“How are you today, Myra?”
“Wonderful,” she said, the same thing she said every time I asked, and I laughed. She laughed too, although the sound was weak and segued quickly into a cough.
Still, in those few seconds, I saw traces of the beautiful, vibrant woman Myra Wylie had been before her body began its slow, insidious betrayal. I could also make out the face of her son Josh in the sculpted lines of her cheekbones, the soft bow of her lips. Josh Wylie would be a very handsome old man, I couldn’t help but think as I pulled up a chair and sat down beside his mother. “I understand you’ve been asking for me.”
“I was thinking maybe we could do something different with my hair next time we wash it.”
I smoothed the fine gray hair away from her face with my fingers. “What style do you think you’d like?”
“I don’t know. Something more with it.”
“With it?”
“Maybe a bob.”
“A bob?” I fluffed out the fragile wisps of hair that framed Myra’s face. Her skin was sinking, the heavy lines around her eyes and mouth becoming folds, caving inaround her. Slowly, the living tissue was morphing into a death mask. How much longer did she have? “A bob,” I repeated. “Sure. Why not?”
Myra smiled. “That cute little nurse with all the freckles was in last night. The young one, what’s her name?”
“Sally?”
“Yes, Sally. She brought me my medicine and we got to talking, and she asked me how old I was. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her I’m seventy-seven.”
I searched Myra’s eyes for signs she was teasing, saw none. “Myra,” I told her gently. “You’re not seventy-seven.”
“I’m not?”
“You’re
eighty
-seven.”
“Eighty-seven?” There was a long pause as Myra’s trembling hand reached for her heart. “That’s a shock!”
I laughed, stroked her shoulder.
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what it says on your chart. But we can check with your son next time he visits.”
“I think that’s a good idea.” Myra’s eyes fluttered to a close, her voice growing faint. “Because I think there has to be some mistake.”
“We’ll ask Josh on Friday.” I eased out of my chair and walked to the door. When I turned back to check on her, she was sound asleep.
The rest of the morning was uneventful. I tended to patients, fed them their breakfast and lunch, changed soiled sheets, helped those who could still walk to the bathroom. I looked in on Sheena O’Connor, thenineteen-year-old rape victim who’d been transferred from Delray Medical Center, filling the room with idle chatter as I surveyed the scars and bruises that made a mockery of her once innocent face, but if she heard me, she gave no sign.
Normally, I eat lunch in the hospital cafeteria—the food is surprisingly good and you can’t beat the price—but today I was anxious to check on Alison. I thought of phoning, but I didn’t want to wake her in case she was still sleeping, and besides, I didn’t think she’d answer my phone. So armed with two Imitrex tablets I’d bought from Caroline—“I’d give them to you, but they’re so damned expensive!”—and the names of several doctors in the area I thought Alison should contact, I used my lunch hour to drive home and see how she was doing.
Pulling into my driveway, I saw a young man with a baseball cap pulled low on his forehead lurking behind a corner tree, in almost the same spot where I’d seen the man yesterday, but by the time I parked my car and came back to look, he was gone. I looked down the street in time to see him disappear around the corner and thought momentarily of going after him. Luckily I was distracted by the sound of barking dogs, and I turned back toward my house. Bettye McCoy was standing beside a neighbor’s prized rosebush, pretending not to notice that one of her dogs was peeing all over it. I thought of asking her if she’d noticed any suspicious strangers in the area, but decided against