”

“Yes.” She didn’t mean to be unresponsive—Faye was a good friend—but her anger was too close to the surface to say more.

“Uh huh. Well then.” Faye turned the key in the ignition and let the motor idle. “You want me to take you to the library so you can pick up your car or do you want to go home?”

The word had never sounded more welcoming. “Home,” she said.

“Then home it is.” Faye glanced in the rearview mirror before backing out of the parking space.

They drove down the access road to where it turned onto Center Street. Waiting for a lull in the traffic, Faye drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. That and the blinking of
the turn signal were the only sounds.

While they were waiting, a sports car made a left from Center into the hospital entrance and Georgia recognized the driver as the doctor who lived across the street. She could never remember his name, but this morning after Jill had gotten on the bus, she noticed him standing near his front window looking out on the street.

Now their eyes met, if only for a moment before he passed by, and she had a strong sense that he was somehow aware of what had happened . . .

She looked out the side window. The mirror was angled so that she could see Jill in the back seat, and she noticed that her daughter had closed her eyes.

Was she sleeping?

Drowsiness was one of the more frequent symptoms of anemia, she knew now. The nurse had given her a printed sheet with information on anemia, a frightening list of potential manifestations of the “condition” as the sheet referred to it.

The list included low grade fever, weakness, vertigo, headache, malaise, tachycardia, and palpitations, among others.

She thought back on the last few months, trying with hindsight to pinpoint the beginnings of her child’s ailment, but there was nothing, no dramatic onset of frailty. And yet . . . how had she missed noticing how pale Jill had become? Pallor was also on the list.

Beside her, Faye cleared her throat. “Georgia?”

Reluctantly she looked away from the mirror. Faye’s expression was troubled, and she was staring fixedly at the road.

“Yes?”

“Listen, I’ve been . . . Do you want me to drive you to the restaurant? I can turn around . . .”

Georgia could not hold back a laugh, but she spoke quietly, not wanting to wake Jill. “That’s the last place I want to go right now.”

“Sometimes it’s better to know.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Come on. Maybe what I told you yesterday, the things I said about Dave flirting with the new hostess, maybe I was wrong.”

“Faye—”

“No, listen to me. Maybe he really
is
busy, or your message got misplaced, and it isn’t at all what you’re thinking.”

“That’s messages, plural, as in many messages, and I’m not
thinking
anything.”

Faye winced. “Yes, you are. I can hear it in your voice, and see it in your eyes. I’ve seen that look before and I know the feeling. It’s my fault that you’re thinking what you’re thinking. It’s my responsibility to set the record straight.”

“Please.” Georgia rubbed at her temples which had begun to throb. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

“All I’m trying to say is, he might be an innocent man. Right now, you’re hurting because of suspicion, and there might not be a cause for it.”

“What if there is?”

“Well—”

“If there is cause, if he is fooling around, I don’t want to know right now. I don’t think I can handle any more than this.”

“You mean this thing with Jill.”

“Yes.”

“She isn’t that sick, is she? I mean, they’re letting you take her home.”

Georgia thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know how sick she is. I didn’t know she even was sick. If she hadn’t fainted at school this morning, maybe I wouldn’t know yet.”

“I can see how that would worry you.”

“It does.” That wasn’t the worst of it; try as she might, she hadn’t been able to forget what the doctor had said:
Anemia is symptomatic of an underlying disorder.

Disorder.

The word’s vagueness scared her.

It could mean anything.

Faye pulled into the driveway and shut off the motor. “Let me help you carry her in.”

“Thanks, Faye, but I can manage. You’d better get back to the library.” With everything going on, work had entirely slipped her mind until this moment.

“Forget the library. I called for reinforcement hours ago.” Faye got out and hurried around the car. “I told them I’d get back when I got there.”

Georgia gave her a hug. “You’re a good friend.”

“I’m going to try and be a better one.”

Georgia retrieved the extra house key from underneath the mat, and between the two of them, they got Jill inside and put her to bed. Faye pulled the shades, shutting out the afternoon sun.

“Instant twilight,” Faye whispered.

Georgia smiled and nodded, tucking her daughter in. She brushed the hair away from the sweet face and let her fingers rest on the child’s brow.

If she had a fever, it was a low one. But then, it would be.

They left the door ajar so that if Jill called out, Georgia would hear her.

She led the way down the hall to the front room. “You want a cup of coffee?”

Faye shook her head. “I’d better be going. I know, I told them they’d see me when I got there, but tonight’s the night for the Seniors Storytelling Hour. I don’t want to miss out on that.”

“Who could blame you? Listen, seriously . . . thanks for everything.”

“I told you, anything I can do to help. Which reminds me, what are you going to do about your car? The damn things don’t come when you whistle.”

“I haven’t even thought about it.”

“Wait a minute!” Faye’s eyes lit up. “I’ll call the sheriff’s office, and they can have an officer drive it home for you.”

“Would they do that?”

“I don’t know why not. There’s not a lot going on in this town, the cops spend all their time eating donuts and drinking coffee. Sure they’ll do it.”

“If you think so . . .”

“Leave it to me. Where are the keys?”

“In my purse at the library.”

“I’ll send that with them, too. I’m sure we can trust them with your money.”

“What money?” she asked, and laughed, this time genuinely. It was amazing how much better she felt, being home.

“That’s the spirit,” Faye said.

She followed Faye outside to the driveway. When they reached the car, Faye stopped and turned to face her.

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Faye said, and then hesitated.

“What?”

“How did you know?”

Georgia sighed. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“I’m not talking about Dave.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?”

“Jill.”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“This morning, when the sirens went off—no, it was even before that—you knew that something had happened to her. I’m asking, how did you know?”

Nineteen

“Noah, what a pleasant surprise,” Alan Costa said when Houston walked into the emergency room. Costa was seated at a table with a stack of clipboards in front of him, filling out E.R. charts. “We weren’t expecting to see you again for awhile.”

“No?”

“Say, about three months.” Costa regarded him with open curiosity. “Actually, it’s gotten to where we set our calendar by you—”

Houston smiled; it was what Costa always said when they met. Small town humor, he supposed.

“—but usually you’re here once and then only for a few hours. We know when you’re coming and we’re on our best behavior, but now you’ve gone and changed your routine, and caught us off guard.”

“Things look about normal to me,” Houston said, glancing around. Three of the gurneys were empty; on the fourth, an elderly woman in a lime-colored pantsuit was having her blood pressure taken.

“You should have been here earlier; the place was jumping.”

Houston was thinking the same thing. “So I understand. They were talking about it in town—an out of control bus ran into some kids at the elementary school?—but the details I heard were a little sketchy.”

“And more than a little wrong,” Costa said, shaking his head. “First of all, it wasn’t much of a bus, more like a glorified van someone at the school district painted yellow. It was only doing about ten miles per hour, if that. It wasn’t out of control. And it was one of the teachers who got hit.”

“Hmm. I thought small town gossip was more accurate than that.”

Costa shrugged. “What we lack in accuracy, we make up for in volume.”

“So what
did
happen?” Houston persisted. “Was the teacher badly hurt?”

“It could have been a lot worse. She was pretty banged up, naturally, and we had to admit her, but I think she’ll be all right.” He looked down at the paperwork spread out before him, selecting a clipboard from among the pile. “Speaking of which, I’d better finish her chart before her attending physician gets here.”

Houston sat down opposite him. “So there weren’t any kids injured?”

“Not by the bus.” Costa paused. “You don’t mind if I do this while we’re talking? I hate to be impolite, but I get off at six and the nurses won’t let me leave unless I finish with these.”

“Go ahead. You were saying . . .”

“What was I saying? Oh yes, the official version of the accident is that the teacher was walking across the drive towards the school building, and for no apparent reason she just stepped in front of the bus.”

“Ouch.”

“No kidding. From what I gather, she was only struck a glancing blow, the kind you always see them walking away from in the movies, but in
real
life it was enough to propel her into one of the students, a little girl who was standing nearby.”

“Was the girl hurt?” He knew that Jill Baker was involved somehow, but he hadn’t considered her to be one of the victims.

“She had the wind knocked out of her. She landed on her fanny and has a skinned tush to show for it, which may have hurt her dignity, but I think she was frightened more than anything else.”

“You sent her home?”

“We did. A cute little thing, she was. Had a British accent, if you can imagine. Kept repeating that she had a sore bum. I told her to consider her injury as insurance against getting a spanking for the next few days. Now all her friends will be wanting the same thing to happen to them.”

Houston laughed.

“Anyway,” Costa said, “another of the students fainted at about that point, and the fire department medics brought all three of them in.”

“What happened to the second child?”

“She’s fine. Of course, if she’d hit her head on the pavement when she collapsed, it could have been a different story. But it turned out for the best.”

“How so?”

“Well, I was concerned—fainting isn’t common among children—so we ran a few tests on her and found she was anemic. If we hadn’t done that, she might have gotten sicker.”

Houston found it hard to keep from inquiring as to the patient’s name, but he knew that as an infrequent visitor to the community—a stranger, really—it might seem odd that he’d ask.

“What’s interesting to me,” Costa continued, “is why anyone would step in front of a moving vehicle, no matter how big it was or how fast it was going.”

“Suicidal,” he said absently, distracted by thoughts of the glimpse he’d gotten of Jill this morning as she’d waited for the bus.

“That’s what the principal of Meadowbrook is claiming. He’s been on the phone requesting we get a psychiatric evaluation on her.”

“Oh?”

“As a matter of fact, I believe he’s having the district send one of the school psychologists to interview her. I told him they could ask her anything they want, but not to expect her to answer.”

“Why is that?”

“She’s out of it.” Costa signed the top chart with a flourish. “I doubt she could tell anyone her name,
if
she could talk.”

“Dr. Costa?” A nurse had come up beside them. “Mrs. Lasalle is ready for you in bed one.”

“Is she now? Okay.” He stood and handed her the chart he’d just completed. “You want to send this up? They’re waiting for it on Medical.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Costa started off and then turned back. “Oh . . . are you planning on hanging around for awhile, Noah?”

Houston nodded.

“Good. I want to talk to you about the association’s profit sharing program.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.

When Costa had disappeared behind curtain number one and the nurse returned to the nursing station, Houston reached over and pulled several of the clipboards across the table.

Jill’s chart was on top, and he scanned it quickly. It was incomplete—Costa apparently had been called away in mid-sentence and hadn’t detailed the physical exam—but it was evident from the nurse’s notes that Baker had been the child who’d fainted.

“LOC, cause TBD,” the nurse had written on the line reserved for the nature of the complaint. Translated: loss of consciousness, cause to be determined.

A rather optimistic turn of phrase, he thought, since in many instances, even in these days of high-tech diagnostics, the cause often could not be determined at all.

It would be more honest to use a different acronym: WMGLAFO—we might get lucky and find out.

He extracted the lab reports from beneath the emergency room record and studied them. She had a marginally low hemoglobin, a borderline serum ferritin concentration—which meant that they couldn’t rule out a disease process at work—and a low blood glucose level.

The question, of course, was what was causing the anemia. There were any number of possibilities, from the simple to the potentially fatal.

Houston couldn’t help but wonder if doing what she’d been doing was taking something out of her.

Was she paying a price for the powers she had?

It was a provocative question, one he hadn’t considered before in the five years he’d been watching her.

If she was hurting, would it stop her?

Wait a minute, he thought. It might mean nothing. The abnormal blood values could be entirely unrelated to the abilities that she had.

He had no proof that her physiology was different from any other child, regardless of the manner in which she’d been born.

Or to whom.

He closed those memories off and returned his attention to the chart.

There wasn’t much more information to be had, but he noted with interest that her vital signs both on admission and discharge were within normal range. Her reflexes were good, and, unlike her victims, there were no indications of slowed neurological response.

She hadn’t even skinned a knee when she’d fallen.

Houston frowned.

He’d gotten what he’d come for, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it.