“Come in, Blair,” a throaty voice responded. Obviously, the person at home was expecting someone else.
Cindy stepped inside nevertheless. The room had low ceilings, small windows and smelled of old wine. A young woman stood there, her back turned to Cindy.
“Excuse me,” said Cindy, as a young, beautiful Jamaica woman suddenly flung herself around and stared.
“What’s going on?” the young woman burst out. She wore a thin, cotton dress and had wild hair that was uncombed. Cindy wondered if she were slightly drunk. “Who are you?” the young woman demanded, totally taken aback. “What are you doing here?”
“Alana?” asked Cindy, responding to her immediately.
“Yeah, I’m Alana, who are you?” Alana zeroed in to get a better look at Cindy.
“I’m Cindy Blaine of C and M investigations,” Cindy answered in a forthright manner. There was such a sense of disarray about this young woman that this was certainly no time for playing games.
“Investigations?” Alana’s voice rose a notch. “Who are you investigating, me?”
“No, not you,” Cindy tried to soothe her. “I’m investigating Tara’s death.”
“What’s there to investigate? She’s gone,” Alana shrugged.
“I’m trying to find out if Tara’s husband Owen was involved,” Cindy replied quickly. “He’s being held for the crime.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” Alana quieted down. “That’s a shame, isn’t it?”
“A terrible shame,” Cindy responded, “everything about the case is.”
“What’s a shame, the accident or the coma?” Alana’s eyes narrowed and she actually seemed interested in what Cindy had to say.
“I mean it’s a shame for everyone involved in the case,” Cindy answered slowly. “It has to have taken a terrible toll.”
“You can say that again,” Alana began to relax. “And Tara was a good person, too.”
That remark surprised Cindy. “Why would you say that? You never got to know her really,” Cindy replied.
Alana took exception to that. She stood up taller, pushed her hair off her face and walked around the room with a sudden grace and agility, almost looking like a beautiful, wild bird.
“People think you don’t know a person if you don’t talk to them, or do things together,” Alana was edgy. “But none of that is true. When you’re with someone every day, when you take care of them, wash their body, move them in the bed, you feel who they are, believe me. Words can just get in the way sometimes, cover up the truth. Ever notice that?”
“I have,” said Cindy, touched by Alana’s response. She could feel Alana’s love for Tara. Alana was nothing at all like Cindy had expected. Nothing about this case was. None of it fit.
“You sound like a wonderful nurse,” Cindy commented.
Despite herself Alana smiled. “Not better than anyone else,” she murmured.
“But you love what you do,” Cindy persisted.
“Sure, I love what I do, or I wouldn’t do it,” Alana answered heartily. “The patients feel it too when you don’t care about them.”
Cindy never thought of it that way.
“You look like someone who loves what she does too,” Alana perked up. “Look how you tracked me down right to my house.”
It was a smart observation and Cindy felt good about it. “I do love what I do,” Cindy admitted, glad someone understood.
“Well, it’s not often you meet someone who cares,” Alana smiled, unwinding. “How in hell did you find me here?”
Cindy side stepped the question. “This is not exactly where I would have expected you to live,” she answered lightly instead.
Once again Alana took exception. “Why not? This is where I come from, raised a few blocks away. If the neighborhood was good enough for my parents, it’s good enough for me.” She looked at Cindy proudly.
“Are your parents alive?” Cindy was curious.
“No, my father died when I was young and my mother died a few years ago. I moved back after my mother died,” Alana said, swiftly.
Cindy wondered where Alana moved back from, and where the other hospital she’d worked at was located.
“Yeah, this is a poor neighborhood,” Alana went on, encouraged by Cindy’s genuine interest. “So what? There’s plenty of poverty and unemployment everywhere in Jamaica. And, what goes with that? Crime. Poor people are afraid to go out of their neighborhoods and kids have trouble getting to school because it’s not safe. But I feel safe here. I like it. It’s where I come from.”
“You’re proud of Jamaica,” Cindy commented, impressed.
“Bet your life, I am,” said Alana. “We’re doing our best to handle our problems. There are programs educating the poor and matching them up with employers. There are also programs giving poor people cash in exchange for sending their kids to school and making sure they have medical care. That’s important, even though most medical care down here leaves plenty to be desired!”
It was inspiring to feel Alana’s pride in the world she came from. Cindy also found it curious that despite her identification with the poor, Alana worked in one of the most exclusive hospitals on the island.
“You have quite a fabulous job yourself,” Cindy commented. “It must have been hard to get it.”
Alana face lit up and Cindy could suddenly see the beauty and strength in it.
“Very hard,” Alana confessed, “everyone wanted it. I got lucky. Who knows why?”
More than luck, thought Cindy. “Who hired you?” she asked. Even though she didn’t want to, Cindy had to keep probing.
Alana brushed the question off. “I went through a bunch of interviews. Why?”
Cindy didn’t want to bring up Konrad at the moment, fearing it would put Alana off. She didn’t want to question whether the job she’d landed had been in exchange for sex. So far the relationship between Cindy and Alana had been friendly and easy, and Cindy wanted to keep it that way.
“Hey, come in and sit down,” Alana suddenly realized that Cindy was still standing at the door. “Let me get you some coffee.”
Cindy was surprised at how comfortable she felt with Alana. “Sure, thanks,” Cindy agreed, following Alana deeper into her small house and sitting at a round table near the kitchen. “Sorry to barge in like this. I tried to find you at the hospital,” Cindy continued, “but you hadn’t come in.”
Alana was in the narrow kitchen now, pouring coffee and didn’t respond. Cindy waited for her to return to the table before repeating her question.
“Why aren’t you at work today, Alana?” Cindy asked as she took the large mug of coffee and started to drink.
Alana sat down opposite Cindy and began to drink some coffee as well.
“It’s a bummer losing a patient,” Alana finally said. “After all, Tara and I were together for two months. It got to me. I felt lousy, depressed, still do. I needed to take a few days to myself.”
“I can imagine,” Cindy murmured softly, enjoying the delicious, creamy coffee Alana had prepared. “You didn’t expect her to die?”
“Sure I expected it, sooner or later, I guess,” Alana said quietly. “You both expect it and hope it won’t happen. But usually you don’t work with a patient for so long.”
“Did you think Tara was recovering during that time?” Cindy asked quietly.
“That’s the funny thing about patients in a coma,” Alana was quick on the uptake. “You never know. One day you think they are, the next day you have your doubts.”
“Were you surprised that someone stepped in and killed her?” Cindy turned a corner and put it directly then.
Alana flared up. “I wouldn’t call it killing her,” she objected. “I would say everyone wanted Tara to make it, but obviously someone couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Who?” asked Cindy fascinated.
Alana ignored the question, “And, I wouldn’t call it killing her,” she went on, “because who could say she was even really here in the first place? She went back and forth.”
“Back and forth from where?” A long, slow chill crept up Cindy’s spine.