by CJ Lyons
And still Lydia sat. Thinking of the frightened teenage girl from those booking photos. Martha Flowers had been skinny—much too thin for a pregnant woman. There’d been what looked like track marks visible on her arms, and her eyes had held the sunken look of a junkie wanting a fix. No surprise to Lydia. Maria—Martha—had confessed to her daughter that she’d been a heroin addict once, but told Lydia she’d quit cold turkey when she found out she was pregnant. It was about the only fact she’d ever shared about her life before Lydia.
Young. Her mother had been so very young. And alone. And terrified. Of what?
Of whom?
Lydia’s father. They’d been on the run from him since before she was born. Lydia didn’t even know his name. To her he was the bogeyman.
When she was older she used to think he was actually a figment of Maria’s mind, an imaginary specter who allowed her to justify their nomadic existence, the way her mother dragged them from place to place, living like pieces of debris swept through the streets of L.A. by the Santa Ana winds.
She’d blamed her mother. Thought Maria was crazy.
The morning of the day Maria died, Lydia had threatened to leave, to turn herself in to children’s services, ask them to find her father so she could live with him instead. All she’d wanted was some normalcy, a taste of security. A bathroom with a real door on it instead of a sheet draped over a curtain rod. A place her friends could visit. A home.
It was the worst fight they’d ever had. A few hours later Maria was dead.
Nausea twisted through Lydia’s gut, an echo of the awful wrenching feeling that had consumed her as she watched Maria die. For eighteen years she’d felt guilty. Even though she hadn’t made the call to children’s services, she still blamed herself that the bogeyman had found them that day—or the monster he’d sent to do his dirty work.
Now the bogeyman was back. And he was after her.
6
Gina bolted off the elevator, then slowed her pace to a calm, confident stride—everything she didn’t feel. She pushed through the doors to the ER and saw Jason, the ER day-shift desk clerk, sitting at his usual place behind the nurses’ station, playing a handheld video game as he lounged in a well-padded office chair.
“Have you seen Nora?” she asked, scanning the patient board. Still slow. Only two patients, both marked as discharged. Gina took a banana nut mini-muffin from the basket in front of Jason and crammed it whole into her mouth, unable to resist. It took everything she had to fight the urge to grab the entire basket and gobble them all down. So much for calm and confident.
“She and Jim Lazarov just headed out to triage. How’s Jerry?”
Gina choked on a last swallow of muffin, forcing it down even though it gouged her throat. “A little better. I guess.”
“Remember that news guy who got hit in Iraq? They removed like half his skull, but a year later, he’s walking and talking and back doing the news.”
It was the same kind of miracle story everyone kept sharing with her. But they had the opposite effect on Gina—as if for every other person she heard about who beat the odds, it meant that Jerry’s chances at a winning ticket in the traumatic brain injury lotto were diminished. But she nodded her thanks anyway.
Surreptitiously, her hand jammed deep into the pocket of her sweater, Gina slid a cigarette from the pack she’d bought off the patient in the elevator and rolled it between her fingers. Wondered if she could sneak outside for a quick smoke before heading back up to Jerry. Maybe grab some cookies from the lounge on her way back. Her need to binge tasted like burnt caramel—made her salivate with anticipation as she allowed her urges to stampede over her willpower.
Even better would be the pain when she purged. Pleasure and pain, spiraled together in a macabre dance, that was her. A whirling dervish. Out of control. Just like her life.
Gina hadn’t given in to her eating disorder since Jerry was shot—weeks of restraint, surely she deserved one little binge? It would feel so good.
The thoughts and emotions sprinted through her mind. She forced them aside, turning a calm façade to Jason. “Was there a guy here, looking for Lydia?”
Jason snorted. “Suit. Flashing a badge and a gun—you’d think after the shootings, they wouldn’t let anyone with a gun in here.”
Unfortunately the hospital security guards, like the entire hospital, were seriously short-staffed and administration had temporarily forbidden them from carrying any weapons other than pepper spray—which, in Gina’s mind, made them more liabilities than assets.
She continued to caress the pack of Marlboros in her pocket as she fought to keep her attention on what Jason was saying. “So the guy with the suit and the gun, where did he go?”
“When I told him he’d have to talk to Mark Cohen if he wanted any info on an attending, he grabbed a copy of the schedule.” Jason gestured to a ripped remnant of paper hanging from his well-ordered corkboard. “Too bad it was an old one. From before Lydia broke her arm. It listed her as working today, so he’s probably combing the hospital for her.”
Gina didn’t like the sound of that. “Which way did he go?”
“Mark blew him off the first time around.” Jason jerked his head toward the ER department head’s office. “But I think the suit headed back for round two.”
“Thanks.” Gina jogged down the maze of corridors to Mark Cohen’s office. The door was closed, which was unusual—if Mark was here, his office door was always open. She pushed it open without knocking and walked in to find a man sitting in Mark’s chair, rummaging through his desk. “Can I help you?”
The man jerked his shoulder, but otherwise hid any signs of being startled. “You’re not Dr. Cohen.”
He stated it as a fact, dismissing her. He was about Jerry’s height, just shy of six feet, brown hair, brown eyes, totally unremarkable. Except for the air of command.
“Neither are you.” Gina held her ground as she channeled Jason and the other ER clerks—none of them anyone you’d want to mess around with. She was glad she wasn’t easily identifiable as a doctor. After her shift, she’d changed into one of her most comfortable “frumpy” outfits: black turtleneck, black jeans, bulky cable-knit cardigan. “Want to explain to me why you’re going through Dr. Cohen’s desk? And just who the hell you are?”
“Official business.” He snapped open a credential case and waved it in front of her. “Harris. DEA.”
Gina grabbed the case before he could repocket it and scrutinized it. It said his name was Nathaniel T. Harris, and the picture was him, the seal and identification looked real enough, but the hackles on the back of her neck still screamed that something was wrong here.
He snatched his credentials from her, sliding them into his jacket pocket. “Do you know where I can find a Dr. Lydia Fiore?”
For an instant, Gina was tempted to tell him that she was Lydia. It might be the best way to find out what was really going on. She hugged her cardigan tighter, kneading her fingers into the wool as she wrestled up the courage.
But of course, it would never work. Even if Harris didn’t know exactly what Lydia looked like, he surely could tell the difference between a five-foot, ten-inch black woman and Lydia’s skinny five-five. Besides, too much of Lydia’s past was a mystery, even to her closest friends. There was no way Gina could keep up the pretense. Anger flashed over her—Jerry had paid the price, almost with his life, for Lydia’s secrets.
“I’m not Dr. Fiore’s personal assistant,” she said instead, raising herself to her full five-ten, using her anger to bolster her lies. “I work for Dr. Cohen. I suspect they’re both busy with patients, so if you’d like to make an appointment—”
Harris frowned at her. Slowly, he unfolded himself from Mark’s desk chair, making it clear that Gina’s interruption was a mere inconvenience. “No need. I’ll find her.” He sauntered past her to the door. “I always do.”
He left. Gina pushed the door shut, leaning against it as she caught her breath. God, she needed that c
igarette. She rushed to the desk, trying to figure out what Harris had been going through. Mark’s computer was turned off, but his Rolodex was open to the Fs. And where Lydia’s card should be, with her address and phone numbers, there was an empty space.
Damn Mark. He refused to get with the twenty-first century and abandon his paper-and-pen record keeping. Gina sat at his desk and tried to call Lydia’s home and cell phones. No answer at either. She had no idea what message to leave, so settled for, “It’s Gina. Call me right away.”
She hung up and called Janet Kwon, Jerry’s partner. Janet’s cell rang several times, and just before it went to voice-mail the detective answered. “Kwon.”
“It’s Gina.”
“What’s wrong? Is Jerry okay?”
“Jerry’s fine. But there’s a guy here who says he’s from the DEA, a Nathaniel Harris. He’s looking for Lydia. Wants to talk with Jerry as well.”
Static-burred silence. Gina could imagine Janet’s scowl. The detective wasn’t one for smiles, even in the best of circumstances, and the last few weeks had hardly been those.
“What the hell would the DEA want with Lydia?” Janet finally said. “It makes no sense.”
“That’s what I thought. And why would a DEA agent come all the way from L.A. to investigate?”
“He’s from L.A.?” In the background Gina could hear the sounds of men talking, something about the National Guard and the Fort Pitt Tunnel being closed, and she realized the detective was at work. Good, maybe Janet could access one of their police databases to see who this Harris guy was and what he wanted.
“That’s what his ID said.”
“Remember anything else from it? A middle initial, date of birth, anything that will help me track him down?”
Or maybe it wasn’t so easy. Gina concentrated. It was difficult; her mind felt fuzzy after so many days filled with worry and no sleep. “His middle initial was T. He’s Caucasian, about six feet tall, brown hair and eyes. Sorry, I can’t think of anything else. But Nora said he was asking about Jerry and the shooting.”
“I’m going to call L.A., see what I can find out. Until then, try to keep Jerry away from him. At least until we know for certain what he’s looking for.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
A man in the background called Janet’s name, and she snapped at him to give her a moment. “Depends on the guys in L.A. It is New Year’s Eve—everyone has less staff working. And feds tend to take their time when it comes to us locals asking about their business anytime, holiday or not. Plus, we’re in a bit of a crisis here—this storm blindsided us when it grew so fast. But as soon as I hang up, I’m calling L.A.”
Finally the crackling nerve endings making Gina’s hair stand on end relaxed. Janet was on the case. She’d take care of it. “I have a bad feeling about him. Something just doesn’t feel right—and Nora felt the same way.”
The sound of several phones ringing interrupted her. “Listen, Gina. I’m going to try to get out there as soon as I can, but the entire city is shut down with this storm. Nothing’s moving. So, until I get some answers, just be careful, okay?”
It was so unlike Janet to offer any concern that Gina pulled the receiver from her ear in surprise.
“I won’t let anything happen to Jerry,” Gina promised, realizing who Janet was really worried about.
7
By the time Jerry finished the pudding, he was getting the spoon to his mouth mostly on the first try. All he needed was practice and patience.
Last week, a few times when Jerry was left alone with his food, Amanda had found him using it as pigment and the window as a canvas. Given that his fifth-floor room faced the patient parking garage, as uninspiring a view as you could get, she thought this actually revealed how resilient and creative he was. The nurses saw it otherwise, though, and had confined him to his bed.
Which was the last thing Jerry needed. Lying here and brooding. He needed to be moving, having his mind stimulated by smells and sights and textures. But even though he’d turned from food to his markers and pens as his artistic outlet, he still tended to wander off and get lost, so the nurses tried to keep him in his room as much as possible, sedating or restraining him when he got too agitated.
Amanda hid her own frustrations from him as best she could, but it was infuriating to know what a patient needed, yet be unable to provide it because of budget and staffing shortages. Maybe by the time she was a full-fledged attending, after she did her pediatric residency, she could work on changing that.
“Let me get changed out of this fancy dress and I’ll take these dirty dishes to the kitchen,” she told him.
“Don’t change,” he said. “I like the dress.”
“You do?” She felt a blush heat her cheeks. “Do you think Lucas will?”
“He will.” Jerry smiled and for a moment, looked just like normal. Except for the shaved head, the surgical scar, and the dab of pudding clinging to his cheek. “Keep it on.”
Why not? Now that he was done eating there was no danger of getting Gina’s dress stained. Amanda wiped the pudding from his cheek, then replaced it with a kiss. “Thanks. When I come back, we’ll take a walk.”
He nodded eagerly, eyes drifting as he fell asleep. He’d nap for a few minutes at a time, didn’t seem able to sleep except in snatches before the nightmares woke him.
Amanda headed to the nurses’ station after depositing the dishes on the cafeteria cart in the dirty utility room. There was already a large stack waiting to be returned to the kitchen—the nurses weren’t the only ones short-staffed during this long holiday weekend.
“Whoa, Amanda, did you come to sweep me off my feet? Take me away from all this drudgery?” the clerk asked with a wink.
She laughed, unaccustomed to flattery. Who knew a party dress could make a person feel so good?
“When’s Jerry due for his next therapy session?” she asked. “I’m going to take him for a walk and I don’t want him to miss it.”
“No therapy today because of the holiday. And he’s scheduled for discharge tomorrow, so none then either.”
What? That was the first she’d heard of it—and she was pretty sure Gina didn’t know either. “You’re sending him home tomorrow?” she asked incredulously.
“Not me. Dr. Stone.” The clerk jerked his chin, pointing to the dictation room behind him. “He just wrote the orders.”
Amanda immediately marched into the dictation room, where her fiancé, Lucas Stone, was thumbing through Jerry’s chart as he dictated a discharge summary. “You can’t send Jerry home tomorrow!”
Lucas snapped his head up at the interruption but didn’t look angry, just frustrated as he paused his dictation. Then he blinked twice, in slow motion. “Wow.” The word emerged as an exhalation of amazement. “Amanda. You look fantastic.”
“Don’t I?” She twirled, almost falling off the high heels, her anger forgotten for a moment. It was worth it to see his rapt expression; he’d totally forgotten his dictation or medicine or the hospital. For hyperfocused Lucas Stone, that was a minor miracle.
Gina was right. Glamour could be powerful. And useful. Amanda leaned forward, kissing Lucas firmly while giving him a glimpse of her décolletage. “Tell me you’re not going to send Jerry home.”
“I don’t have any choice.”
She pulled away, the layers of silk flouncing. “Lucas, he can’t even feed himself. He needs inpatient rehab.”
Technically they shouldn’t be discussing a patient who wasn’t under both of their care, but she’d convinced him early on that HIPAA rules didn’t apply to Jerry. He was almost family, and fiancée privilege applied. Besides, if she didn’t hear it from him, she’d just ask Gina, anyway.
“His insurance won’t cover it. They’re arranging outpatient therapy.”
“Who’s going to take care of him? Surely they don’t expect Gina to quit her job?” As always, the paradoxes and illogic of the insurance system perplexed her. They wouldn’t p
ay for inpatient services or home care, but if the family took care of the patient full time, then they’d lose their jobs and with it the insurance . . . it was a lose-lose proposition for everyone except the bean counters.
“I persuaded them to provide four hours a day of respite care. Besides, Gina’s got money; she can pay for a private service.”
“That’s not the point, and you know it. It’s about doing what’s best for Jerry.”
Lucas closed the door, giving them some privacy, and pulled Amanda down onto his lap, the ball gown billowing around them like floating on a silk cloud. “Sure you’re not more worried about Gina than Jerry?”
“What’s she going to do all day, trapped at home, just her and Jerry? She can’t put her life on hold, or give up her career, give up everything—and he might never . . .” Amanda shook her head, letting her hair fall into a veil between them. “No one should ever have to make these choices.”
He smoothed her hair, tucking it back behind her ear. “Jerry’s made remarkable progress—too good, in fact. That’s why the insurance company denied the inpatient rehab. They don’t think he needs it.”
“Idiots. Don’t they know that the more intensive therapy a traumatic brain injury patient gets early on, the better they do?”
“To them it’s about doing what’s most cost effective.”
“Like I said: Idiots.”
They sat in silence as Lucas wrapped his arms around her and held her for a long moment. “Sorry I can’t do anything about it. Or about tonight.”
“What about tonight?” No way was anyone going to take away her one and only chance to go to a real live society ball! It was New Year’s Eve, and now that she had the dress and shoes on, Amanda wanted the entire Cinderella experience. “You are not canceling. Lucas, don’t you dare—”
“Not me. The weather. Have you looked outside recently?”
“No.” And she wasn’t about to if the view would shatter her fantasy for tonight. She caught herself pouting. Something she never did—maybe that also came along with the dress and heels? Funny how a few scraps of silk could change so many things.