“Black belt?”
“A brown one. Larry said brown was enough; anything more would have been ego.”
Lowering her face, she cried softly into her hands. I took a napkin from the lacquer tray, stood by her chair, and had it ready when she looked up. Her hand gripped my fingers hard enough to sting, then let go. I sat back down.
She said, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
I shook my head. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“No, thank you. Just your coming to visit was gracious — we don’t know many people.”
She looked around the room once more.
I said, “Have you made funeral arrangements?”
“Through Larry’s attorney... Apparently Larry planned it all out. The details — the plot. There’s a plot for me too. I never knew. He took care of everything... I’m not sure when the funeral will be. In these... cases, the coroner... Such a stupid way to...”
Her hand flew to her face. More tears.
“This is terrible. I’m being childish.” She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin.
“It’s a terrible loss, Mrs. Ashmore.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” she said quickly. Suddenly her voice was hard, plated with anger.
I kept quiet.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose I’d better attend to business.”
I got up. She walked me to the door. “Thank you for coming, Dr. Delaware.”
“If there’s anything I can do—”
“That’s very kind, but I’m certain I’ll be able to handle things as they come up.”
She opened the door.
I said goodbye and the door closed behind me.
I began walking toward the Seville. The gardening noises had died and the street was beautiful and silent.
14
When I entered room 505W, Cassie followed me with her eyes but the rest of her didn’t move.
The drapes were drawn, and yellow light came from the half-open door of the bathroom. I saw wet clothes hanging over the shower rod. The bed rails were down and the room had the gluey smell of old bandages.
A metered I.V. line was still attached to Cassie’s left arm. Clear fluid from a hanging bottle slow-dripped through the tubing. The whirr of the I.V. meter seemed louder. LuvBunnies surrounded Cassie. An untouched breakfast tray sat on the table.
I said, “Hi, sweetie.”
She gave a small smile, closed her eyes, and moved her head back and forth the way a blind child might.
Cindy came out of the bathroom and said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware.” Her braid was gathered atop her head and her blouse was untucked.
“Hi. How’re you managing?”
“Okay.”
I sat on the edge of Cassie’s bed. Cindy came over and stood next to me. The pressure of my weight made Cassie’s eyes open again. I smiled at her, touched her fingers. Her stomach rumbled and she shut her eyes once more. Her lips were dry and chapped. A small scrap of dead skin hung from the upper one. Each breath ruffled it.
I took her free hand. She didn’t resist. Her skin was warm and silky, soft as a dolphin’s belly.
I said, “Such a good girl,” and saw her eyes move behind the lids.
“We had a rough night,” said Cindy.
“I know. Sorry to hear it.” I looked down at the hand in mine. No new wounds but plenty of old ones. The thumbnail was tiny, square-edged, in need of cleaning. I exerted gentle pressure and the digit rose, remained extended for a moment, then lowered, tapping the top of my hand. I repeated the pressure and the same thing happened. But her eyes remained shut and her face had grown loose. Within moments she was sleeping, breathing in time with the I.V. drip.
Cindy reached down and stroked her daughter’s cheek. One of the bunnies fell to the floor. She picked it up and placed it next to the breakfast tray. The tray was farther away than she’d estimated and the movement threw her off balance. I caught her elbow and held it. Through the sleeve of her blouse, her arm was thin and pliable. I let go of it but she held on to my hand for a moment.
I noticed worry lines around her eyes and mouth, saw where aging would take her. Our eyes met. Hers were full of wonder and fear. She stepped away from me and went to sit on the sleeper couch.
I said, “What’s been happening?” though I’d read the chart before coming in.
“Sticks and tests,” she said. “All kinds of scans. She didn’t get any dinner until late and couldn’t hold it down.”
“Poor thing.”
She bit her lip. “Dr. Eves says the appetite loss is either anxiety or some sort of reaction to the isotopes they used in the scans.”
“That sometimes happens,” I said. “Especially when there are a lot of tests and the isotopes build up in the system.”
She nodded. “She’s pretty tired. I guess you can’t draw with her today.”
“Guess not.”
“It’s too bad — the way it worked out. You didn’t have time to do your techniques.”
“How’d she tolerate the procedures?”
“Actually, she was so tired — after the grand mal — that she was kind of passive.”
She looked over at the bed, turned away quickly, and put the palms of her hands on the sofa, propping herself up.
Our eyes met again. She stifled a yawn and said, “Excuse me.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Thanks. Can’t think of any.”
She closed her eyes.
I said, “I’ll let you rest,” and walked to the door.
“Dr. Delaware?”
“Yes?”
“That home visit we spoke about,” she said. “When we finally do get out of here, you’re still planning on doing it, aren’t you?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
Something in her voice — a stridency I’d never heard before — made me stand there and wait.
But she just said “Good” again, and looked away, resigned. As if a critical moment had come and gone. When she started to play with her braid, I left.
No sign of Vicki Bottomley; the nurse on shift was a stranger. After completing my own notes, I reread Stephanie’s, the neurologist’s, and those of the consulting endocrinologist — someone named Alan Macauley, with strong, large handwriting.
The neurologist had found no abnormality on two successive EEGs and deferred to Macauley, who reported no evidence of any metabolic disorder, though his lab tests were still being analyzed. As far as medical science could tell, Cassie’s pancreas was structurally and biochemically normal. Macauley suggested further genetic tests and scans to rule out some sort of brain tumor, and recommended further “intensive psychological consultation per Dr. Delaware.”
I’d never met the man and was surprised to be referred to by name. Wanting to know what he meant by “intensive,” I looked up his number in a hospital directory and called it.
“Macauley.”
“Dr. Macauley, this is Alex Delaware — the psychologist who’s seeing Cassie Jones.”
“Lucky you. Been to see her recently?”
“About a minute ago.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Wiped out — post-seizural fatigue, I guess.”
“Probably.”
“Her mother said she didn’t hold her dinner down.”
“Her mother, huh?... So, what can I do for you?”
“I read your notes — about psychological support. Wondered if you had any suggestions.”