I leaned over, my breath a white cloud. “No. I’d rather walk.”
“Hannah, it’s nearly four in the morning! Get in this car!”
How could I explain? Eight months ago I was heading out this same door for the same emergency room, but that time I was in an ambulance with a pair of paramedics who were struggling to keep my mother’s heart beating. How could this nightmare be happening again?
I kissed my fingers and pressed them against the window where they left misty white impressions on the glass. “Go get Ruth. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” And I turned and jogged away from him down Prince George Street.
5
It was the same receptionist. The same one, I swear, who was asking me the same damn questions in the same flat, emotionless voice. She’d probably taken a course-Pacification 101: Dealing with the Distraught Customer. My fingernails dug into my palms as I fought the urge to scream. I wanted to scream until I ran out of breath, until I fell, blue-faced and exhausted, to the cold, hard floor.
“I don’t know his Social Security number.”
The receptionist, Miss Prozac of 1999, managed a cool, dispassionate smile, but her fingers hadn’t budged from the keyboard.
“I don’t have a clue about his health insurance! Look in your computer! Look up my mother. My poor, dead mother.” I slapped the counter with the flat of my hand. “Look up Lois Alexander. The information’s the same.”
In mid-rant, I felt a hand on my back and turned to see Paul, his face a misery of concern. “Sit down, Hannah. I’ll take care of this.”
Miss Prozac beamed at Paul, as if he’d just thrown her a life preserver. “Yes, please sit down, Mrs. Ivory. We can take care of this later.”
“It’s Ives,” I corrected. The pressure of Paul’s hand was firm but gentle on my back. “I-V-E-S.”
Paul led me to a chair in the waiting room where I sat down heavily and tried to quiet the shaking of my hands by pressing them between my knees. “This is some sort of cosmic joke, Paul. Maybe we didn’t handle it right the first time.” He stood directly in front of me, blocking my view of the receptionist. I leaned my head against him and spoke into his belt buckle. “So now we have to do it all over again.”
I sat back suddenly, remembering my sister. “Where’s Ruth?”
“Her face was a mess. I sent her to the ladies’ room.” Paul reached down and smoothed a lock of hair back from my forehead. “So’s your hair, sweetie.”
I grasped his hand and held it against my cheek, like an anchor, fighting back fresh tears of anger and frustration. “Just keep me away from any mirrors.”
Behind Paul a state trooper, large as a linebacker, loomed into view. Wearing a gray uniform with a Smoky the Bear hat tucked under his arm, he straight-armed his way through a swinging double door and crossed the room in our direction. “Are you Ruth Gannon?”
I looked up, surprised. “No, that’s my sister. She’ll be back in a minute.” Suddenly I knew who this guy was. “Are you the officer who called about George Alexander?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Corporal Griffin.” A patch on his left sleeve identified him as an officer with the Maryland Transportation Authority, the special police who patrol Maryland’s bridges and tunnels.
“I’m his daughter. Is he OK?”
“Your father plowed his car into the back of a truck on the Bay Bridge.”
“How badly is he hurt?”
“Aside from a pretty good gash on his forehead, not too bad. Fortunately, the air bags deployed and your father was wearing a seat belt.”
“Thank God,” Ruth said. She had returned from the bathroom and materialized at my elbow.
“Yes, ma’am. Some people think all they need is the air bag.” He tapped an index finger next to his temple. “That kind of thinking gets you dead.” Corporal Griffin shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. “Look, I gotta tell ya. They’re doing a blood alcohol kit on him right now, but from your father’s behavior at the scene and from what I learned from the paramedics, I’m afraid I had’ta issue a citation.” Griffin reached into a slim portfolio that I hadn’t noticed before. It had been tucked under his arm along with his hat. He pulled out a three-part form, tore off the pink sheet, and handed it to me. “Your father signed this form, agreeing to the test.”
I looked at the bottom of the form where the YES box for an alcohol concentration test was checked and my father’s familiar signature was scrawled over, around, and above the Driver Signature line. Another hand had filled in the date and time. I pointed at the line that said Signature of Officer. “Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be the investigating officer.”
Ruth’s eyes darted from Corporal Griffin, to me, to Paul, and back to Griffin again.
“You don’t look surprised.” Griffin fluttered the remaining copies of the DR-15 in front of Ruth and addressed her directly.
“Frankly, no,” she admitted.
“Ruth!” I shot my sister a shut-up glare. “What’s the next step?” I asked before Ruth could incriminate our father any further.
“We send the blood kit to our crime lab in Pikesville. The results will be back in two weeks.”
“Then what?”
“If his blood alcohol level is higher than point one, we notify the MVA and his driver’s license will be confiscated.”
“Well,” Ruth drawled, “that should cut down on his trips back and forth to see that witch in Chestertown.”
“Be careful what you wish for, Ruth,” I said. If Daddy’s Little Problem got any more out of hand, she might be glad there was a Darlene in the picture.
Corporal Griffin sighed deeply, then laid his hat and portfolio on a chair. “Look, let’s all sit down, OK? I got some questions and I’m sure you got some questions. Better now than later, huh?”
Griffin’s chair creaked under his weight. His beefy body spilled over the seat on both sides, the nightmare seat mate in transatlantic flight hell. “As I said,” he continued. “Your father was driving west in the westbound span when he ran into the back of a tractor trailer. A passing motorist called nine-one-one. I arrived about the same time the ambulance did.”
Paul asked, “Was anybody else hurt?”
Officer Griffin shook his head. “Nope. The truck driver wasn’t in his vehicle.”
“Do you mean the truck was stopped on the bridge?” I was incredulous.
“Yes.”
“Then how can it be Daddy’s fault he ran into it?”
“Look, ma’am, that truck was lit up with blinking lights like Rocker Fellah Center. If your dad’a been sober, it never would’a happened.”
“But…”
Paul silenced me by squeezing my hand, hard. “Does he need a lawyer?”
The officer shrugged. “If it was me, I’d get one.”
“When can we see him?” I asked.
Griffin rose from his chair, tugged on the waistband of his uniform, and gathered up his belongings. “It’s up to the doctor in charge, but someone should be out to talk to you soon.” He reached into a breast pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Ruth. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks,” Ruth said, although under the circumstances, I couldn’t imagine what she was thanking the guy for.
After Corporal Griffin left I took the card from Ruth, read it, then handed it back to her. “Why you?” I asked, feeling unaccountably miffed.
She shrugged. “They called the house asking for Mom.” Her voice broke. Huge tears slid down her cheeks.
“Oh, Ruth! I’m sorry!” I felt my cheeks grow wet. “Stop it! Now you’re making me cry!” I hugged Ruth and began to blubber. My teardrops left gray splotches all over her white silk blouse.