Toy was tossing and turning in her hospital bed, unable to sleep. She couldn't get the events of the day out of her mind, and she was restless and anxious.
The night nurse came in and took her vital signs. "Do you need a sleeping pill?" she asked Toy. "I can check your chart, see if Dr. Esteban prescribed one."
"No," Toy said. "I'll be fine."
As soon as the nurse cleared the door, Toy again tried to close her eyes and sleep. She wanted it to happen, wanted to be transported somewhere else. But she had a definite feeling that it wouldn't happen as long as she was in the hospital. The scientific community, she thought, had to be at war with the community of the unknown. How could it not be? As long as she was sequestered in an enemy camp, nothing miraculous could happen. Her eyes sprang open and her body stiffened. Not only that, she decided, but she was wasting time. There were things to do, places to go, lives to save.
Making the decision, she got up and ripped the hospital gown off her body. Stephen had brought over her luggage and Toy found a comfortable pair of clean pants and a white baggy sweater, pulling it on over her T-shirt. Once she was dressed, she went into the bathroom and brushed her hair, sprayed on some cologne, and then smiled at her reflection. She didn't look sick, she thought, she looked good. A little pale maybe, but that she could fix. Digging in her makeup bag, she found an old lipstick she seldom used, and in seconds her lips were a bright, moist red. She turned off the light, dusted off her hands, and checked the room to make certain she had all her belongings. Then she walked out the door and headed to the lobby, carrying her suitcase in one hand and her overnight bag slung over her other shoulder.
"Where are you going?" the same nurse said, standing up behind
the counter. She was a petite blonde with large, expressive blue eyes and a soft face.
"I'm checking out."
"You can't do that, not without the doctor's approval."
"I don't think so," Toy said, giving the girl a harsh look. "This isn't a prison."
"But . . . you have to pay your bill."
Toy recalled seeing her checkbook in her purse. "I'll stop by admitting and take care of it. Tell Dr. Esteban I said thanks for his help."
The elevator opened and Toy stepped in, hoping her insurance had covered most of the bill. She didn't know how much money was left in their joint checking account. Without Stephen, she needed money to live. Tonight she could stay in a hotel, but tomorrow she would have to find an apartment. Stephen might be cooperative and wire her some money or he could be obstinate and do what every attorney advised their clients to do when facing a possible divorce situation: tie up all their assets, close the bank accounts, cancel the credit cards. The elevator opened, and Toy stepped out into the lobby, still deep in thought. Knowing Stephen, she had to think he would be a difficult adversary. First thing Monday morning, she'd have to find a local branch of their bank and make a withdrawal. She might be living in the Twilight Zone, but a portion of her had to be firmly rooted in reality to deal with her husband.
Following the signs to the admitting office, Toy's heels clanked down corridor after corridor, first this way, then that. She felt lost in a maze and ended up in an emergency room. "I'm sorry," she said, kicking her suitcase up to the counter, "I'm looking for the admitting office."
A pretty dark-haired girl came up beside her, her face knitted with worry. "I'm going there now," she told Toy. "Want to follow me?"
"Sure," Toy said.
The girl turned and smiled weakly. "My name's Sarah Mendleson. What's your name?"
"Oh," Toy said, "Toy Johnson."
"Are you checking in?"
"No," Toy answered, "out, thank goodness."
"Lucky you. What were you in for?"
"I accidentally burned my hands," Toy answered, thinking it was easier than telling her the truth.
"That's too bad." Sarah looked up and saw the placard on the
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door. She stepped inside, Toy right behind her. There was a long wall of partitioned cubicles, all of them occupied. "I guess we have to wait. You wouldn't think they would be so busy this late at night."
"Well, this is New York," Toy said to the young woman. "Do you live here?"
"Yeah," she said, taking a seat in the waiting room. "Well, not in Manhattan. I live in Queens. And you?"
"California, but I'm thinking of relocating to New York."
"Why? I'd love to live in California. Do you live near the beach?"
"Yes, we do."
"Sounds so glamorous."
"It isn't," Toy said. Then she laughed. Everyone always thought that, thought the streets were paved with gold, that movie stars hung out on every corner, that beautiful tanned women and men decorated all the beaches.
Sarah wasn't listening. She had slid all the way down in her seat and had her arm up over her eyes. Her thin legs were stretched out in front of her and spread apart in an undignified pose. Toy suddenly realized the girl was crying. "What's wrong? I didn't even ask you why you were here. Are you sick? Do you want me to get a nurse?"
"No," Sarah said, sniffing back tears, looking in her purse for a tissue and then blowing her nose. "It's not me. It's my friend. He's . . . he's not right."
"Do they know what's wrong with him?"
"No, but they're checking. The doctor in emergency seems to think it's a mental problem, and he's probably right, but they're going to check him for a brain tumor just to be certain." Sarah stopped and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I'm so scared. I'm afraid I shouldn't have brought him here. If they put him in a mental institution, I'll never forgive myself."
Toy leaned back in her chair, thinking Sarah Mendleson might be right. If she'd let Stephen continue, Toy thought, she might be headed to the insane asylum herself. Just then a woman walked out of the admitting office, a piece of paper in her hand, walking rapidly down the corridor. "I think you can go in now," she told Sarah. That woman just left, so they must have a clerk available."
"'Oh, you can go first."
"No," Toy said. "Go on."
"Well," Sarah said, staring at Toy's face, "it was nice to meet you. I hope everything turns out for you." She started to walk away and then froze, her eyes glued on Toy's face. "You . . . you look so
familiar now. When I look at you straight on. I . . . have we met? Are you on television or something?"
"God, no," Toy said, giggling. People thought if you lived in California, you had to be involved in the entertainment industry. "I hear that a lot, though. I guess I have one of those faces. People are always thinking they've seen me somewhere before."
Still the girl didn't move. Her eyes were riveted on Toy. "I know I've seen you. You're just so familiar. Your red hair, your eyes, even your mouth." She sort of shook her head as if to clear it, like she was seeing things that weren't really present. Then her eyes lit up. "You're the model. Of course. God, I can't believe it. You're Raymond's model."
"Who's Raymond?" Toy asked. The girl was so excited now, she was jumping up and down like a pogo stick.
"My friend. He's an artist. Your face is in dozens of his paintings. It has to be you. It just has to be."
"I'm sorry," Toy said. "I've never posed for a painting in my life. Like I said, I have an ordinary face. People are always mistaking me for someone else. You better go in now, or you're going to lose your place."
"Wait," Sarah said, full of enthusiasm, undaunted by Toy's words. For one thing, the woman she was blatantly staring at was certainly not ordinary. She had a distinctive look, a rare delicacy and beauty to her face, and it was natural and unaffected. Her eyes were huge and seemed to glow with a light radiating from somewhere inside her. Her colorful hair almost floated around her face, weightless and free, strands fluttering here and there as if she were standing in front of a window fan. "Raymond said you were an angel. I guess you left a big impression on him because he's been painting you ever since." Then she remembered why she was here and her face fell, thinki
ng of the silent, sad man she had brought to the emergency room.
"You have to see him. If he sees you," Sarah pleaded, even going so far as to drop down on her knees in front of Toy, "he might snap out of it. I mean, he obviously cares about you in some way. He's been painting you all these years. His family isn't here. He's so alone. Please, I'll take you to him right now."
"No," Toy said, shaking her head. "I can't. Really. I don't know your boyfriend."
"Please, please, please," Sarah pleaded. "He's not even really my boyfriend. He works with me in a restaurant, but he's special, very talented. And he's in terrible trouble."
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Toy's face flushed with embarrassment as several other people exited the admitting office. She had enough problems right now. She couldn't deal with everyone else's problems. It was like the old adage, physician heal thyself. Suddenly her zeal for her newfound celestial mission seemed silly and unreal. All she could think about was Stephen, where he was right now, if he had already left for Los Angeles, how she should have never said all those stupid things to him. Everyone had odd thoughts now and then, but they didn't regurgitate them and submit themselves to ridicule.
If the young girl wasn't going to go inside, Toy decided, standing, she was. "I have to go now. Everything will be okay. Keep the faith, you know."
Toy entered the admitting office and took a seat in a booth, waiting while the clerk punched in numbers on her computer and called up her account. "The national debt, huh?" Toy said once the woman had activated the printer and the invoice started spilling out. Toy thought it would never stop. When the woman finally ripped it off, she had what looked like five or six pages in her hand.
"Not too bad," the clerk said. "Your insurance covered most of it. We need five hundred dollars, the amount of your deductible."
Toy opened her checkbook and starting making out the check. Once she had done so, she flipped to the register and glanced at the balance. It read eleven hundred dollars, but she had no way to know if all that money was still there. Stephen could have written checks while she was gone. And the six hundred dollars that would be left after this check cleared would hardly be enough for her to get an apartment if she decided to stay. She'd have to get more, call the bank that held their savings accounts and try to make a withdrawal or a wire transfer.
"All right," Toy said, handing the check to the clerk and then sticking her arm out so the woman could cut the plastic identification band off her wrist, "set me free."
Toy shoved the receipt in her purse and headed for the exit. Sarah was in another booth and grabbed her arm as she walked by.
"Here," she said, pressing a piece of paper into Toy's hand, "this is the phone number and address to Raymond's loft, and I also put down my home phone. Once you get a place here and everything, please call. If nothing else, you can come to see the paintings. Then you can see for yourself how much you resemble his model."
"That would be nice," Toy said, accepting the paper and placing it in her purse with the receipt. "Good luck."
"Yeah," Sarah said under her breath, "I'm going to need all the luck I can get."
"Sounds like Tony Hildago," a woman told her in a gravelly voice. "Tony ain't here. His shift starts at lunchtime."
"I see," Toy said quickly, afraid the woman was going to hang up on her. "What about the police officer that you called when I was there? I was the woman without shoes. You know, the one who couldn't pay for her coffee? Remember?"
"Hey, lady, we got dozens of people can't pay for their food."
"What about the police officer?" Toy persisted. "I'm certain he was a regular there. I think his last name was Kramer. Do you know who I mean?"
"Joey?" the woman cackled. "You mean Joey Kramer. He ain't no real cop. Not NYPD, anyway. He works for the Transit Authority."
"No," Toy said, "that can't be true. He was wearing a uniform and he put me in a police car. He had to be a real police officer."
"Joey Kramer's a righteous nut case," the woman said. "Thinks he's some kind of Good Samaritan or something. See, when we get a derelict in here that's got nowhere to go, we call Joey. Says he don't mind. Even distributes little cards to all the businesses around this part of town. All we do is call him up, and he comes right over and takes care of the problem. The regular cops, well, they don't spend too much time worrying about that kinda stuff."
"Do you know how I can reach him?" Toy asked, hearing the cash register ring in the background and a cacophony of voices.
"Look, lady," the woman said curtly, "I got a business to run here." With that, she promptly hung up.
Toy was confused. She'd been so certain the man was a regular police officer, but then she realized a lot of people wore uniforms. She looked up the number for the Transit Authority and was transferred to the only office open on Saturday, the supervisors' office where they kept track of the scheduling. "I'm looking for a man named Joey Kramer," she said. "He's one of your transit officers. It's extremely urgent that I contact him. I'm a relative of his from California."
"Hold on," the man said. A few minutes later, he came back on the line. "Let's see here. We got Kornwell, Kramacy, Kayman, Kidwell. We got a Charles Kramer. Is that who you mean?"
"No," Toy said, "his first name is Joey."
"Well," the man said, "I been in this job for ten years, and the only Joey Kramer I ever heard of is dead. Real swell fellow too, let me tell you."
"He's dead?" Toy said, mystified. "There must be some mistake. I
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saw him just the other day. Everyone knows about him. He helps the homeless people in his spare time. You know, things like that."
The man started laughing. "Funny, but it sure sounds like old Joey, may he rest in peace. He was always giving people money and stuff. Like I said, the man was a pretty decent guy. But listen up, lady. I guarantee it ain't the same Joey Kramer. See, some lunatic went berserk on one of our trains and shot up a bunch of people. Joey took him down, but the man shot and killed him. Didn't you hear about it? It was in all the papers."
"No," Toy said. "How long ago did this happen?"
"You know, couple years ago or something. I don't remember the exact date."
Toy thanked the man and disconnected, more bewildered than ever. But New York was a big city, she reminded herself, and it was entirely possible that the cashier in the restaurant had made a mistake about the officer's first name.
Toy took a shower and dressed, deciding she would go out and get some fresh air. When twelve o'clock rolled around, she would go back to the delicatessen and see if she could get a statement from the waiter.
Stepping out into the crisp morning air a few minutes later, Toy started walking down the street when she felt someone touch her shoulder. "I thought that was you," a man's voice said. "Hey, how you doing there?"
Toy spun around and gasped. Standing right in front of her, only a few feet from her hotel, was the mysterious Joey Kramer. He looked exactly the same as he had the day she saw him in the restaurant. He was wearing a uniform, his hat tipped back on his head, a broad, friendly smile on his handsome face. Only now Toy could see the patches on the sleeves and the words Transit Authority. "I can't believe it's you," she said. "How did you find me?"
"What makes you think I found you?" he said. "You found me."
"No," Toy said, shaking her head. "You don't understand. I just called the Transit Authority looking for you, and they claim they've never heard of you. The only Joey Kramer they know is dead."
He burst out laughing. "Whadya think, do I look dead to you?"
"Of course not," Toy said, dropping her eyes in embarrassment.
"Look." he said, "my full name is Charles Joseph Kramer, but I go by Joey. That old fart who does the scheduling is always getting me confused with my cousin."
"The one that got killed?" Toy asked.
"Yeah," Joey said. "Real sad, huh? Guy had a family and everything."
He studied Toy's face and t
hen said, "What did you need? Why were you looking for me?"
How could she explain it? "Can you spare a few minutes?" she said. "You were so nice to me, I'd like to buy you lunch."
"Well, I sure can't turn down an offer like that," he said, winking at her.. Then he stepped closer and linked his arm in Toy's, and together they continued on down the street.
The waitress was standing by the table, her notebook in her hand. She removed her pencil from behind her ear and stared at Toy. "What can I get you, sweetie?"
"A side of revenge," Toy said, exchanging knowing looks with Joey and then giggling. "But if you're out of that, I guess you can give me a roast beef sandwich."
On the walk to the restaurant, Toy had tried to tell her new friend why she'd wanted to find him. Thinking originally that she would make up a fictitious story, she was surprised to find herself rattling on about everything. He was such a pleasant person to talk to, so kind, so understanding, so warm. Before she knew it, she had told him about her heart and how it had stopped beating, the fire in Kansas, the boy, her problems with Stephen and how he refused to believe what was happening to her. Then she backtracked and told him about the first episode and the dark boy she had seen in the classroom. She even told him about the pumpkin ring he had given her, and how she had awakened in the emergency room with it on her finger.
"What you're saying don't sound so crazy to me," he said. "I mean, it's pretty far-out there, but I believe in things like that." His face flushed, as if he were suddenly embarrassed. "Miracles and them kinds of thing. Hey, what about that place in France? What's it called? Lourdes or something. Well, there you go. There's miracles in that place all the time."
"This is a little different, though," Toy said, sighing deeply. "I don't think anyone's ever going to believe me."
Joey leaned back in the seat, removing his hat and running his fingers through his thick, dark hair. "Say, I got a plan," he said. "Why don't you call those TV people? Those guys that filmed that fire. If you was really there, bet they got a picture of you some-
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