‘Evelyn Mold,’ she said, gasping for breath.
She pronounced the name ‘Evelyn Mold’ with a kind of expectation. As if a number of things would instantly occur, and Solveig Grøner would immediately understand. People would come rushing, bells would ring. But nothing happened. She plonked her hands on the desk, pale against the light wood, and tipped over a box of paper clips. But she seemed to take no notice. She just stood there waiting.
‘Evelyn Mold,’ she repeated, a little louder now.
Solveig Grøner remained calm. During her many years at the hospital she had seen just about everything; besides, it was vital that she make no mistakes. Not here, in this building full of sickness and death. ‘Mold?’ she asked pleasantly. ‘Is that someone you’d like to visit?’
The woman nodded. She put a hand to her throat. Her cheeks were no longer red; she was beginning to turn pale. ‘It’s me,’ she panted. ‘I’m Evelyn Mold.’
Solveig Grøner didn’t understand what the woman wanted. Because she noticed someone on the blue couches in the waiting area watching them, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. Discretion was important. She was never careless about it.
‘How may I help you?’
‘You called. You rang and asked me to come! Now here I am. So help me! Help me!’
Solveig Grøner could feel the woman’s nervousness beginning to rub off on her. One thing at a time, she thought. Be careful. Do this right. Name. Procedures. ‘Is there someone you wish to visit?’
The woman was trying not to become hysterical, but she was losing her patience and growing bellicose. She didn’t understand why no one was here to meet her. They should have rushed to her. They should have been in the doorway. ‘Frances,’ she said. ‘My daughter. Frances Mold. She rides a scooter.’
Solveig Grøner nodded. Scooter, she thought. ‘Who told you to report to the hospital?’
‘The hospital.’
‘Here? The hospital?’
Evelyn Mold was now so distraught that she lost her voice.
‘Was she in a traffic accident?’
Evelyn Mold began to cry. Her hair, held loosely together, spilled over her cheeks. ‘They said it was serious,’ she managed. ‘I drove as fast as I could. Can you get somebody? Can you tell me where to go? You’ve got to hurry. They said it was serious!’
Solveig Grøner lifted the handset and dialled a number. She felt very uncertain. This wasn’t the hospital’s routine.
Evelyn Mold waited. She saw everything as if through a weak shaft of light. She also heard the rising and falling hum of voices, the clinks of cups and glasses from the cafeteria and the sudden, sharp snapping of a newspaper. Exactly the sound you make when you want to emphasise something important you’ve just said. Then she heard Solveig Grøner’s voice.
‘Frances Mold … Yes … Traffic accident … Her mother has arrived … No, it’s a teenager … What? What did you say?’
Silence again. Evelyn waited until she felt it in her legs, until tears began to flow. Soon someone would come running to take her arm, lead her to her daughter’s bed. Or maybe she was already on the operating table. What had she injured in the accident? Was it her legs? Maybe her head? Would she be the same girl? Was she no longer fifteen? Had she regressed to the level of a toddler? Or worse, was she gone? Was she just something that lay there breathing, with tubes and needles everywhere? Nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other, she put her hand to her mouth, on the verge of vomiting all over the information desk.
Solveig Grøner started whispering. ‘Evelyn,’ she said carefully, extending a hand, ‘I don’t know quite what this means. But we have no patient with that name, nor do we have a patient we aren’t able to identify. Do you understand?’
Evelyn trembled so forcefully that her teeth clacked in her mouth. ‘But they called me. They said I had to come.’
Solveig Grøner searched feverishly for an explanation. The woman’s panic was in danger of taking over. It occurred to her that there was another explanation, and she clutched at it immediately, like a straw. ‘Could it have been the University Hospital that called? Could you have misheard?’
Evelyn considered. From where they lived the University Hospital was an hour’s drive. Could Frances have driven so far on that little scooter of hers? Of course she could have, because the scooter was brand new and she was eager to ride it. But that wasn’t what they’d said on the phone, was it? Could they have said the University Hospital? She tried to recall. Was it a man or a woman who had called? What had she been told? Why was it all so cloudy? Why couldn’t she recall anything, something concrete? All she remembered was that they had said something about the hospital. Something about Frances. Whether it was her daughter, when she was born, and something about an accident. That she should come immediately. After that she had asked for details. About Frances’s condition. But she had been told that they couldn’t give out details over the phone.
Is it serious? she had asked. Yes, the voice said. It’s serious. It’s important you get here quickly.
She stood there swaying like an invalid while clutching the counter.
‘I’ll call them,’ Solveig Grøner said. ‘What is her full name?’
‘Frances Emilie Mold. She was born in 1994. She is fifteen years old.’
As soon as she finished her last sentence, she broke down. She waited for the verdict. Felt as though someone had hung her on a hook and she no longer had any contact with the floor.
Solveig Grøner called the University Hospital, introduced herself and asked for Accident and Emergency. She grabbed her pen, squeezed it. There was something odd about this entire situation. Normally she could deal with tragedy, but here, something was completely wrong. When they answered, her suspicions were confirmed. She thanked them and replaced the handset. Looked over the counter at Evelyn Mold. Summoned all her courage. She felt herself teetering on an edge, staring into the abyss. ‘Does your daughter have a mobile phone?’
Evelyn was close to breaking point. ‘They said it was serious,’ she stammered. ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’
Solveig Grøner knew this was risky, but she had no choice. ‘I suggest you try to call her right now.’
‘But what would that do?’
‘If she has been admitted neither here nor at the University Hospital, we’ve got to try another avenue.’ She leaned forward. Looked Evelyn straight in the eyes. ‘So many strange things have happened recently. If you know what I mean.’
Evelyn Mold needed a little time to understand what the other woman meant. It was as if her brain’s compartments had been sealed off; only the chamber for fear was open. She found a mobile telephone in a pocket. Staring spontaneously at the ceiling, she discovered hundreds of bright dots. They were recessed lights, she knew, but they shone like stars. Once again she heard the snapping of a newspaper behind her, a confirmation.
‘So many strange things?’ she whispered, her eyes now on Solveig Grøner.
‘You know, the one who has been playing pranks on people,’ Solveig said. ‘The one everyone’s talking about, the one calling in fake obituaries and messages.’
Evelyn punched in her daughter’s number. While she waited for an answer, she stared once more at the stars in the ceiling.