The Clone's Mother (18 page)

After thirty minutes, I wanted to go see what was taking so long. Sheila and Carl were back at the table sipping drinks, Scott was long gone from our uneventful table, and the Ellsworths were mingling with people more like themselves.

As I sat contemplating whether or not I should give Mack five more minutes or go searching for him immediately, Carl’s cell phone rang. He answered, talking in cryptic monosyllables.

I decided to sneak a peek at the crumpled note from Jackie. Though I felt like an unprincipled snoop, I couldn’t help myself.

It said:
Jim, we’re going home. Kate has been so rude to me, I can’t even come to the table and face her. Just take me home and you can come back later.

“Ms. Johnston, phone.
Ms. Johnston
, Jim wants to talk to you.”

Carl’s voice broke through my shock and anger. He was extending his cell phone toward me. Jim? I was confused. And must have looked it.

“
Kate
,” Sheila snapped. “Phone. Take the phone.”

Though baffled, I finally just took the phone.

“Why’s he calling her on
your
phone?” she asked Carl. “You don’t even have your own phone?” she asked me incredulously.

I ignored her. “Hello?”

“Kate, I’m so sorry.”

“Mack? Where are you?”

“At Jackie’s. You wouldn’t believe the scene she made at the hotel. I didn’t even have a chance to come tell you.”

“Oh.”

“I thought I’d just get her settled at home then come right back.”

“I guess this means you didn’t.”

“I’m sorry, Bright Eyes. Once she calmed down, one of her pain attacks came on. Her back goes into spasms and she needs me to massage them out. It’s truly painful for her.”

“When you’re done, you’ll come get me, right?”

“She’s very depressed, Kate. I don’t like to leave her when she gets like this. I really better stay with her.”

I was silent. What could I say?

“I asked Carl to give you a ride home.”

“I can get a cab. Or bus. Or walk.”

“No. Let Carl take you. I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I really wanted to be with you tonight.”

Yeah, right.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

“Kate—”

“Bye.” I hung up.

Chapter 29

“So we’re giving you a ride home,” Sheila said with disgust. “No phone, no car? Lost your date too? God, that’s pathetic.”

“Don’t worry, Sheila. I won’t intrude. I’ll find my own way home.”

“Suit yourself.”

Carl watched us in silence. I think he appreciated the way we women were working it out for him. Easier that way.

“Have a good night.” I grabbed my miniature sequin purse, hoping I had enough change inside it for bus fare since my CTA pass was at home (because why would I have even
thought
I’d need it?) and I tried to exit with dignity and grace.

I only bumped into one chair on the way out.

The city bus stop just happened to be right on the corner across from the front entrance of the hotel. It was humiliating waiting on the bench while some of the other dinner guests pulled away in their BMWs or Lexuses. But my feet hurt too much to walk farther down the street to the next stop, not to mention I was afraid of the dark and being out alone. I did
not
want to go down into the subway. That hadn’t bothered me for a long time, but after what happened to Howard, I didn’t want to do it.

So in my fancy get-up and black shiny pumps, I sat on the splintery bench and waited for the next bus.

And waited.

While I watched down the street for any sign of an oncoming bus, I pried off my shoes and rubbed my aching feet. I tried not to snag my dress on the rough bench. Then a convertible with subwoofers that compressed my skirt against my legs rolled to a stop in front of the bus stop.

“Want a ride?” Scott bobbed to the rhythm pulsating out of his high fidelity system.

The shadows made him creepy.

“The bus will be here any second. I like to ride the bus. It’s good to support the system too, you know.” I was rambling. I should’ve shut up. But now that we were alone, in the dark, he made me nervous with that weird voice and his bedroom eyes.

“Whatever.” The eye roll he gave me did nothing to bolster my mood. He squealed away like that would impress someone. Good thing I’d declined. I didn’t need some humiliating skirmish with a jerk who thought I’d owe him a visit
upstairs
if he gave me a lift.

Almost an hour after planting it on the bench, I was still waiting for the bus. Guess not enough people from the ritzy hotel used this line. And I didn’t have enough money to get a cab. The tightness in my throat crept up to my eyes and made them want to cry. But I swallowed and tightened my lips together to keep the tears in.

I put my shoes back on and limped my way to the hotel entrance. Carl and Sheila emerged through the automatic door. I ducked. Carl handed his ticket to the valet to get his car. Sheila laughed at some private joke they shared.

I spun and ducked low and tried to go back in through a different door.

“Kate, what are you still doing here?”

I struggled not to burst into tears. The humiliation would kill me. I couldn’t answer without caving. So I shrugged like a mute child. And even with only that, my lip quivered enough for Sheila to see. It was only a matter of seconds and she’d annihilate me. And take pure pleasure in it, I was certain.

“Do you want a ride after all then?”

What?

“Oh, brother. Don’t stand there and start bawling like a baby. We’ll give you a ride.”

She was drunk.

Had to have been.

Regardless, it meant I had a way home. I really didn’t have a choice. I would be stupid to pass it up. Even if it meant riding in the same car with Carl the Schmuck.

“Thanks,” I managed to say without falling into sobs.

We waited and the car was brought up. I stood with Sheila on the sidewalk. Carl paid one valet while another opened the back door for me. After I got in, he opened Sheila’s door and she scooted in. “Buckle up, sweetheart. Or I might have to come in there and help you.” He chuckled, proud of himself for being so cute. He slammed the door.

A loud piercing scream ripped my eardrums. Sheila was cursing and shrieking so fast and loud, I couldn’t tell what was going on.

I finally figured out between all the profanity blasting from her mouth that her hand was in the door. The valet figured it out about the same time that I did, and he got the door opened again.

“My hand! My hand!” She was sobbing and screaming words so vulgar at the valet that I wanted to hide. The boy who had smashed her hand in the door stood like a store manikin watching her hysteria. A few others pressed in around him, trying to do something to help.

Carl was around the car in a split second. He pushed the useless valet out of his way and supported Sheila while she held her mangled hand. I got out to see what I could do to help.

Carl tossed me his keys.

“Drive, Kate. Take us to the ER. Go to our hospital. We might have to wait at Northwestern.”

I did as I was told. I held my door open and let them get in to the back seat. Then I got in the driver’s seat and took off to race out of downtown. Sheila traded between wailing like her arm had been severed, and cursing a blue streak that would scorch a sailor’s ears.

After a crazed drive to the West Side, I let them out at the ER entrance and went to park Carl’s Lexus. It was a beauty. Leather insides, polished, undented outsides. Black. Luxurious. Sound system like a concert hall. Drove like a dream.

Not quite the city bus I was accustomed to.

I parked the car, which slid very nicely into the
Physician’s
Only
parking space. I sat a moment before getting out, just feeling the luxury of the vehicle and absorbing the music while I could. For one brief moment, I forgot the humiliation that had taken me there. Finally, I powered her down and pulled out the keys. I’d go relinquish them to Carl, check on Sheila, and try to find another way home. At least I’d gotten a lot closer.

When I got inside the ER, Carl was demanding that someone do something. Sheila had managed to compose herself enough to keep from melting our ears with her blistering language and sat sniffling, waiting for Carl to get her some relief.

I sat down next to Sheila, arranging the tulle green skirt of my gown, feeling just a little out of place in an ER packed with people like the Illinois DMV. Sheila and I were certainly more than a little overdressed for the diverse gathering. From flushed, croupy kids in their pajamas crying in their mothers’ arms to groups of probable-gang members hovering around their injured friends, the waiting room was teeming with bleeding, broken, or bacteria-riddled people.

“Have you looked yet?” I asked, still tucking the dress in between me and the small chair.

She shook her head, keeping her eyes straight ahead, avoiding just that.

“Want me to?”

She shook her head again. Then nodded, then shook. Then she just held her hand out in my direction, it resting in the palm of her other hand. She still didn’t look.

There were some napkins over it. They were soaked in red, matching the color of Sheila’s sequin gown. I lifted the edge and peeked beneath. “It’s not terrible.” Actually, it was. “Really Sheila.” I tried to focus on the positive. “All five fingers are still attached. Mostly. The skin’s broken. You’ll need stitches. And at least one looks broken. I know you won’t want to hear it, but your manicure is shot.”

I don’t think my attempt at humor helped. She closed her eyes tightly, pushing tears out, and grimaced.

“Want me to get some ice?”

She nodded.

Because the ER was way too busy, I hurried instead to the closest in-patient floor and found a rubber glove and filled it with crushed ice. Then I snatched a sterile gauze pack from a supply cart. I headed back to the emergency room with my pilfered supplies, ready to help Sheila and suppress my own feelings about my last wait in the ER when Howard had died.

I held out the lumpy glove of ice. “Here you go. Any word from Carl yet?”

“He’s working on it,” she whispered through tight teeth. “They’re full. Couple of bad traumas in just before us.”

She thrust out her hand so I could place the ice on it for her. First I removed the napkin and set the sterile gauze over the wound. Then I put the glove on as gently as I could, but I knew it had to have hurt. Sheila took it like a trooper. Or maybe that was more like a marine. She had a way with words. She could string a bunch of obscenities together like they were all part of one long multi-syllabic vulgar word.

Carl returned from behind the security doors of the ER and sat on the other side of Sheila. We were lucky to find three available chairs together. He put his arms around her and she leaned into his support.

“Sorry, Babe. They’re working on it. They’ve got to get a DOA out, then transfer a couple of live ones to ICU, then they’ll have an open bed.”

“Can I get you guys anything?” I asked. “Coffee, Coke?”

“I want a smoke.” Sheila said it like a dying wish.

“Coffee. Cream, no sugar,” Carl said. He used his free hand to loosen his black bow tie.

“Save my seat,” I said, knowing it was probably futile. I left the couple again in search of coffee. I knew the courtesy coffee tasted like burnt chalk and the gourmet coffee cart was closed, so I went to L&D and filched a huge mug of rich French roast from the nurses’ own private stock of java.

Back at the ER, Sheila was still waiting to be seen, a surprise considering her companion was the new head honcho of the hospital. But I guess protocol was protocol. Cardiac arrests and brain hemorrhages beat out crushed hands in triage every time. An angry administrator was better to deal with than relatives of dead guys who shouldn’t be dead.

My chair had been taken by a guy holding his elbow with his other hand. So I just stood and wondered what I was supposed to do.

“I have to pee,” Sheila said after a time. Carl helped her stand, but she was shaky. Probably as much from the pain as from the booze.

“You’ll have to go with her,” Carl told me.

I walked with Sheila to the restroom and stood with a moment of indecision once we were inside. I didn’t know if she wanted me to help her into a stall or wait or leave or what.

“What can…I do to help?”

“I don’t know. Will you stick around in case I need you?” Now her lip was the one quivering.

“Sure.”

She went into the largest stall and worked for a moment to get the door closed. After a few moments of rustling, I heard her start to cry.

“You need help?”

I think the noise she made through her tears was a yes.

I pushed the door open. She stood there with rivers streaming down her cheeks washing down black rivulets of mascara from her eyes to her jaw bone. She looked like a sad clown. Or a zebra.

“I can’t even pull my dress up,” she slurred.

“Want me to?”

She nodded.

I latched the door and helped her get her sparkly clothes out of the way so she could sit on the toilet. It was nothing I hadn’t done a thousand times as a nurse, but only for strangers who were my patients. They didn’t wear red-glitter skin-tight gowns. Or black leather thongs. This was different.

“Want me to leave now?”

“No.” The tears continued to flow. This had to be humiliating for her, what with hating me and all, and having to depend on me to help her use the toilet.

“I’m done.”

Hmm.

“Want me to wipe you off?”

“I guess.” She cried audibly now.

We got her cleaned up and her dress back down without a word. Just the sound of her quiet whimpering.

While I washed my hands quickly so we could get her back to a chair, I saw her pale in the mirror to a whiter shade of green-gray than she’d been before. And it wasn’t just the reflection of my dress on her skin.

“I’m going to be sick,” she muttered.

She vaulted back into the stall and leaned over the pot and retched. Since her mangled hand was still cradled in her other hand, I held her hair back for her. The hairspray in her ’do wasn’t enough to keep her hair away from her face on its own. Standing over her as she puked, I stared down at the zipper trailing along her bony spine. No longer did her sparkly dress look like Dorothy’s shoes. It was just dyed red fabric covered in rows and rows of tiny red plastic circles.

It took her a while to get her stomach emptied. I tried not to gag. By picturing myself on a beach somewhere, I was just able to keep my gorge down. She just kept heaving. And I stayed there with her as she lost every chance of keeping any shred of pride or dignity.

When she finished and stood up, I brought over a wet paper towel and washed off her mouth.

“I want a smoke.”

“Let’s go see if they’re ready for you yet. If not, I’ll take you for a cigarette.”

Like an unstable zombie, she left the bathroom and teetered back to where Carl waited.

“You all right, Babe?”

“No, I’m not all right. My hand is crushed, no one will take care of me, I just puked my guts up, and I
want a smoke
!”