Riding the Bullet by Stephen King Read Free Book Online

right?”
    She looked at her computer. “What I have here is S. Stands for satisfactory. And four is a general population floor. If your mother had taken a turn for the worse, she’d be in ICU. That’s on three. I’m sure if you come back tomorrow, you’ll find her just fine. Visiting hours begin at—”
    â€œShe’s my ma,” I said. “I hitchhiked all the way down from the University of Maine to see her. Don’t you think I could go up, just for a few minutes?”
    â€œExceptions are sometimes made for immediate family,” she said, and gave me a smile. “You just hang on a second. Let me see what I can do.” She picked up the phone and punched a couple of buttons, no doubt calling the nurse’s station on the fourth floor, and I could see the course of the next two minutes as if Ireally did have second sight. Yvonne the Information Lady would ask if the son of Jean Parker in 487 could come up for a minute or two—just long enough to give his mother a kiss and an encouraging word—and the nurse would say oh God, Mrs. Parker died not fifteen minutes ago, we just sent her down to the morgue, we haven’t had a chance to update the computer, this is so terrible.
    The woman at the desk said, “Muriel? It’s Yvonne. I have a young man here down here at the desk, his name is—” She looked at me, eyebrows raised, and I gave her my name. “—Alan Parker. His mother is Jean Parker, in 487? He wonders if he could just . . .”
    She stopped. Listened. On the other end the nurse on the fourth floor was no doubt telling her that Jean Parker was dead.
    â€œAll right,” Yvonne said. “Yes, I understand.” She sat quietly for a moment, looking off into space, then put the mouthpiece of the telephone against her shoulder and said, “She’s sending Anne Corrigan down to peek in on her. It will only be a second.”
    â€œIt never ends,” I said.
    Yvonne frowned. “I beg pardon?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “It’s been a long night and—”
    â€œâ€”and you’re worried about your mom. Of course. I think you’re a very good son to drop everything the way you did and come on the run.”
    I suspected Yvonne Ederle’s opinion of me wouldhave taken a drastic drop if she’d heard my conversation with the young man behind the wheel of the Mustang, but of course she hadn’t. That was a little secret, just between George and me.
    It seemed that hours passed as I stood there under the bright fluorescents, waiting for the nurse on the fourth floor to come back on the line. Yvonne had some papers in front of her. She trailed her pen down one of them, putting neat little check marks beside some of the names, and it occurred to me that if there really was an Angel of Death, he or she was probably just like this woman, a slightly overworked functionary with a desk, a computer, and too much paperwork. Yvonne kept the phone pinched between her ear and one raised shoulder. The loudspeaker said that Dr. Farquahr was wanted in radiology, Dr. Farquahr. On the fourth floor a nurse named Anne Corrigan would now be looking at my mother, lying dead in her bed with her eyes open, the stroke-induced sneer of her mouth finally relaxing.
    Yvonne straightened as a voice came back on the line. She listened, then said: “All right, yes, I understand. I will. Of course I will. Thank you, Muriel.” She hung up the telephone and looked at me solemnly. “Muriel says you can come up, but you can only visit for five minutes. Your mother’s had her evening meds, and she’s very soupy.”
    I stood there, gaping at her.
    Her smile faded a little bit. “Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Parker?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I guess I just thought—”
    Her smile came back. It was sympathetic this time. “Lots of people think that,” she