“Oh. Well, sure, that would be great. I really appreciate your taking
the time.”
“I’ll call you after you’re discharged and set up an appointment.
Why don’t you give me your address and phone number?”
I tore a sheet out of my datebook and handed it to her along with
apen.
She wrote and handed it back.
Fine, round hand, light touch.
Cassie B. Jones s’ house: z~~~~DunbarCourt Valley Hills, Ca.
A phone number with an 8z8 area code.
“That’s out at the north end of Topanga Boulevard,” she said.
“Near the Santa Susanna Pass.”
“Pretty good ride to the hospital.”
“Sure is.” She wiped her eyes again. Bit her lip and tried to
smile.
“What is it?” I said.
“I was just thinking. When we come in, it’s always the middle of the
night and the freeway’s clear. Sometimes I hate the night.”
I squeezed her hand. Her fingers were slack.
I released them, looked at the paper again, folded it and put it in my
pocket.
“Cassie B” I said. “What does the B. stand for?”
“Brooks-that was my maiden name. It’s sort of a tribute to Aunt
Harriet. It’s not exactly feminine, I guess. Brooke with an would
have been more of a girl’s name. Like Brooke Shields. But I wanted to
remember Aunt Harriet.” She glanced sideways. “What’re they doing
now, Cass? Cleaning up the dishes?”
“Dih.”
“Good! Dishes!”
She got up. I rose too. Any questions before I go?”
“No. . I don’t think so.”
“Then I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“Sure. Great. Cass? Dr. Delaware’s leaving. Say bye-bye?”
Cassie raised her eyes. Each hand clutched a plastic doll.
I said, “Bye-bye, Cassie.”
“Bah-bah.”
“Great!” said Cindy. “That was really great!”
“Bah. . .bah.” The hands clapped, dolls clicking upon impact.
“Bah! Bah!”
I walked over to the bed. Cassie looked up at me. Shiny eyes.
Neutral expression. I touched her cheek. Warm and buttery.
“Bah!” A tiny finger probed my arm, just for a second. The puncture
wound was healing nicely.
“Bye, cutie.”
“Bah!”
Vicki was at the nursing station. I said hi, and when she didn’t
answer, I noted my visit in Cassie’s chart, walked to Five East, and
took the stairs down to the ground floor. Leaving the hospital, I
drove to a gas station at Sunset and La Brea and used a pay phone to
call Milo at Parker Center.
The line was busy. I tried twice more, same result, dialed Milo’s
home, and listened to Rick’s sister do Peggy Lee.
One beep sounded. I talked quickly: “Hey, Mr. Blue, no emergency, but
some data that might save you some time. Dad was never in the army but
mom was-how’s that for a switch? Maiden name: Brooks, as in
babbling.
She spent her time at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Discharged early,
due to a bout of viral pneumonia, she claims. But she blushed and got
a little antsy when talking about it, so maybe it’s not the whole
truth. Maybe she misbehaved and got kicked out. She’s twenty-six now,
was a senior in high school when she joined up, so that gives you a
time range to work with.”
Returning to the car, I drove the rest of the way home thinking about
pneumonia, respiratory therapy, and a baby boy lying still and gray in
his crib. By the time I arrived, I was feeling short of breath.
I changed into shorts and a T-shirt, reviewed my chat with Cindy.
People must think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think I’m crazy.
Guilt? A veiled confession? Or just tantalizing me?
Waltzing.
She’d been totally cooperative until I’d suggested we leave the room.
The “overly caring” Munchausen mother? Or simply the reasonable
anxiety of a woman who’s lost one child and suffered plenty with
another?
I recalled the nervous surprise she’d shown when I told her of my plans
for a home visit.
Something to hide? Or just surprise-a logical reactionbecause doctors
didn’t do house calls anymore?
Another risk factor: Her mother-figure, the nurse. A woman who came
across, even in Cindy’s loving recollection, as something of
amartinet.
A nurse who worked for a doctor but fought with him. Who disparaged
physicians.
She’d guided Cindy into health care but away from nursing.