Daddy paused to ponder what I had said. “But if I didn’t do it and neither did Georgina, the real killer could be connected with one of her other patients. I can’t be the first father who wanted to silence that charlatan.” He ran possible scenarios by me, each wilder than the next, his words tumbling through the receiver and into my ear at one hundred miles per hour. How about a spurned lover, he suggested, or a jealous husband? Maybe she had a sister or brother who killed her for her share of an inheritance? Maybe Diane Sturges had to be silenced before she passed on some incriminating information that a patient had shared with her? I let him wind down, then said, “OK, Daddy, I promise to do what I can. I’ve got an appointment with the plastic surgeon early tomorrow afternoon, but after that, I’ll stop by Georgina’s and see if I can’t get her to talk to me. It’s possible she knows some of the other patients.”
His voice brightened. “Thanks, honey. You know she won’t have a thing to do with me.”
“I know. But that will change. I know it will.” I tried to put a smile into my voice. “Now, you do something for me. Drag Mom out of bed, get her dressed, and take her out for a nice lunch somewhere.”
“I’ll try.”
“Just do it, Daddy.”
When I hung up a few minutes later, I decided if Georgina still refused to speak to me tomorrow, I’d camp out on her doorstep until she did.
chapter 10
I hate to admit that I’m old enough to remember the good old-fashioned G.P. who sometimes made house calls. Nowadays, every doctor has a specialty. I swear I’ve got a doctor for every part of my body-my gynecologist, my surgeon, my oncologist, the ENT guy who once dug a plug of wax out of my ear. Most of the doctors I see in Annapolis have relocated from downtown to offices on Bestgate Road or out by the new hospital facility being built near Annapolis Mall. Consequently there had to be some sort of rule that the best plastic surgeon in the county had established her office in a 1970s-style office building on Route 2 halfway to Glen Burnie, a soulless, wall-to-wall corridor of strip malls, fast-food joints, and car dealerships.
I’d spent a restless night thinking about what I would say when I saw the doctor, but got up in the middle of the night and padded down to the basement to take another look at myself in the yellow bikini. Whatever it took, it was worth the price.
At Dr. Bergstrom’s the nurse ushered me into a small office with comfortable chairs and a large TV set on a mahogany credenza. I was glad I didn’t have to undress. Dr. Bergstrom had done all the examining and clinical photography on a previous visit; today I was supposed to have made up my mind about options. At first she had recommended a saline implant that would be pumped up with water every week, gradually expanding the tightened skin across my chest until it had stretched far enough to remove and slip a permanent implant underneath. I wasn’t particularly comfortable with the idea of carrying a foreign object around in my body. With my luck, I’d no sooner get it installed than the FDA would outlaw whatever it was they were using in place of silicone these days. I asked to see the introductory video again; about halfway through I decided on a free TRAM flap procedure. They’d take a mound of tissue and skin from my abdomen and transplant it to my chest. Sounded like good news/good news to me. Lose a chunk of stomach flab and gain a breast. Afterward, they’d do a bit of touch-up and tattoo a nipple on. My son-in-law, Dante, would get a kick out of that. I had never made any secret of my dislike for the elaborate tattoos that snaked up and down his arms.
The videotape ended and began to rewind automatically. I stared at the blue screen for a while, trying to relax. Eventually Dr. Bergstrom breezed into the room, her pink lab coat flying. She flipped on an overhead light and perched on the corner of the credenza.
“Well, Hannah. Made up your mind, or do you still have questions?”
“No, I’ve decided to go for the TRAM flap thing.”
She sprang to her feet. “Wonderful! I know you won’t regret it for a minute.” She beamed. “Except for the few days immediately after surgery, when you’ll be a little sore.”
I favored her with a half smile. “You’ll prescribe something for that, I trust.”
“Of course.” She laid one hand on the doorknob and handed me my folder. “Take this to the receptionist and she’ll make all the final arrangements.”
I took the folder from her outstretched hand, but didn’t move to leave. “Doctor?”
“Yes?”
“I’ve made up my mind to do this, I really have, and I know that we blocked out the date on your calendar, but because of some pressing family matters… well, what would be the possibility of postponing it for a couple of months?”
“Cold feet, Hannah?” Her smile was sympathetic. “We could put it off, of course, but I have to attend a medical conference in Helsinki in three weeks. My calendar is full. If we don’t do it now, it will be months before I can reschedule.”
“When would be the earliest?”
“You’ll have to check with Cindy, but not until May or June, I should think.”
May or June. It took three to four weeks to recover from a TRAM flap procedure. This meant my new body wouldn’t be ready in time for the summer sailing season. My vanity genes kicked in and I shrugged. “Might as well get it over with!”
“Good girl!” She laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “You won’t be sorry. See you in two weeks.”
Out in the reception area, I pushed my folder through the glass window that separated the cashier from the patients. I wrote a check for the day’s visit, cringing at the amount, and hoped that Blue Cross/Blue Shield wouldn’t give me any grief about the claim. After I paid, the cashier directed me to Cindy, who handed me a preprinted instruction sheet. On my way to the elevator, I scanned it. On Monday I’d stop taking aspirin because it thins the blood; a week later, I’d report to the hospital. Nothing for breakfast, the instructions said, not even black coffee. I pushed the elevator button. No coffee. Bummer. Maybe there was still time to change my mind.
I sat in the doctor’s parking lot with the engine running, turned the heat to high, and considered where to go next. If I turned right, I could go home, have a late lunch, and continue making cold calls to people who might or might not have been patients of Dr. Sturges’s. If I turned left, I could drive to Georgina’s, like I promised Daddy. Either way, I figured I was in for some abuse. People on the other end of the telephone can always hang up in your ear, but if I showed up on the doorstep at Georgina’s and rang the bell, I would be a little hard to ignore. I desperately needed to talk to my troubled and troublesome sister. If Dr. Sturges’s self-help group met at All Hallows, Georgina almost certainly would have been involved. And if so, she might be able to tell me a lot about the other patients.
I turned left.
Thirty minutes later, I had parked on Colorado Avenue and was standing on Georgina’s front porch, mashing on the doorbell with my thumb and admiring the stained glass in her neighbor’s dining room window. I pressed the bell again and could hear it echo from somewhere at the back of the house. Nobody home. I checked my watch. Three o’clock. I found myself hoping Georgina was out consulting a new therapist, but she was probably at the grocery store or taking the boys to a Cub Scout meeting. I sat on the porch steps, the concrete cold as ice through my slacks, and considered my options. I could wait here for Georgina, freezing my tush, or do a little retail therapy and get something to eat. I wasted a couple of hours at the Towson Town Center, annoying shopkeepers at the White House and Hecht’s by trying on clothes without actually buying anything, then, because Café Zen was on Belvedere only a couple of miles away, I took myself there and dawdled over a delicious veggie stir-fry. At six, I returned to Colorado Road, but before I laid so much as a toe on the porch, I knew no one was home. The curtains were still drawn, no lights shone from behind them, and Scott’s SUV wasn’t parked anywhere on the street. Shit! If I wanted to find out more about the group at All Hallows, I’d have to try the direct approach. It was Wednesday. In one hour it would be seven. The hell with Georgina. I’d simply join the group myself.