“I’m Mr. French,” he said, shaking my hand. He was a big teddy bear of a man with rectangular glasses on the end of his nose and a lot of curly brown hair. “Now you just sit down right there.” He pointed to a leatherette armchair. “And you and I can have a talk.”
I sat.
“Oh, where are my manners. Do you want some coffee, or maybe some herbal tea?”
“No. Thank you.”
Mr. French did not seem the least bit hostile. This puzzled me.
“Now you, Miss Thing”—he shook a finger at me—“have been out in the waiting room causing trouble.”
I didn’t deny it.
“So why don’t you tell Mr. French exactly what it is that you want?”
Why did I feel like I was talking to Santa Claus?
“I want to see your lab,” I said.
“Oh, no, no, that would be off limits.”
“And I want to talk to Dr. Tundridge about Emma Marsden, and his real reasons for accusing her in the death of her son. His real, financial, genetic-material-patenting reasons.”
He tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “Yes. Yes, that’s a sad, sad case. Poor little Ned. We were all very upset when he died. He was one of the really sick ones. It tears me up, the whole thing. To hurt your own child—”
“Emma Marsden didn’t hurt her child, and Dr. Tundridge didn’t make that accusation until she objected to his practice of retaining the body parts.”
“Mrs. Marsden gave us permission.”
“No, she didn’t. Not unless you count that ridiculous permission statement you have on your Web site.”
“It’s perfectly legal, you know.”
“It’s perfectly ridiculous, you know.”
Mr. French took a deep breath. “Personally, Lena, I agree with you. I’d like to see our permission forms get more explicit. I’d like things explained better. It’s one of the things I’m working on with Dr. Tundridge as well as the other physicians in this practice. But for now, all I can tell you is that it is legal.”
“Dr. Tundridge has made these accusations before.”
“Dr. Tundridge is vigilant. Understand this, Lena. I’ve worked with him for many years. He is a truly dedicated researcher. Between you and Mr. French, his people skills could use a little work. He has that doctoritis thing—you know what I mean, don’t you?”
I leaned back in my chair. I knew what he meant, I just couldn’t believe he was admitting it.
He laughed deeply enough to make his belly shake. “Lena, I have been a nurse for twenty years—from back when men weren’t nurses, you know? I’ve suffered a lot of nonsense from that old bugaboo doctoritis. And I don’t like it, not at all, but it’s like working with bees, my dear, you’re going to get stung, that’s just life.
“But doctoritis does not make Dr. Ted a bad man. No, no, it just makes him an arrogant one, and bless his little heart, how could he not be with the brainwashing he got in medical school, and, you didn’t hear it from me, a mother that absolutely positively dotes?”
“Mr. French, I’d like to talk to Dr. Tundridge personally. Are you going to let me do that?”
“No, my dear, I’m not, because if I did, then I wouldn’t be doing my job of running this clinic. I can’t bother the doctors with harassment.”
“Perhaps you could give him a message for me then. Could you do that?”
“I could and maybe even would, depending on the message.”
“Tell Dr. Tundridge that Emma Marsden will be going to the newspapers with the story of what goes on down in the lab here in the Tundridge Clinic.”
“There’s not a thing goes on here that isn’t legal.”
“It may not play well in the court of public opinion.”
“Mr. French gets your drift.”
“Good. And also tell him that we know he sent the videotape to the police. Maybe he even hired someone to film it. Looking for dirt on Emma Marsden, the patient who had the guts to stand up to him.”
“That is absolutely not true.”
“Of course it’s true. It had to come from this office. Who else knew anything about the details of the case? Nothing else makes any sense.”
“Prove it, my girl.” The phone rang on his desk and he picked it up. “Janet? They’re here? Good, good, send them on back.” He stood up. “And speaking of the police.”
I heard voices in the hallway, a man and a woman. Two uniformed patrol officers stopped in the doorway. I recognized one of them.
“McFee? That you? Not guarding the warehouses anymore?”
“Hello, Lena.” McFee, a big guy with a square fighter’s face, saluted. “You know Bonnie Maguire? Patrolwoman Maguire, Lena Padget.”
“Hello,” Bonnie Maguire said from the doorway. She had red hair, cut short and flipped up in the back, dark eyebrows, and the anxiety of a new hire.
“You know Detective Joel Mendez?” McFee asked her.
“No.”
“Well, anyway, Lena is his significant other.”
Mr. French tapped the top of his desk. “Excuse me, police people! I want this woman removed from the premises and arrested for trespassing.”
“What woman?” McFee asked.
“I think he means me, Chris.” I looked over at Mr. French. “You do mean me, right?”
“She’s trespassing. Please handcuff her and lead her out.”
McFee frowned and turned to face Mr. French. “What do you mean, trespassing? I was walking down the hallway, and all I heard was a normal conversation between you. It even sounded friendly. It sounded friendly to you, didn’t it, Bonnie?”
“Yes, Chris, I have to say it did.”
“Are you the party who called the police?” McFee asked.
Mr. French folded his arms. “I asked someone on my staff to make the call.”
“And what seems to be the problem?”
“I want this woman to leave.”
“Did you ask her to leave?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you just ask her?”
“She’s clearly here to cause trouble.”
“If you could explain that to me, sir.”
Mr. French picked up the phone on his desk. “Yes, Janet, please come in, thank you.”
I crossed my legs. Janet didn’t take long. She stood in the doorway, and McFee waved her in.
Mr. French lifted his chin. “Janet, would you—”
“Excuse me, sir,” McFee said. “Ma’am. This lady here in the chair. Did you speak with her?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked to see Dr. Tundridge. But she didn’t have an appointment.”
“No appointment?” McFee said.
“No, sir.”
“And then what?”
“She told me she was representing a client named Emma Marsden, whose son used to be a patient here.”
“And did you ask her to leave?”
“No, I asked her to wait in the waiting room.”
“And what did she do?”
“She waited. She also talked to some of the parents in there.”
“I see. And then what?”
“Then I took her to Mr. French’s office.”
McFee turned to Mr. French. “And you asked her to leave?”
“No.”
“You didn’t ask her to leave?”
“He offered me coffee,” I said. McFee gave me a look.
“Did you offer her coffee?” McFee asked.
Mr. French nodded. “Of course I did. I wanted to keep things smooth until you came to arrest her.”
“Sir, we don’t arrest people for going to a doctor’s office without an appointment.”
“She was obviously here to cause trouble.”
“It doesn’t look like she caused trouble to me. If you had asked her to leave, and she refused, then you might have a point. But you offered her coffee. Mr. French, I don’t want to come across as a hard-ass, but the department doe
sn’t like it when people file a false police report. You can get in a lot of trouble. The line of thinking is that even if you think of it as some kind of joke, like a prank, you know? Then officers like myself and Ms. Maguire are distracted answering prank calls, when we might be needed somewhere else. Who knows, someone could be injured or even killed because we didn’t get there soon enough because we were here instead.”
“This was certainly not a prank.”
“Well, you know, trying to have someone arrested falsely, that’s even worse.”
“Then I want a restraining order so she can’t come back.”
“Sir, you have to go through the proper procedures for getting a restraining order, and you have to show cause.”
“At least make her leave, then.”
“You mean, escort her out?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“But that might embarrass her. And then she could sue the police department, and she could sue you, and she could win. And I don’t think any of us want that.”
“But what if she won’t leave?”
“I suggest you ask her to leave, and if she doesn’t, you can call the police. Good day, sir. Lena. See you around.”
I waited till they were out of the room, then looked over at Janet and Mr. French.
“Is there something you wanted to say to me?”
Mr. French glared at me. “As a matter of fact—”
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I’m going.”
I waited till I was back out in the parking lot to eat my cherry lollipop. I didn’t want to be accused of stealing.
EMMA
CHAPTER ELEVEN
That morning Emma was sick. Wally always came when Emma was sick. Good old Wally. The dog knew. No one else seemed to have figured it put.
She was very sick.
The attack had arrived like the ones before, except it came in the morning instead of the middle of the night. The pain usually came with no warning, waking her from a sound sleep.
The first thing she always did was check the clock. On the average, the attacks lasted three hours, give or take.
The pain hit like a sheath of red light between her breast bone and the edge of her right rib cage. Upper right quadrant, was how the WebMD article had put it. The pain was simple and cruel. No throb, no coming and going, no pressure that could be relieved by shifting position. Just pain, radiating through her; she could feel it all the way to her back. There was no possibility of comfort, but the best position involved sitting cross-legged, left shoulder against the bathroom wall, right arm wrapped around her midsection to support the muscles that ran beneath the area of pain.
It had to be the bathroom wall, of course, because it had to be the bathroom, and she had to be sitting on the linoleum floor in front of the toilet. The toilet lid was up, seat down because sometimes she had to use it to support herself. She set a watch on the bathroom counter, propping it so she could see it from the floor, next to a glass of water for rinsing her mouth. She wet a washrag, wrung it out, and folded it neatly.
This morning she’d forgotten the sweater and the socks. The first wave of intense nausea floated like an oil slick in her belly. She dreaded it—the wrenching vomiting coupled with the pain in her side and the not knowing where it came from or why. The first time she’d thought it might kill her. Then she realized that whatever it was would only kill her slowly, and she’d suffer, so there was no happiness there. She didn’t like doctors, or hospitals, or emergency rooms. Well, how stupid, who did? But somehow in the middle of these attacks she didn’t care what they might do to her in an emergency room. They could cut her open and remove things and leave angry red scars like zippers in her pale skin. They could drug her and overcharge her and put her in debt. They could be rude, or boss her around, or treat her like she had no choice and no control. Those kinds of things only worried her when the attacks were over. The one thing she could not let them do, and the one thing they very well might do, was take her daughter Blaine off to foster care. They would say she was making herself sick. She was not to be trusted. And that was the one thing she could not allow. You could say she was being paranoid. Or you could say she was being a good and careful mother. You could say she was playing with fire and taking a risk, you could say she was letting them bully her, you could say she was letting them win. You could say every one of those things, and all of them would be true.
But you couldn’t really say she had a choice.
She was cold. Shivering. She staggered to the bedroom.
She’d put her arms through the sleeves of an old cotton sweater just as the nausea became impossible to keep down, and she popped her head through the neck hole and ran back to the bathroom, throwing up so violently that she had to balance on one knee and stretch the other leg out behind her, toes to the floor, like a runner’s stretch. She held the edges of the toilet bowl so she would not fall. She heaved again and again, managed to catch a breath, heaved again. Kept heaving still after every last bit of food and fluid was flushed from her system, and there was nothing left but the burn of acid in her throat, and the white froth that she threw up now instead of bile. Her body wasn’t making bile anymore, and she did not know why, but she was researching it, along with her other symptoms, online. She wasn’t going to let whatever this was kill her. She had boundaries.
Pain level eight, she would tough it out. Pain level nine, she would get help, and pain level ten, go to an emergency room. Vomiting bright red blood—emergency room. Attack lasting over eight hours—emergency room. She had done her research, and was careful to take no medication for pain or nausea so she would mask no symptoms, not flying blind like she was; she didn’t want to die, after all.
The vomiting subsided. She rinsed her mouth, spit spit spit into the toilet bowl, flushed it again. Wiped her mouth on the front of the sweater, spit again, wiped her mouth again, used the washrag to bathe her face.
Wally watched from the doorway, head on paws, a look of compassion in her eyes. She did not question Emma, she was just there. Dogs never questioned you, they never got mad, not even when Emma once told Wally to stop wagging her tail did the dog so much as blink. Dogs were so much better than people.
Emma wanted to lean against the wall, but she was afraid to move. If she stayed very very still, she might not throw up for a while. She checked her watch. Only twenty minutes into the attack. Two hours and forty minutes more, at the very least.
Just be very still, she thought, back aching, but her side hurt too much, and she shifted against the wall, and that set the nausea off, and she was once again on her knees throwing up hard and loud. Sometimes she cried when she felt like this, but not today. Today the pain was no more than a six, and she sweated and shook with the chills and leaned against the wall and watched the clock.
It was over in three hours and fifteen minutes, leaving her exhausted but relieved. She slept awhile afterward, dreaming of her mother, then woke, hungry but afraid to eat. She often thought that something she was eating set these attacks off, but as soon as she’d decide she knew what it was, it would be set off again by something else entirely.
She sat on the couch for a while, scratching Wally’s ears and looking at the mess of her house.
Her mother had not been the most particular of housekeepers either, and that was something that she and Emma shared. Emma found herself thinking a lot about her mother these days—not so strange. When you were in trouble, you always turned to Mom.
Not there, of course, but somehow always with her, particularly in this small cottage of Great-Aunt Jodina’s. The presence was subtle, but nonetheless quite a particular thing, like a scent, like the crisp feeling one has just after a breeze has blown through the window, scattering loose papers and enticing the dog to sit up, nose twitching.
The older she got the more she looked like her mother—bon vivant, curvaceous, dark hair, eyes electrically blue. Her mother had often been asked if she wore colored contacts, when such things be
came common. Emma had stood with her mom in a grocery store line while the woman ahead of them turned and said to her mother, “Are those your eyes?” as if they might have belonged to someone else.
Her mother had been enough like the other mothers to land in the comfort zones, but different enough to make Emma—and everyone else—pay attention. Everything had to be pretty—pretty paper towels, pretty tissues, pretty napkins. Yes, the white ones in packs of one-point-twelve million were cheaper, at three cents a thousand, but so long as the budget was not too badly stretched, much better to buy fifty for three dollars and eighty-seven cents because they were thick and heavy and folded long-ways, and because they came in rich colors—deep greens, cobalt blues, the maroon of a marching band. Cloth napkins were even better, as far as Emma was concerned, but her mother had never used them. Her father, of course, had been king of the blue-light specials at Kmart, in the days before the domination of Wal-Mart, and Emma remembered walking way ahead of him in the parking lot once, pretending they were not together as he carried two bundles of toilet paper stacked twenty rolls high and swaying over his head like columns of embarrassment. He pretended not to notice how she had distanced herself, but her mother had laughed and called to her across the asphalt, shouting, “Emma, hon? Can you come help us with this toilet paper?” Good ole Mom. Now, of course, she was disposed to torture her own daughter Blaine in the same way. You never really appreciated how amusing these things could be until you had a teenager of your own to annoy.
Her mother’s passion was her old horse, Empress, a skittish mare, half Arab, half saddlebred, and all nerve. Her mother had bought the show horse, then freed her from the cruel bits and the severe German martingales used to tie her head down. People were afraid to ride this mare without fierce controls, because for the horse, riding meant pain, and pain meant run, which meant the only way to stop her was to apply more pain or pray.
But Emma’s mother had seen the mare’s gentle heart and her will to please, and had brought her home, and never again put anything but a simple snaffle bit in her sensitive, damaged mouth. The mare was never safe to ride anywhere but in the tiny round pen, where Emma’s mother would walk her, round and round, cutting across, making a figure eight, the mare always moving with the action and grace that had racked up ribbon after ribbon in horse shows in Kentucky, Florida, and Tennessee, back in the days of cruel bits and martingales and the breakneck speed of the hand gallop. Empress moved so sharply in the oval of the show ring that her rider could have scooped dirt between his leather-gloved fingers, had he felt inclined and safe enough to take his hands from the reins.
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