of poor families and drifters massaged the sidewalk. Auto traffic was
thin-mostly weekend workers and tourists who’d gone too far past
Vine.
I made it to the gate of the doctors’ parking structure in less than
half an hour. The lot was functioning again.
Plenty of spaces.
Before heading up to the wards, I stopped at the cafeteria for
coffee.
It was the tail end of lunch hour but the room was nearly empty. Dan
Kornblatt was getting change from the cashier just as I stepped up to
pay. The cardiologist was carrying a lidded plastic cup. Coffee had
leaked out and was running down the cup’s sides in mud-colored
rivulets. Kornblatt’s handlebars drooped and he looked preoccupied.
He dropped the change in his pocket and saw me, gave a choppy nod.
“Hey, Dan. What’s up?”
My smile seemed to bother him. “Read the paper this morning?” he
said.
Actually,” I said, “I just skimmed.”
He squinted at me. Definitely peeved. I felt as if I’d gotten the
wrong answer on an oral exam.
“What can I say,” he snapped, and walked away.
I paid for my coffee and wondered what in the paper was eating him.
Looking around the cafeteria for a discarded paper, I failed to spot one. I took a couple of swallows of coffee, tossed the cup, and went
to the library’s reading room. This time it was locked.
Chappy Ward was deserted and the door to every room but Cassie’s was
open. Lights off, stripped beds, the tainted meadow smell of fresh
deodorization. A man in yellow maintenance scrubs vacuumed the
hallway. The piped-in music was something Viennese, slow and syrupy.
Vicki Bottomley sat at the nursing station reading a chart. Her cap
sat slightly off-kilter.
I said, “Hi, anything new?”
She shook her head and held out the chart without looking up.
“Go ahead and finish it,” I said.
“Finished.” She waved the chart.
I took it but didn’t open it. Leaning against the counter, I said,
“How’s Cassie feeling today?”
“Bit better.” Still no eye contact.
“When did she wake up?”
Around nine.”
“Dad here yet?”
“It’s all in there,” she said, keeping her head down and pointing at
the chart.
I flipped it open, turned to this morning’s pages, and read Al
Macauley’s summary notes and those of the neurologist.
She picked up some kind of form and began to write.
“Cassie’s latest seizure,” I said, “sounds like it was a strong one.”
“Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
I put the chart down and just stood there. Finally she looked up.
The blue eyes blinked rapidly.
“Have you seen lots of childhood epilepsy?” I said.
“Seen everything. Worked Onco. Took care of babies with brain
tumors.” Shrug.
“I did oncology, too. Years ago. Psychosocial support.”
“Uh-huh.” Back to the form.
“Well,” I said, “at least Cassie doesn’t seem to have a tumor.”
No answer.
“Dr. Eves told me she’s planning to discharge her soon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I thought I’d go out and make a home visit.”
Her pen raced.
“You’ve been out there yourself, haven’t you?”
No answer.
I repeated the question. She stopped writing and looked up. “If I
have, is there something wrong with that?”
“No, I was just-” “You were just making talky-talk is what you were
doing.
Right?” She put the pen down and wheeled backward. A smug smile was
on her lips. “Or are you checking me out? Wanting to know if I went
out and did something to her?”
She wheeled back farther, keeping her eyes on me, still smiling.
“Why would I think that?” I said.
“Cause I know the way you people think.”
“It was a simple question, Vicki.”
“Yeah, right. That’s what this has all been about, from the
beginning.
All this phony talky-talk. You’re checking me out to see if I’m like
that nurse in NewJersey.”
“What nurse is that?”
“The one killed the babies. They wrote a book about it and it was on
TV” “You think you’re under suspicion?”
Aren’t I? Isn’t it always the nurse who gets blamed?”
“Was the nurse in New Jersey blamed falsely?”
Her smile managed to turn into a grimace without a movement.
“I’m sick of this game,” she said, standing and shoving the chair