“Yes?” I say. I had figured it couldn’t hurt to leave her my card. I always do it, a habit, even if don’t think anything will come of it. Planting the seeds. You never know.
“Anyway,” she continues. “After all these years, there was a man who looked at the house last, oh, week or so ago. And he was not a real prospect, I could tell. Or I thought I could tell, but today, he came back. This morning. And asked to look at it again. So we walked through it all. Again. And then-”
“Did you get a name? A phone number?” I interrupt. This is probably nothing, I tell myself. Nothing.
“Well, no, he only said his name was Mr. Montague. And he didn’t leave a number. But then I realized he’d called me on my cell. And his number would be stored there. And as I told you, I admire your work and I thought-”
“That’s wonderful,” I interrupt again. I’m trying to stay calm, but this might be a very nice break. And it’s about time we had one. “Do you have it available? I’m ready to write it down.”
As soon as she hangs up, I’m punching in the number she gave me. It’s not a familiar area code. I wonder if it’s a cell phone.
Time slows as the phone rings once, then again, then again. This could be Tommy Bresnahan. Or it could be some poor schmoe who’s perversely interested in a murder house. Or it could be, imagine that, someone who’s actually looking to buy a perfectly nice home in perfectly desirable Swampscott. I hear a sound that clicks the phone into answering mode. Damn. I hope there’s a name in the message. But no. “The cellular customer you have reached,” a synthetic voice begins, “is unavailable. Please leave a number,” the voice orders. I hesitate. Then I hang up.
But as I flip my phone closed, I remember I was calling a cell phone. You don’t have to leave a number on a cell. My number is already stored inside someone’s phone. I just don’t know whose.
I stare out of my office window, watching the narrow alleyway. Watching for my cab. Watching for whatever else, or whoever else, might be out there.
I’m somewhat embarrassed by my own fears, but, I decide, better safe than-not.
Botox will be annoyed, and there’ll be Tender Vittles all over the kitchen, but she’ll be fine without me. I’ve made my decision. I’m headed for the one place I know is safe. With Mom.
THE NIGHT-DUTY NURSE hardly raises his head as I scrawl my name in the visitor’s book. I’m halfway to Mom’s room when I realize I, yet again, have missed dinner. Luckily, this place has better food than many of the best-known restaurants in Boston. I turn back to the nurse’s station, hoping to sign myself up for some after-hours room service.
The nurse, a new one, I guess, since I’ve never seen him before, greets me like I’m an old friend. “Well, Charlie McNally, I heard you visited someone here,” he says. The name embroidered on his white jacket says Kurt.
“Hey, Kurt,” I say. “Yes, my mother is down the hall. But I’m wondering-any chance of getting food? I know it’s late.”
“No problem at all,” he answers. He slides open a metal file drawer and extracts a leather-like notebook, puffed up and embossed like a menu from a pretentious restaurant. “Here’s the menu,” he says. “Look on the last page for Late Night Fare. And then just tell me what you’d like. I’ll buzz the kitch.”
“Hospital food, huh?” I say, “Didn’t use to be like this.”
I flip to the back and scan the list. I’m famished. Everything looks like exactly what I always wanted. “Cheeseburger? Rare? And fries,” I say. I wish. “Well, no, the salad with chicken, actually. Diet Coke.”
“All set,” Kurt says, taking the menu. “In half an hour, max, we’ll deliver it to your door.”
Maybe I’m just hungry, I decide as I walk down the quiet corridor toward Mom’s room. Nothing like low blood sugar to raise your anxiety level. Some lettuce, some grilled protein, and I’ll probably feel like myself again. And head for home.
“Mamacita.” I tap lightly on the door, opening it quietly in case she’s asleep. But she’s aiming the remote control at the television. I hear her commenting every time the channel changes.
“Boring,” she says. She clicks again. “Silly. Repeat. Saw it. Saw it. Saw-hello, dear.” She notices me in the door and clicks the television off. “Thank goodness. I couldn’t watch one more episode of-well, I couldn’t watch one more episode of anything. I guess the meds must be wearing off, since my tolerance for television has just about vanished. No offense, dear, of course.”
She points to my usual chair beside her bed. “So sit right down, Charlotte. Please tell me about something more interesting than television.”
“Well, actually my life is television,” I say, smiling. I close her door behind me and sit down beside her. “But tonight, yes, it is pretty interesting.” That’s an understatement. Should I tell her I’m somewhat nervous about going home? It seems a little paranoid, here in the safety of the hospital. I should wait.
“Let’s see,” I say, searching for a subject. “Maysie’s new show is in rehearsal. And she finally looks pregnant. I think it just happened overnight.” My brain screeches to a halt-why did I bring up a pregnant person? I cross my fingers I haven’t opened the floodgates of criticism. Mom, happily, doesn’t take the unintended bait.
“That’s nice, dear,” she says. “I do hope she and her family will come to the wedding. And your Josh, of course. And Penny.” She cocks her head, considering. “Do you think it would be appropriate for Penny to be my flower girl? I don’t want to push, of course…”
“Of course,” I say with a skeptical smile.
“…but it would be adorable to have a little girl in the ceremony. Now that my little girls are all grown-up. How are you two getting along, by the way?”
There’s a knock at the door, a quiet tap. “I ordered food,” I say, surprised. “That was fast.” In a flurry of embarrassment I realize I forgot to see if Mother needed anything. I am such a selfish… “Want to share a chicken salad?” I ask, going to the door.
“Heavens no,” I hear behind me.
But when I open the door, it’s not chicken and salad, it’s another nurse. I catch a glimpse of an older-leading-man kind of look, face lined and worn, but the nurse walks by me so quickly I can’t even read the embroidered name on his whites.
“Ten p.m. meds, Mrs. McNally,” he says.
It’s only nine-thirty, I think, glancing at my watch. But of course TV’s made me obsessive about time.
Mom obediently holds out her hand, same as every night. “Thank you, and just what I needed,” she says. She pops down several pills with a swallow of water. “Are you new?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “If there’s nothing else?” And he’s gone.
“So Charlotte, as I was saying,” Mom picks up as if we hadn’t been interrupted. “The wedding. Penny. You two are getting to know each other?” Mom reaches over and takes my hand. “You know, Charlotte, I’m so glad you’re here. It means a lot to me that you’re…” She yawns, broadly, and uses her other hand to cover her mouth. “My goodness. Anyway. That you’re taking an interest in the wedding, and that you like Ethan, and that you don’t mind my getting married again. I must say, dear, I thought it would be your wedding I’d be planning, not mine. But you’ve made your own decisions and I-”
“Of course I’m happy for you, and Ethan is a treasure,” I interrupt, patting her hand with mine. “And it’ll be lovely. Penny, I’m sure, would be beyond thrilled to be in a wedding. She’s all about frills, you should see her bedroom. She’s never met a ruffle or a pink thing she doesn’t love.” I feel Mom’s hand relax, so I lean back in my chair, musing out loud about Penny.
“You know, Mom,” I say. “When I’m with Penny, I kind of understand her. She’ll ask a question, seemingly very, oh, ordinary. But I’ll know what she’s really asking. She wants to be reassured, you know, that her world won’t be upset. That she’ll be safe. And somehow, it makes me feel so-it’s silly, but grown-up, to be able to take care of her. I keep thinking about what you said the other day about peanut butter. And first books. Now, Penny’s mother and stepfather are having problems. So I’m even more determined to be there for her.”