Omens
Page 54
“Oh.”
My mother had to be guarded against being murdered . . . by a complete stranger who might decide the justice system was better served if she left this hospital in a body bag.
As Gabriel spoke to the guard, I caught the murmur of Pamela’s voice, and my shock froze into a moment of perfect clarity. I heard the squeak of a bed being pushed down the hall and caught the faint smell of urine and tasted something cold and harsh and metallic. And pain. I felt pain, a sudden wave of it and Pamela’s voice, saying . . .
Nothing.
Pamela’s voice was a mere undertone, nearly drowned out by the squeak of wheels.
I turned to see a nurse pushing a bed with a woman on it, so thin she seemed like a skin-covered skeleton. The woman opened her eyes. They were empty sockets, blood weeping from the holes, spilling over her sunken cheeks.
I wheeled and plowed into Gabriel. He caught me and murmured, “Olivia?” I blinked and turned. The nurse was still there, pushing the bed, frowning at me. The old woman lay on the bed, but her eyes were closed. She wore a white nightgown covered with red flowers.
Poppies. She wore poppies.
“Olivia?”
I struggled to snap out of it, but the halls seemed to sway, everything slightly gauzy, every sound garbled.
I forced my mind back to what I’d been thinking before I saw the old woman and the poppies. Hospitals and Pamela Larsen.
I said I’d never stayed in a hospital, but there were two years of my life I knew nothing about. I must have spent time in a hospital.
I should have felt relieved. All those times I’d chastised myself for such a groundless fear, and it might not be groundless at all. But I didn’t feel relieved. I felt angry. Angry with my mother and my dad, who’d known damned well that I must have had an early bad experience before I came to them, but they hadn’t told me, fearing it could spark memories of the life they wanted me to forget.
“Olivia?” Gabriel said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Are we ready to go in?”
He peered at me, then waved me to one side. “Take a moment.”
I stepped away from the guard and motioned for Gabriel to follow. When he did, I lowered my voice and said, “Do me a favor? Erase those words from your vocabulary. At least with me.”
A frown. “Which words?”
“Take a moment.”
The frown deepened. “I was giving you—”
“—a moment to collect myself. I’m sure you need to do that with your clients. They get angry, emotional, distraught . . . But remember yesterday when I advised you not to make physical contact? Same principle here. You can’t pull it off.”
“Pull what off?”
“Expressing genuine concern. I’m upset, and you see that as weakness, which you make very clear, however inadvertently. You say, ‘Take a moment,’ but what I hear is, ‘Good God, not this again.’” I turned to the hospital room door. “Now let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pamela Larsen lay flat on her back, her skin so pale she was lost against the white sheets. Even her lips looked white. The only signs of color were a yellowing bruise on her cheek and purple half-moons under her eyes.
She’s dying.
That’s why I’m seeing poppies.
My mother is dying.
I started to turn to Gabriel for reassurance, then stopped myself and looked over at the doctor by the foot of the bed, jotting notes on her chart.
“How is she?” I whispered.
The woman’s gaze lifted to mine. I saw nothing in it. No reaction. No clues.
“Eden . . .” Pamela whispered.
I turned. She lay there, eyes still closed, lips barely parted. One hand clutched the sheets, grip tightening.
“Eden . . .”
I walked over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she blinked, lips forming an “Oh” of surprise.
“Eden?”
I bit back the urge to correct her and nodded.
She smiled and took my hand in a squeeze so weak I barely felt it.
I asked the doctor again, “How is she?”
She told me what had happened. Where the knife went in. What damage it had done. All the coldly clinical medical terms that I didn’t give a damn about, and I stood there, nodding, sifting through her words to find the ones I really wanted. When they didn’t come, I said, “Can we step outside, please?”
“If you want to know the prognosis, barring any unforeseen complications, she’ll be fine.”
Emotion finally tinged the doctor’s voice. Regret. She’ll be fine. This was a doctor. Sworn to heal, not to judge. But judge she did, in the twist of her lips and the chill of her tone.
“Thank you,” I said. “That will be all.”
A faint widening of her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re dismissed.”
She met my gaze, indignation flashing.
Gabriel stepped forward. “Ms. Taylor-Jones would like a few moments with her mother. As it appears you have completed your visit, we’d ask that you grant her that courtesy.”
The doctor’s mouth tightened. She said nothing, though. Didn’t even look my way. Just returned the clipboard to its place and walked out.
“I want another doctor assigned to her,” I said to Gabriel. “Can you do that?”
His chin dipped.
“Thank you.”
As I turned back to Pamela, I noticed the two guards assigned to her room. The older woman stood as still as a statue, giving no sign that she’d witnessed anything. The younger man shot a smile my way, then ruined it by checking me out.
“Thank you for coming,” Pamela said, her voice a papery whisper.
“How are you?”
A wan smile. “Feeling foolish. I’ve been in prison too long to be caught off-guard like that. My own fault. I’ve been distracted.”
Distracted by the return of her long-lost daughter. I slid my hand from hers and pulled over a chair.
As I sat, she said, “You don’t want to be here.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just . . . hospitals in general.” I hesitated, then plowed forward. “Did I ever stay in one? I can’t remember.”
“You did. For a fever when you were two. Nothing serious, but you were dehydrated, so they kept you overnight.”
“Not a happy childhood experience, I take it.”
My mother had to be guarded against being murdered . . . by a complete stranger who might decide the justice system was better served if she left this hospital in a body bag.
As Gabriel spoke to the guard, I caught the murmur of Pamela’s voice, and my shock froze into a moment of perfect clarity. I heard the squeak of a bed being pushed down the hall and caught the faint smell of urine and tasted something cold and harsh and metallic. And pain. I felt pain, a sudden wave of it and Pamela’s voice, saying . . .
Nothing.
Pamela’s voice was a mere undertone, nearly drowned out by the squeak of wheels.
I turned to see a nurse pushing a bed with a woman on it, so thin she seemed like a skin-covered skeleton. The woman opened her eyes. They were empty sockets, blood weeping from the holes, spilling over her sunken cheeks.
I wheeled and plowed into Gabriel. He caught me and murmured, “Olivia?” I blinked and turned. The nurse was still there, pushing the bed, frowning at me. The old woman lay on the bed, but her eyes were closed. She wore a white nightgown covered with red flowers.
Poppies. She wore poppies.
“Olivia?”
I struggled to snap out of it, but the halls seemed to sway, everything slightly gauzy, every sound garbled.
I forced my mind back to what I’d been thinking before I saw the old woman and the poppies. Hospitals and Pamela Larsen.
I said I’d never stayed in a hospital, but there were two years of my life I knew nothing about. I must have spent time in a hospital.
I should have felt relieved. All those times I’d chastised myself for such a groundless fear, and it might not be groundless at all. But I didn’t feel relieved. I felt angry. Angry with my mother and my dad, who’d known damned well that I must have had an early bad experience before I came to them, but they hadn’t told me, fearing it could spark memories of the life they wanted me to forget.
“Olivia?” Gabriel said.
“Sorry,” I said. “Are we ready to go in?”
He peered at me, then waved me to one side. “Take a moment.”
I stepped away from the guard and motioned for Gabriel to follow. When he did, I lowered my voice and said, “Do me a favor? Erase those words from your vocabulary. At least with me.”
A frown. “Which words?”
“Take a moment.”
The frown deepened. “I was giving you—”
“—a moment to collect myself. I’m sure you need to do that with your clients. They get angry, emotional, distraught . . . But remember yesterday when I advised you not to make physical contact? Same principle here. You can’t pull it off.”
“Pull what off?”
“Expressing genuine concern. I’m upset, and you see that as weakness, which you make very clear, however inadvertently. You say, ‘Take a moment,’ but what I hear is, ‘Good God, not this again.’” I turned to the hospital room door. “Now let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pamela Larsen lay flat on her back, her skin so pale she was lost against the white sheets. Even her lips looked white. The only signs of color were a yellowing bruise on her cheek and purple half-moons under her eyes.
She’s dying.
That’s why I’m seeing poppies.
My mother is dying.
I started to turn to Gabriel for reassurance, then stopped myself and looked over at the doctor by the foot of the bed, jotting notes on her chart.
“How is she?” I whispered.
The woman’s gaze lifted to mine. I saw nothing in it. No reaction. No clues.
“Eden . . .” Pamela whispered.
I turned. She lay there, eyes still closed, lips barely parted. One hand clutched the sheets, grip tightening.
“Eden . . .”
I walked over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she blinked, lips forming an “Oh” of surprise.
“Eden?”
I bit back the urge to correct her and nodded.
She smiled and took my hand in a squeeze so weak I barely felt it.
I asked the doctor again, “How is she?”
She told me what had happened. Where the knife went in. What damage it had done. All the coldly clinical medical terms that I didn’t give a damn about, and I stood there, nodding, sifting through her words to find the ones I really wanted. When they didn’t come, I said, “Can we step outside, please?”
“If you want to know the prognosis, barring any unforeseen complications, she’ll be fine.”
Emotion finally tinged the doctor’s voice. Regret. She’ll be fine. This was a doctor. Sworn to heal, not to judge. But judge she did, in the twist of her lips and the chill of her tone.
“Thank you,” I said. “That will be all.”
A faint widening of her eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’re dismissed.”
She met my gaze, indignation flashing.
Gabriel stepped forward. “Ms. Taylor-Jones would like a few moments with her mother. As it appears you have completed your visit, we’d ask that you grant her that courtesy.”
The doctor’s mouth tightened. She said nothing, though. Didn’t even look my way. Just returned the clipboard to its place and walked out.
“I want another doctor assigned to her,” I said to Gabriel. “Can you do that?”
His chin dipped.
“Thank you.”
As I turned back to Pamela, I noticed the two guards assigned to her room. The older woman stood as still as a statue, giving no sign that she’d witnessed anything. The younger man shot a smile my way, then ruined it by checking me out.
“Thank you for coming,” Pamela said, her voice a papery whisper.
“How are you?”
A wan smile. “Feeling foolish. I’ve been in prison too long to be caught off-guard like that. My own fault. I’ve been distracted.”
Distracted by the return of her long-lost daughter. I slid my hand from hers and pulled over a chair.
As I sat, she said, “You don’t want to be here.”
I shook my head. “I’m fine. Just . . . hospitals in general.” I hesitated, then plowed forward. “Did I ever stay in one? I can’t remember.”
“You did. For a fever when you were two. Nothing serious, but you were dehydrated, so they kept you overnight.”
“Not a happy childhood experience, I take it.”
