“It’s certainly an appropriate verse for a copy editor,” I said, “or a tutor.”
She winced. “Yes. I’d planned to give it to someone, but now I suppose I’ll keep it.” Without setting down her needle, she reached over to touch the bracelet on her left wrist. The oversized red beads were shaped like apples, I noticed. That was clever — ugly, yes, and gaudy, but clever.
Roland strode in next, and the whole room seemed instantly brighter. “Hey, who’s always late for rehearsal?” he said. “Ten o’clock on the dot, and here I am. This place is helping me already — I bet I’ll be all the way rehabilitated within a week. Let’s see if they remembered my thermos.” He flung open the refrigerator door, found the yellow thermos labeled with his name, sipped, and smiled. “Orange juice. Just what I requested. Now, if I can get them to add some vodka — but that’s probably against the rules.”
Why was I laughing? He hadn’t said anything even vaguely amusing. But I couldn’t help it. “It might be a bit much to expect in the morning. Well, as soon as Courtney gets here, we’ll start.”
Seven or eight minutes passed. I was about to go look for her when she stalked in, looking peevish. “Sorry. My mom called, and she would not shut up.”
“I’m sorry, Courtney,” I said, “but there’s a rule against receiving outside calls at the center.”
“Fred waived the rule for me, since I’m under twenty-one. My parents can call me — that’s it.” She grabbed her thermos and hurled herself into an armchair. “Next time you see Fred, tell him as far as I’m concerned, he can waive his damn waiver.”
I decided I didn’t need to respond to that. “All right. Today, you’re all supposed to work on your personal inventories. Who’d like to start?”
Thank goodness for Roland. Immediately, he launched into an enthusiastic description of his mistakes and shortcomings, mixing sometimes startling confessions with charming little jokes and side comments reminding us that he was basically a great guy. Nobody else contributed much. Felix, of course, said nothing — I’d gotten used to that. Twice, Martha corrected Roland’s grammar; beyond that, she too stayed silent. Courtney just stared at her clenched hands, not making eye contact with anyone. And Brian — Brian’s silence was the most puzzling. Yesterday, he’d chimed in constantly, always ready with a complaint or a criticism or a revelation designed to embarrass someone else. Today, he sat hunched over the pillow, breathing heavily, his face visibly damp with sweat. Midway through Roland’s account of a wild spending spree, I glanced at Brian and saw that his shoulders were shaking.
“Excuse me, Roland,” I cut in. “Brian, are you all right?”
“I dunno,” he said. “My stomach’s cramping up something awful, and my heart’s racing like crazy. It can’t be the crunches — I just did thirty-seven.”
“Another misplaced limiting modifier,” Martha said. “You mean, ‘I did just thirty-seven.’ ”
“Maybe you should lie down,” I said. “Roland, could you help him to his room?”
But Brian didn’t make it that far. Even with Roland’s strong arms to support him, Brian took only two steps before collapsing to his knees, retching miserably. Martha got a wastebasket to him just in time, and I raced down the hall to the nurse’s station.
By the time we got back to the room, Brian was stretched out on the couch, panting rapidly. The nurse crouched next to him. “Did you feel sick when you got up this morning, Brian?” she asked.
But he was too wretched to answer. “He seemed fine,” Martha volunteered. “I saw him walking through the courtyard during Independent Meditation Hour — he looked perfectly healthy.”
“So it started suddenly. Could be food poisoning,” the nurse said. “It would help to know what he had for breakfast.”
“What is oatmeal?” Felix supplied. He stood at the end of the couch, looking pale.
“I had the same thing, from the same serving dish,” Roland said, “only I had four times as much as he did. The only other thing he had was water.”
“That pretty much rules out food poisoning,” the nurse said. “Let’s get him to his room. I’d better call the doctor. Leah, inform Fred.”
For reasons I didn’t exactly understand, I grabbed Brian’s yellow thermos. It felt light. Later, after the doctor arrived, I opened the thermos and saw it was almost empty. I hadn’t noticed Brian drink anything during the therapy session, but maybe he’d had some water during Independent Meditation Hour — the thermoses would be filled by then, and guests can go wherever they like to meditate. Could someone get food poisoning from mineral water? It didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t know enough to rule it out. I went to Brian’s room and told the doctor about the thermos.
“I doubt that has anything to do with it,” the doctor said, “but I’ll take the thermos along and have the water tested, just in case. We’d better get this man to the hospital. His heart rate’s completely erratic.” He looked down at Brian, who lay on his bed soaked in sweat, seeming oblivious to everything, his whole body shaking. “I checked his file. Losing over eighty pounds in six months — that can put a strain on the heart, just as gaining weight rapidly can. And if he’s still been pushing too hard on diet and exercise, that might well bring on this sort of attack.”
It was a reasonable explanation, but I felt uneasy. After the ambulance took Brian away, I went to check on the other guests in the group.
I found them all gathered in Martha’s room. Martha sat at her desk, staring fixedly at a small antique clock that looked like a family heirloom; Felix stood nearby, holding a large plastic file box labeled “Cooking with Flair,” flipping idly through the dozen or so laminated recipe cards it contained, stealing anxious glances at Martha. Both Courtney and Roland stood by the window. He gazed out at the Cocoon Center’s lush grounds; she spoke to him softly, her hand resting on his arm. When I said Brian had been taken to the hospital, Roland turned around sharply.
“But he’ll be okay, right?” he said. “Even if it’s a heart attack, people survive heart attacks all the time. And he’s in basically great shape, and they got him to the hospital quickly — they’ll know how to take care of him there.”
“Yeah, heart attacks often aren’t fatal,” Courtney agreed. “Plus Brian’s receiving prompt medical attention from knowledgeable experts, and his overall fitness level is good. He’ll be fine, won’t he?”
“I hope so.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s your lunch hour. You may not feel like eating, but it’s probably good to stick to the schedule.”
Obediently, they filed out. Not knowing what else to do, I walked back to Brian’s room and found Fred locking the door — standard procedure when a guest left the center unexpectedly, he said, to protect personal possessions. In view of what had happened, Fred had decided to suspend all planned activities for the afternoon while we waited for news. So I grabbed a sandwich and came to the staff lounge to take these notes.
4:15—
Moments after I wrote the last sentence, Fred came to the lounge to deliver sad news. Brian is dead.
“If you feel that strongly about it,” Sam said, “call him.”
Leah propped her elbows on the table and held her head in her hands. “He’ll think I’m an idiot.”
“Probably. But if you think there’s even a chance it’s murder, you should call.”
Sighing, Leah took the well-worn business card from her wallet and dialed the number. “Lieutenant Brock? It’s Leah Abrams. You won’t believe this, but I think it’s happened again.”
Within the hour, Lieutenant Brock sat at their kitchen table, listening to Leah’s narration while Sam poured coffee. She gave quick descriptions of the Cocoon Center and of the people she’d met there, a more detailed description of what had happened that morning. When she finished, he stirred his coffee slowly.