Jimmy was a hospital orderly, with the brightest smile and the sunniest disposition Paige had ever seen. He was small and thin, and looked seventeen. He was twenty-five, and moved around the hospital corridors like a cheerful tornado. Nothing was too much trouble for him.
He was constantly running errands for everyone. He had absolutely no sense of status and treated doctors, nurses, and janitors alike.
Jimmy Ford loved to tell jokes.
“Did you hear about the patient in a body cast? The fellow in the bed next to him asked him what he did for a living.
“He said, ‘I was a window washer at the Empire State Building.’
“The other fellow said, ‘When did you quit?’
“‘Halfway down.’”
And Jimmy would grin and hurry off to help somebody.
He adored Paige. “I’m going to be a doctor one day. I want to be like you.”
He would bring her little presents—candy bars, and stuffed toys. A joke went with each gift.
“In Houston, a man stopped a pedestrian and asked, ‘What’s the quickest way to the hospital?’
“‘Say something bad about Texas.’”
The jokes were terrible, but Jimmy made them sound funny.
He would arrive at the hospital the same time as Paige, and he would race up to her on his motorcycle.
“The patient asked, ‘Will my operation be dangerous?’
“And the surgeon said, ‘No. You can’t get a dangerous operation for two hundred dollars.’”
And he would be gone.
Whenever Paige, Kat, and Honey were free on the same day, they went out exploring San Francisco. They visited the Dutch Mill and the Japanese Tea Garden. They went to Fisherman’s Wharf and rode the cable car. They went to see plays at the Curran Theater, and had dinner at the Maharani on Post Street. All the waiters were Indian, and to the astonishment of Kat and Honey, Paige addressed them in Hindi.
“Hum Hindustani baht bahut ocho bolta hi.” And from that moment, the restaurant was theirs.
“Where in the world did you learn to talk Indian?” Honey asked.
“Hindi,” Paige said. She hesitated. “We…I lived in India for a while.” It was still so vivid. She and Alfred were at Agra, staring at the Taj Mahal. Shah Jahan built that for his wife. It took twenty years, Alfred.
I’m going to build you a Taj Mahal. I don’t care how long it takes!
This is Karen Turner. My wife.
She heard her name called, and turned.
“Paige…” There was a look of concern on Kat’s face. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
The impossible hours continued. Another New Year’s Eve came and went, and the second year slid into the third, and nothing had changed. The hospital was untouched by the outside world. The wars and famines and disasters of far-off countries paled by comparison with the life-and-death crises they coped with twenty-four hours a day.
Whenever Kat and Paige met in the hospital corridors, Kat would grin and say, “Having a good time?”
“When did you sleep last?” Paige asked.
Kat sighed. “Who can remember?”
They stumbled through the long days and nights, trying to keep up with the incessant, demanding pressure, grabbing sandwiches when they had time, and drinking cold coffee out of paper cups.
The sexual harassment seemed to have become a part of Kat’s life. There were the constant innuendos not only from the doctors, but also from patients who tried to get her into bed. They got the same response as the doctors. There’s not a man in the world I’ll let touch me.
And she really believed it.
In the middle of a busy morning, there was another telephone call from Mike.
“Hi, sis.”
And Kat knew what was coming. She had sent him all the money she could spare, but deep down inside, she knew that whatever she sent would never be enough.
“I hate like hell to bother you, Kat. I really do. But I got into a small jam.” His voice sounded strained.
“Mike…are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s nothing serious. It’s just that I owe somebody who needs his money back right away, and I was wondering…”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kat said wearily.