After my nurse friend got me into the secure hospital wing, she left me to find my way to Laura’s room. I made it to the nurse’s station of Laura’s floor only to be stymied by Harborview’s version of Big Nurse.
“But I’m Laura Bishop’s girlfriend. Her…her partner. I have hospital privileges in the state of Washington.” My palms were sweating in anticipation of finally coming face-to-face with Laura. Lying about being her partner didn’t faze me.
“Her partner was already here. Dropped off her stuff and left a few minutes ago. You’re not her because you don’t have red hair. Besides, I can tell you’re from a newspaper or something. You got that pushy East Coast accent.” This woman had her meager mind made up. It was clear she wasn’t going to let me past the security guard that stood by Laura’s room door. I wasn’t about to enlighten her about her prejudices for people from the East Coast.
Laura had a partner. I was irked at my twinge of disappointment. I was there to save her, not ask her on a date. “Okay, but she knows me.” At least I hoped she’d remember me. “She knows I can help her.” I took one of my business cards from my wallet and grabbed a pen from the counter of the nurse’s station. On the back of the card, I wrote, Let me help you.
“Please, give her this card. Can you promise to give her this card? Honest, I’m a friend. Please?”
Big Nurse took the card, studied both sides, and said, “You’re not no ambulance chaser, are you?”
“Me? Oh, no. Besides, Ms. Bishop is an important Seattle attorney. She has her own people she can call. Can you give her the card? Please? She will appreciate it. I’m sure of that.” I couldn’t remember ever groveling as much as I did to that woman, not even to Rabbi Metzger when I was attending Hebrew school.
“Okay, but you gotta leave now. If Ms. Bishop wants to see you, she can call you, and then tell me that you’re coming. You go away, and if she wants you, you’ll hear later today. She’s got hours of tests that start in a few minutes.” She pointed to the elevator and waited while I got on and rode the elevator car to the lobby.
*
I needed time to think and unwind from being so close to Laura Bishop and then thwarted. An hour later, I was lying on my acupuncturist’s table with twenty needles in my back, resembling a balding porcupine. I buried my face into the massage table face hole built specially for making patients comfortable while someone stuck several sadistic-looking needles into sensitive parts of the body. There was nothing like an acupuncture session to relax my body and clear my thought apparatus and digestive tract. However, on this day, nothing could calm me or my digestive tract. I thought about Laura Bishop and the danger she was in and considered her connection to Elizabeth Stratton.
Stratton. Who was she? What kind of game was she playing with people? Was she anything more than a demigod, feeding on people’s fears? Her whole shtick was manufactured and infuriating. Painting herself as “any woman” when she was anything but. She was rich, extremely well educated, intelligent, and, according to my intuition, a faux Christian. In short, she was nothing like the snookered people who worshipped her for being just like them.
I was churning myself into an indignant lather when I heard the familiar, scratchy laugh of the High Priestess. Once again, I found myself on my hands and knees in front of her throne and gaping at her wooden-like foot. I looked up and saw that this time she had her ancient Torah open on her lap. This was not the traditional sheepskin, scrolled Torah Jews keep in synagogues. The High Priestess’s version was bound in book form. In this case a bulky, worn leather tome with T-O-R-A-H spelled in worn gold lettering on the cover. She was riffling the pages with stiff, nail-less fingers. She didn’t look at the book. Her unnerving eyes were watching me watch her fingers riffling the book. As the pages flipped by, bits of things, a mélange of cosmic schmutz were flying out of those pages. The bits looked like dried flower petals, matchbook covers, swizzle sticks, postcards, and other detritus from someone’s vacation or senior prom. The items danced in the air around my face, tantalizing me, but I couldn’t get a good look at them. I tried to capture the hypnotic bits, but they evaporated in my fingers.
I looked to the Priestess for an explanation but instead was looking at my acupuncturist’s perplexed grin.
“You always fall asleep on the table, don’t you? Don’t worry. It’s a good sign. Means your body is responding to the needles. Something’s shifted, though. All your needles were actually vibrating visibly this time. Big chi. Really big chi. Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing, but be careful of wearing yourself out. Okay? I’ll make you an herbal mixture to clear and balance the paths to your chakras.” She plucked the needles out of me.
“Uh…sure…yeah…big chi.” I twitched with each pluck.
Chapter Nine
I had just finished choking down the vile tea my acupuncturist concocted for my chakra alignment when my business line rang. The caller ID read “L. Bishop and Assoc.” For a few endless seconds, I was so fartootst, I couldn’t press the talk button. When I did, I choked out, “Devorah Rosten.”
“This is Laura Bishop. I believe you were outside my room door this morning? I do remember our last meeting, Ms. Rosten, and was convinced we’d never cross paths again.” She sounded weak physically, but her forthright, blunt approach reminded me she was an aggressively successful attorney.
“Yes, well, hello, Ms. Bishop. Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I think we need to meet.” The waver in my voice didn’t make me sound like I had much help to offer her. Then I thought of something worse. I didn’t have a plan.
“Your card said you could help me? Can you explain?” Her voice was melodic, exactly like I’d remembered, except with more maturity. This time, though, it was tinctured with an undertone of apprehension.
“If I explain in specifics, Ms. Bishop, it would take a long time. Plus, you might not believe me. But I need to ask you one question. Do you think you’re in danger?”
I heard her take a deliberate deep breath and then bobble the phone. “Yes, I think it’s possible that I’m in trouble. I don’t want to involve anyone I know personally, for a variety of reasons. That’s why I called you, Ms. Rosten.”
“I’ll do whatever I can. I think this situation is probably way bigger than the two of us. But in the meantime, you need help. Tell me what I can do.” Again, I marveled at my impulsive willingness to help someone and not charge a fee. I was going to do something honorable, a mitzvah.
“I don’t know where you learned that I was attacked, but I am injured. I need someone to discreetly handle a few things and help get me safely out of this hospital.”
“Aren’t the police protecting you? I saw the guard outside your room door.”
“The guard will be removed tomorrow morning. I was told the city didn’t have the budget to protect me longer than that since the police believe what happened at the Smith Tower was an isolated incident. They think I just happened to disturb a psychotic burglar who doesn’t flinch at slitting throats of security guards.”
“And what do you think, Ms. Bishop?”
“I think we need to get off the phone and get me out of here, but we have some things to do first. Will you help? It might be dangerous.” Her voice caught on the word “dangerous.”
“I’ll help. Tell me what you need.” I found a pencil and pushed a piece of paper in front of me to take notes.
“When I hang up, I’m going to immediately put you on my hospital next of kin roster. After that, I’ll call the security office in my condo building. I want them to let you into my apartment, so bring some identification.”
“Bring ID. Got it. Okay, where’s your condo, and what do you want me to get?” I wasn’t about to tell her I already had her condo address, a remnant of Fitch’s snooping. Instead of supplying a list of items as I had expected, she gave me directions to one specific thing in her apartment. I wrote them on the scratch pad.
“Put it in a bag you’ll find in the closet of my study. Get out of there an
d get to the hospital. The place may be watched, but since you are a stranger to my social circle, nobody will think you have anything to do with me.” I heard someone come into Laura’s room.
Laura’s voice changed into a more conversational tone. “Oh, someone’s here to change my dressing. I’d better go, hon. We’ll see you later? And I’ll make that call I promised in ten minutes, when my owie is all fixed up again. ’Kay?”
Even though nobody could hear me, I adopted the same breezy tone. “Yeah, sure. I’ll wait around and see you in a little bit. Take care and don’t worry.”
While I waited to go to Laura’s building, I took a handful of vitamin B, figuring it was the kind of support I’d need. Then I made sure my guest room was dusted and towels placed appropriately in the guest bathroom. I checked my hair, making sure it didn’t look like the wrath of God. I changed into my most fetching black T-shirt, so that I’d look attractive and fit for a mission. Just before I walked out the door, I texted Fitch and reminded her to call me as soon as she had more information about Elizabeth Stratton. I should have heard from Fitch by then and wondered what held her up.
*
Laura’s condo building was similar to mine. It was a Seattle Belltown neighborhood development for the upwardly mobile employees of Seattle corporations. Her building was sure to have solid security, a swimming pool, workout room, underground parking, and views priced according to how much of Elliott Bay was visible and how far one would plummet if exiting via the window.
Paradoxically, while living in our neighborhood was pricey, the riffraff of Seattle found the same streets welcoming. I knew the neighborhood association would change that soon, but in the meantime, everyone on the street looked like a thug because it was late in the evening. In short, I didn’t feel comfortable until the muscular security guy let me in and showed me to the elevator.
The condo wasn’t large, but it was lovely with art pieces that were both edgy and bold. Laura Bishop supported the arts. I liked that and wondered how she would feel about my hundreds of shelves of metaphysical and natural healing books housed mostly at Tranquility. I had some high-quality art at Tranquility, but I didn’t have it in the quantity that Laura had.
The study was where she had described it. Behind the desk and to the right stood a bookcase with shelves designed for oversized books. On the shelves were perhaps a few dozen scrapbooks visibly brimming with memorabilia from Laura’s life. An odd hobby for a woman of such accomplishment. It must have served some special purpose for her, and I wasn’t about to psychoanalyze Laura Bishop before I’d even spent time with her.
Each scrapbook had a different binding both in texture and color. I found the light green leather volume that Laura had directed me to and eased it off the shelf. I set it on the desk and gently turned some of the stiffened pages. I recalled my most recent visit to the High Priestess and her Torah with debris flying out of it. I was on the right track. For once, I felt abreast of the High Priestess’s game.
Needing to move quickly, I didn’t really inspect the contents of the scrapbook. I simply noted it was full of the kind of tchotchkes a person collects to remember events. Matchbooks, swizzle sticks, olive picks, bar coasters, receipts, tickets, and other paper items I was too hurried to inspect. I had no idea what the sum of these parts meant, but I trusted I’d find out soon enough.
I stuffed the scrapbook into an empty computer pack I found in the study’s closet and hoisted the pack onto my back. I shut off the few lights I’d turned on except the one in the hallway, just like Laura had requested. I locked the door behind me.
When I left the building, I turned north toward my building and parking garage where I aimed to get my car and go to Harborview Hospital and Laura. Halfway down the block I was waylaid by an inebriated and shop-worn woman who wanted to show me her underpants in exchange for five dollars. She had an iron grip on the strap of the computer pack.
“I don’t care if you’re a girl, honey,” she slurred inches from my face, “’cause girls like my undies too.” Her breath was a fog of cheap whiskey.
“Look, lady, I’m not interested in your undies at all.” She was no fool. She knew she was grossing me out, and I’d pay the five dollars just to get away from her. I dug in my pocket and came out with two ones. That seemed to appease her because she backed against the wall and folded her rear to the sidewalk. She didn’t even look up at me, just sat there holding the two dollars as if she forgot she had them.
Embarrassed, I glanced down the block at the entrance to Laura’s building to see if the security guard was witness to my humiliation. But he was busy talking to some big guy who looked fairly intimidating. I recalled Fitch’s description of the guy who attacked Laura Bishop: “a big Nazi-looking dude.” If anybody was a big Nazi-looking dude, it was that guy. Given the legacy of my people, anytime the word “Nazi” comes up, we clear out. And that’s what I did.
*
Getting on Laura’s next of kin roster was like becoming a VIP at Harborview. I had no idea what Laura said to them, but it was effective because at eleven o’clock at night, I was shown to room 445 without any Big Nurse giving me grief.
Laura’s eyes were closed when I entered the room, so I took a minute and watched her doze. The bandage on her head was fresh and seemed to focus on the side of her head, just above the ear. Another bandage covered where I assumed she’d had the capital I carved into her cheek. That bandage was smaller and less dramatic looking. The room lights softened the multihued bruises on her cheek that were flooding from under the bandage. Laura’s wrist was bundled in an Ace wrap that braced a temporary splint. The fingers protruding from the splint looked swollen and purplish. Battered and bandaged, she was still the most compelling woman I’d ever shared space with.
For the first time in my memory, I had a nearly irresistible desire to touch another human being. I wanted to stroke her pallid but certain face, caress her hair, and comfort her as a loved one would. I didn’t really know her, but I belonged with her, in that room, at that moment. Of that I was certain.
“Did you get the scrapbook, Ms. Rosten?” she said, still keeping her eyes closed. Abruptly she opened them, peered at me, and my heart lurched into an erratic rhythm that felt diagnosable. “Well, did you get it or what?” She eased and huffed herself into a more upright position. “I’m sorry. I was abrupt and thankless. You’ve gone out of your way for a near stranger. Here, let me see if it’s the right scrapbook.”
Obviously she didn’t return my bizarre girl-crush feelings. I didn’t blame her. I suspected my being smitten with her was related to some temporary psychosis peculiar only to me. A real pity, I thought, but probably for the best given the dire situation she was in. She didn’t need a distraction.
Wordlessly, I eased the pack off my back and placed it on the bed tray and wheeled the tray to hover over Laura’s lap. She attempted to loosen the scrapbook clasps with her one functional hand but fumbled enough to draw my rapt attention from her face to her struggle with the clasps.
“Oh, sorry, let me help.” Together we worked the bag open and every time our hands glanced off each other, my mortifying blush deepened. It brought me some relief to notice how her hand jerked slightly every time she touched me. She felt something anyway. Whether it was attraction or repulsion, I would learn eventually.
With my help, she carefully withdrew the scrapbook and placed it on the bed tray, and I tossed the bag into the closet.
“Perfect. It’s the right book. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart. Could you go back to the closet and find my purse?” she said. “There’s a little voice recorder in the side pocket. I’m going to need it.”
I felt a silly glow of pride that I’d done well so far. However, she was nervous about me. She wouldn’t look at my face. I was so overwhelmed at finally meeting her again that I couldn’t think of what I could say or do to ease her anxiety. The situation reminded me of a lost dog I’d seen a few weeks earlier. I tried to call it to me and e
ntice it with a piece of my sandwich. It just stood there with its tongue lolling, panting, but wouldn’t come nearer. When I took one step too close to it, the poor dog ran off, and I didn’t see it again. In that hospital room, I was afraid of stepping too close and scaring off Laura Bishop. So for the time being, following her directions was my best option for winning her trust.
“So, Ms. Rosten, are you really here to help me or just acquire another client? I’m curious about why you want to help me. After all, we met fairly contentiously a long time ago, didn’t we?”
“It was eight years ago. I’m not sure I can give you an exact answer as to why I’m here. Let’s say I was, um, called to it.” I handed her the recorder. “I…I think I can help you, or at least I want to try.” I stood next to the bed but decided she would trust me more if I sat and didn’t loom over her. I moved the inhospitable hospital chair closer to the bed, directly in her line of vision, and sat on the unyielding brown stuffed plastic. One spring was pushing into my left butt cheek, probably making me look off balance. “My profession is to fix things, situations, for people. I’m pretty good at it.”
“I have to admit, your being here seems right, like we’re supposed to do this. Why me, though?” Every word she shared with me was weighed and chosen carefully. This was the job interview of my life.
“If I told you the whole story, it would take a long time. I promise I will tell you everything, but I don’t think we have much time. I know you’re in danger. I know what happened at your office building—”
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