"Oh," she said, "Dr. Esteban left several hours ago. And your wife—" She was flipping through Toy's chart. "I don't see anything scheduled for this morning. Dr. Esteban had penciled in an MRI and some other tests, but he cancelled them before he left the hospital."
"She's not in her room," Stephen said abruptly.
"You're certain. Did you go to the right room? Room 746?"
"Certainly," he said. "I can read numbers, you know."
She didn't react to his sarcasm. She worked with doctors all day. She was used to it. "Check again. Maybe she went for a walk."
Stephen glared at her and then shuffled off back down the hall. Still Toy was not in the room. When he walked up to the counter a few minutes later, he was hopping mad. "Look," he said, slapping the Formica counter with his palms, "she's not in her room. She's not walking in the hall. How could you lose my wife, you idiots? You must have moved her and no one made a note of it. Call the switchboard operator. Maybe they know what room she's in."
The woman hurriedly picked up the phone and called the hospital's main switchboard. A second later, she looked up at the handsome young doctor. 'That's her room. Check again."
"Get Esteban down here. I want to speak with him. And try paging her. If she wandered off to another part of the hospital, she'll hear the page."
"No problem, Dr. Johnson," the woman said crisply.
Stephen was already headed back to the room. The page went out over the intercom. Surely that would work, he thought. After waiting another ten minutes, he was so exhausted that he climbed in his wife's hospital bed and promptly went to sleep.
"Dr. Johnson?" a male voice said. "Excuse me, but are you Dr. Stephen Johnson?"
Stephen bolted upright in the bed, rubbing his eyes. For a few moments, he didn't know where he was. "Who are you?"
"Ricardo Esteban. I'm one of the staff cardiologists."
"Where's my wife?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? I was told my wife went into cardiac arrest. I took the first available flight out of Los Angeles. Now you're telling me you've misplaced her. Am I crazy? Is this a bad dream?"
"I'm sorry," Esteban said. "She was here, but we have no idea where she went. In my opinion, she walked out of the hospital and went back to her hotel room. The nurse said once her friend went in to see her, the monitors went crazy and she just disappeared."
Stephen's face flushed with contempt. "You're talking about Sylvia Goldstein, I presume. I should have known. That woman is a walking disaster."
"Well," Esteban said slowly, "according to the ICU nurses, Ms. Goldstein remained here at the hospital for some time after your wife left. Maybe she was waiting for you to arrive and then decided to return to the hotel as well."
"What hotel?" Stephen said, getting up and grabbing his jacket and tie from the chair.
"I have no idea," the doctor answered. "Why don't you check with the admitting office? Surely they have that information. As I understand it, your wife was in the hotel room when she went into cardiac arrest. This woman, Ms. Goldstein, administered CPR or your wife might be dead right now."
Stephen felt the first flutters of panic. This wasn't hysterical Sylvia telling him that his wife had been on the brink of death, this was a
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fellow physician. "What did you see on the EKG?" Stephen said frantically. "Did you do any other tests? What were the results?"
"Calm down," Dr. Esteban said, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm sure she'll be fine. She was very adamant about wanting to leave, not undergoing the tests, so we haven't been able to complete them. With her history of pericarditis, however, the only way to proceed would be to admit her and submit her to a full battery of tests. I'd also like to hook her up to a portable cardiac monitor when she's released, so we can see what's going on over an extended period." He stopped. "Have you checked with the lobby? Maybe she left the name of her hotel at the front desk."
"This whole thing is insanity, you know?" Stephen said, pacing back and forth while Esteban checked with the lobby. Esteban slowly shook his head and quietly replaced the phone.
"What am I going to do? My practice is going to hell, and my wife is running around with some lunatic woman in this disgusting city when she should be in the hospital undergoing treatment."
"As I said before, your wife will surface. You're welcome to wait here in her room in case she returns, just in case the admitting office doesn't have the name of the hotel."
"Why did she go into cardiac arrest?" Stephen barked at the other physician. "What's wrong with her?"
"I have no idea. It's quite strange, really. Once they brought her in and we hooked her up to the EKG, there was no indication of tachycardia or anything along those lines, no irregularities at all. The only thing I can tell you right now is she spontaneously arrested. Could she have been using some type of drug that you weren't aware of? Possibly cocaine or some other stimulant? That's one of the tests I wanted to do this morning. I wanted to do a chemical screen."
"That's ridiculous," Stephen said, his face so pale he looked like he should be a patient. "My wife is dead-set against drugs. Even in college she never used drugs. Believe me, she wasn't on drugs."
Esteban shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what to tell you."
Stephen stared at the other man's eyes a few more moments, then rushed out of the room to find his wife.
"Would you like to order now?" a male waiter said, eyeing Toy suspiciously. She was sitting in a red vinyl booth in the back of the diner staring straight in front of her, a glassy look in her eyes. "Ah . . . I'm sorry," she said. "What did you say?" "This is a restaurant, lady, not a shelter. You order or you leave."
"I'll take a cup of coffee."
"Humph," he said, wiping his big hands on the white apron wrapped around his waist. After clearing a few plates at the next table, he headed toward the counter and started whispering to the cashier. "Came in here about an hour ago. No shoes. Dressed real funny, almost like a bag lady."
The cashier had bright orange hair, obviously dyed to cover the gray, and was in her late fifties, perched on a tall bar stool behind the counter. "Want me to call the cops?" she asked, smacking a large wad of gum, craning her neck around so she could see the back booth. "No shoes, huh? Looks like a derelict to me."
"Should we wait to see if she has any cash? I didn't see a pocket-book."
"Get her outta here. Customers don't like to eat with these bums sitting next to them, smelling the place up. She ain't got no money." Street people were always wandering in, ordering food and then when the bill came, trying to sneak out without paying.
Toy heard dishes clattering and people talking, but she had no trouble shutting it all out. Images from the dream kept returning, and she was confused as to which memory was reality and which was the dream. Dr. Esteban, the hospital, and the night before seemed unreal, distant, vague, but the boy and the children in the field were as real as the table where her hands now rested. The waiter walked up, a scowl on his face, and slapped the coffee mug on the table. Right next to it was a check.
"Want me to take care of that for ya?" he said, standing with his hands on his hips.
"Oh," she said, patting the seat beside her, feeling like a complete moron. Of course, she didn't have her purse or any money. What had she been thinking? "No, thank you," she said politely. "I'll pay when I leave."
Grasping the coffee mug with both hands, she instantly released it and moaned in pain. Her hands felt like they were on fire. She'd have to wait for the coffee cup to cool before picking it up again.
"Hey, lady," a friendly male voice with a pronounced Brooklyn accent said about five minutes later. "I'm sorry, but you gotta come with me now."
Toy turned her head and saw a police officer standing there, his hat tipped back on his head. He was probably no taller than five eight or five nine, she decided, and his hair was dark and thick. Over his lip was a small, neatly trimm
ed mustache. Without it, Toy real-
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Ized, he would have what her mother always referred to as a baby lace. Although he was tan, his skin was smooth and soft in appearance. His eyes were the brightest of blue and completely mesmerizing.
"What did I do, Officer?" Toy said softly.
"Proprietors here complained about ya," he said. "No reason to make a scene, you know." He reached out and pulled Toy by the arm, trying to get her out of the booth.
"Please, wait," she pleaded as other diners turned to stare at her. "I'm not dressed appropriately, I know. I was in a hospital and that's why I don't have any shoes. I didn't realize I didn't have my purse when I came in here, but my hotel is right down the street and I can come back with the money." Toy stopped speaking and dropped her head, overwhelmed with embarrassment and frustration. Was he going to take her to jail over a simple cup of coffee? Suddenly New York didn't seem like a city bustling with vitality and humanity anymore. Toy felt a wave of negativity and contempt wash over her. It wasn't just the police officer or the nasty waiter, standing in the corner now and smirking at her. It was coming from every one of the patrons throughout the crowded restaurant. Toy realized they all thought she was a mental case. Either that or a homeless person who had wandered in off the streets.
"It's okay, lady," the officer said patiently, "just get outta the booth. I ain't gonna hurt you or nothing."
When she stood, Toy knew they would be able to see her dirty bare feet. She'd never felt so humiliated in her life. Stephen was right, she decided. He'd been right all along. It was her mind. Something was seriously wrong with her. "Could someone just tell me where the Gotham City Hotel is?" Toy asked. "You don't have to arrest me. I'll go and get the money. I promise. My hotel is only a few blocks from here. I just don't remember which direction."
The young officer leaned over close to Toy's face and whispered, "Let's get you on outta here, okay. I ain't gonna arrest you, lady. I already took care of your tab, see, but the management wants you to leave, so we got to oblige them."
Toy stood and let the officer take hold of her arm as he escorted her out of the restaurant, her head down in shame. When he passed the waiter, he tossed out, "You'se guys owe me one, Tony. Put me up a cheeseburger and fries. Be back in five."
Once they were outside the restaurant, the officer continued questioning Toy, shielding her body with his own as they talked while
throngs of people moved past them on the sidewalk, everyone walking fast, few people even glancing in their direction. "What hospital were you in? Was it Bellevue?"
"I don't think so," Toy said. She felt like crying, but she didn't want him to see her that way. If one tear fell, she would erase what was left of her pride. "I'm almost positive it was Roosevelt, but I don't want to go back there. All you have to do is tell me where my hotel is."
"Okay," he said, eyeing her suspiciously, "if I get you a ride, you gotta promise me you won't wander off again." Then his face softened and he smiled warmly at her. "This ain't the safest place for a nice lady to be running around all by her lonesome. People a little different don't cut it here. Kinda know what I mean?"
"Yes," Toy said meekly, her head still down. She was looking at the sidewalk, at the concrete. With a hand still on her arm, the officer stepped a few feet away and blew in his whistle, holding his other hand in the air. Toy turned her head to see what he was doing just as a police car pulled to the curb and parked in the red zone. All around her she saw concrete, brick and steel. There were no tall fields of grass in Manhattan. No matter how real it had seemed, Toy knew she had imagined it, dreamed it, that she was losing her mind. Everything Stephen had always warned her about had happened. He always said she would get in trouble, do something awful, get hurt. Her hands were smarting and throbbing. She looked and saw the bandages on her left hand. On several of her fingers and the palm on her right hand, the skin was burned and charred, oozing and irritated. It must have been as Sylvia suggested, she decided, and she had sleepwalked out of the hotel and somehow injured herself. Maybe she had ended up in the basement of the building or something and touched the pipes for the heater by accident.
Without looking up, Toy let him lead her to the car at the curb. Then she felt his hand on her head, pushing her down into the backseat. All at once, her fear seemed to vanish. She was safe. She knew that wherever they were taking her was the place she was supposed to be. She didn't know why, but she simply felt it. It was as if she could read the young officer's mind and he was reassuring her.
The longer she looked at him, the more he reminded her of the young boy in the field.
"Drop her at Roosevelt," he said to the other officer, shutting the door to the backseat. "Take her inside, too. Don't just roll her out at the curb or she'll just walk off again, see?"
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"She a mental?" the officer in the front seat said, eyeing Toy in the rearview mirror.
"Nan," the first officer said, smiling and winking at Toy in the backseat. "She's a special lady. We're buddies, her and me. Can't ya tell? What are ya, Bernie, an idiot? Woman's an angel, see. Says so right there on her shirt. Says she's a California Angel. Came to Manhattan to give us guys a hand."
"It's suppertime, Kramer," the other officer complained, not finding his friend's story very amusing. "I was just gonna clock off and get me something to eat."
"I can just walk," Toy said through the wire mesh that separated her from the front seat. "You don't have to waste your time, Officer. All you have to do is give me directions to my hotel."
The officer in the car ignored her as did the officer leaning in the window. "Hey, Bernie, take her over for me," he said. "I'll order you some supper. Whadya want anyways? Want Tony to put you up a burger?'"
"No way," the officer said, running his tongue over his lips. "Get me a hot pastrami on rye, side of cole slaw, Dr. Brown's black cherry soda, and get me some new pickles, not those other pickles they put on the table."
As soon as he finished, he sped off, and Toy was slapped back against the seat on her way to Roosevelt Hospital for the second time that day. Despite her circumstances, she managed to chuckle at her predicament. She'd arrived in the city in a taxi. Next she'd ridden in an ambulance. Now she was riding in a police car. The only thing left to sample was the subway. With the kind of day she was having, she decided, she should be eligible for New Yorker of the week.
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lessness and despair she'd seen on his face the night before he hung himself, and suddenly recognized that same expression as one she had seen in Raymond's eyes earlier that day.
The next trip Sarah made to the kitchen, she pulled out a quarter and dropped it into the pay phone outside the rest rooms, having already jotted down Raymond's phone number earlier when he didn't appear for work. Quickly she dialed the number, glancing over her shoulder to make certain the assistant manager was not in sight. She let the phone ring at least ten or twelve times and then slapped the phone back in the cradle, more frightened than ever. If Raymond wasn't at work and he didn't answer the phone, he could easily be dead on the floor. Three days had passed before her brother's body was discovered in his filthy fifth-floor walk-up. Like Raymond, her brother fancied himself an artist, a poet specifically, but his dreams had fallen by the wayside and he'd slipped further and further into poverty and despair.
Sarah would never forget walking into that apartment after the funeral to remove her brother's meager possessions—the horrid stench of death. She might not have prevented him from taking his own life if he was determined to end it, like everyone had repeatedly told her, but she could have checked on him, made a simple phone call. At the very least, she could have found him immediately after he died.
Sarah pushed herself even harder to rush out the orders, to meet the demands of the customers, terrified that if she didn't do something about Raymond Gonzales, she would have once again looked the other way when someone was crying out for help.
She wasn't a religious person per se, but she believed in a greater force, believed there was some pattern or grand design to the scheme of life. Possibly in a mysterious way, she told herself, she was being tested. She had failed her brother. Meeting someone like Raymond might be her chance to prove that she would not fail again.
As soon as she saw a lull in activity and a few empty booths, she approached the assistant manager.
'Tm sick," she said, inventing a pathetic expression. "I don't think I should stay for the rest of the shift."
The man went through the roof, ranting and raving at her like a madman. An enormous Greek, his hair was slick and oily and his stomach protruded over the front of his pants. "Don't look sick to me, doll. Get back on the floor. You'll be fine. Either that or go back to slinging hash at Bennie's Diner down the street/'
Sarah narrowed her eyes at him. "What? You want me to barf on one of the customers?" She stepped closer to him and opened her mouth wide, holding her stomach. "I think I'm about to barf right now."
The manager jumped back several feet and glared at her. "Get the heck outta here, woman. Barf on me and you're fired. This is a brand-new shirt I got on."
Sarah immediately spun around, racing to get her purse and coat. She'd walk to Raymond's loft in TriBeCa. It shouldn't take her more than fifteen minutes.
Toy was in a hospital bed, her throbbing hands bandaged, an IV dripping into her arm. When the police officer had taken her to the emergency room, they had checked the burns and feared they were becoming infected. Since she was in pain, she decided to go along with the program this time and let them treat her. The scene in the restaurant had been enough for one day. She was no longer unhappy to be in a safe, warm place.
Just then she looked up and saw Sylvia and Stephen in the doorway.
"Jesus, Toy," Stephen said, his face twisted with concern. "Are you all right? We've both been frantic. Why did you leave the hospital to begin with?"
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