I walked out of the graveyard in the lefthand rut, and when my foot struck my pack, I picked it up and slung it back over my shoulders. Lights appeared at the bottom of the hill as if someone had given them the cue. I stuck out my thumb, oddly sure it was the old man in the Dodge he’d come back this way looking for me, of course he had, it gave the story that final finishing roundness.
Only it wasn’t the old guy. It was a tobacco- chewing farmer in a Ford pick- up truck filled with apple baskets, a perfectly ordinary fellow: not old and not dead.
Where you goin, son? he asked, and when I told him he said, That works for both of us. Less than forty minutes later, at twenty minutes after nine, he pulled up in front of the Central Maine Medical Center. Good luck. Hope your ma’s on the mend.
Thank you, I said, and opened the door. I see you been pretty nervous about it, but she’ll most likely be fine. Ought to get some disinfectant on those, though. He pointed at my hands.
I looked down at them and saw the deep, purpling crescents on the backs. I remembered clutching them together, digging in with my nails, feeling it but unable to stop. And I remembered Staub’s eyes, filled up with moonlight like radiant water. Did you ride the Bullet?
he’d asked me. I rode that fucker four times.
Son? the man driving the pick- up asked. You all right?
Huh? You come over all shivery. I’m okay, I said. Thanks again. I slammed the door of the pickup and went up the wide walk past the line of parked wheelchairs gleaming in the moonlight.
I walked to the information desk, reminding myself that I had to look surprised when they told me she was dead, had to look surprised, they’d think it was funny if I didn’t . . . or maybe they’d just think I was in shock . . . or that we didn’t get along . . . or . . .
I was so deep in these thoughts that I didn’t at first grasp what the woman behind the desk had told me. I had to ask her to repeat it.
I said that she’s in room 487, but you can’t go up just now. Visiting hours end at nine.
But . . . I felt suddenly woozy. I gripped the edge of the desk. The lobby was lit by fluorescents, and in that bright even glare the cuts on the backs of my hands stood out boldly eight small purple crescents like grins, just above the knuckles. The man in the pick- up was right, I ought to get some disinfectant on those.
The woman behind the desk was looking at me patiently. The plaque in front of her said she was yvonne ederle.
But is she all right? She looked at her computer. What I have here is S. Stands for satisfactory. And four is a general population floor. If your mother had taken a turn for the worse, she’d be in ICU. That’s on three. I’m sure if you come back tomorrow, you’ll find her just fine. Visiting hours begin at She’s my ma, I said. I hitchhiked all the way down from the University of Maine to see her. Don’t you think I could go up, just for a few minutes?
Exceptions are sometimes made for immediate family, she said, and gave me a smile. You just hang on a second. Let me see what I can do. She picked up the phone and punched a couple of buttons, no doubt calling the nurse’s station on the fourth floor, and I could see the course of the next two minutes as if I really did have second sight. Yvonne the Information Lady would ask if the son of Jean Parker in 487 could come up for a minute or two just long enough to give his mother a kiss and an encouraging word and the nurse would say oh God, Mrs. Parker died not fifteen minutes ago, we just sent her down to the morgue, we haven’t had a chance to update the computer, this is so terrible.