“Maybe he used up his ration of talent.”
“What a woman-hater! Seriously, what kind of research are you doing?”
“It has to to with a patient, Rob. Someone he’s influenced.”
“Oh. Sounds creepy.”
I shrugged and got out of my clothes.
“Nice of you to empathize with your patient to that degree,” she said.
“That’s what they sent me to school for.” I put the book on my nightstand and slipped under the covers. She rolled toward me.
“You sound upset.”
“No, just bushed.”
She didn’t say anything. Her huge dark eyes snared mine and held them captive. Her curls fell over bare shoulders like a shadow on the moon. I wrapped her in my arms.
“Okay,” she said. “Do you have enough energy to empathize with me? I’ve got all sorts of feelings.”
I was still in my bathrobe when the phone rang at 7:10 the next morning.
“Dr. Delaware? This is your service. I have a Dr. Shaper for you.”
The name was unfamiliar. “I’ll take it.”
A man’s voice said, “Who do I have?”
“This is Dr. Delaware.”
“This is Dr. Shapoor over at Woodbridge Hospital. We’ve got a suicide attempt came in last night. Lucretia . . . Lowell. She’s finally awake and claiming she’s your patient.”
My heart rocked and rolled. “How is she?”
“Stabilized. She’ll survive.”
“When did she come in?”
“Sometime last night. She’s been going in and out of consciousness. Claims she’s never done this before. Has she?”
“Not to my knowledge, but I’ve only seen her a few times.”
“Well, we’re putting her on a seventy-two-hour hold—One second!” Then: “You know how those seventy-twos go?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll be seeing one of our staff psychiatrists. You can probably get some kind of temporary privileges—you’re an M.D., right?”
“Ph.D.”
“Oh. Then I don’t know. Anyway—”
“What method did she use?”
“Gas. Turned on the stove and stuck her head in.”
“Who found her?”
“Some guy brought her in. I just came on shift and saw the message in the chart to call you.”
“Did she take any drugs or alcohol?”
“According to the chart, she denies any drug use, but we’ll see when the blood work gets back. Does she have a drug history?”
“Not that I know of, but she has been through some rough times recently.”
“Uh-huh—hold on. What? Tell them just to wait! . . . Anyway, I have to go now.”
“I’d like to come over and see her now.”
“Sure,” he said. “She’s not going anywhere.”
After I hung up, I realized I had no idea where Woodbridge Hospital was. Obtaining the number from Information, I connected with a bored receptionist, who said, “They call it Woodland Hills, but it’s really Canoga Park. Topanga just north of Victory.”
I got dressed and drove south on PCH, taking Kanan Dume Road to the 101 Freeway, where I got stuck in a jam. Squeezing out at the next exit, I drove north till I found Victory and followed it ten miles to Topanga Boulevard. The hospital was a three-story brown-brick column that resembled a giant chocolate bar. Small smoked windows, small brass letters, and an illuminated emergency entrance sign bright enough to pierce the morning light.
Parking was free, in a giant lot. The guard at the door barely glanced up as I passed. I gave the clerk my name and she buzzed me in.
The place was brimming over with misery, injured and sick people propped up in plastic chairs. Periodic moans soloed above efficient medical chatter. A colostomy reek hung in the air.
As I passed, someone said, “Doctor?” in a weak, hopeful voice.
Shapoor was outside a room marked Observation 2, reading a chart. A tall, elegant Indian around thirty, he had wavy black hair, humid eyes, and nicotine breath. His badge said he was a second-year resident. His necktie was hand-painted, and the disks of his stethoscope were gold-plated. I introduced myself. He kept reading.
“Lucy Lowell,” I said.
“Yes, yes, I know.” Pointing to the door.
“How’s she doing?” I said.
“We patched her up.”
“There were wounds?”
“I was speaking figuratively.” He snapped the chart shut. “She’s fine. We saved her. For the time being.”