“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will.”
A single line of text scrolled over the device.
Will send you further instructions on Monday. Until then, be discreet.
11
Monday showed up like the ghost of Christmas past, humorless and with a faint foreboding. I put myself on automatic, as if I were prepping Lazarus and my stump. Morning rounds. A one-on-one with Anna Chong. A brief exchange with Carter about a patient who might qualify for early discharge.
Then I came to the one point in the day where I absolutely could not go by rote.
“How are you today?” Faith Bellaume said.
Not an idle question, that. I sifted through a dozen possible answers, wishing I’d had more specific instructions from Micha. The last time I’d lied to Faith—lied deliberately—Sara Holmes and I had worked out exactly what to hide, what to reveal. I wasn’t sure I was up to solo work.
Then, it was as though Sara whispered in my ear.
Tell her the truth. Tell her you hurt.
I nearly flinched. But yes, I did hurt.
“Not . . . as well as I’d like,” I said. “I hurt. Everything I expected from Georgetown . . .” I struggled to draw a breath. “I had hoped too much. I’ve worked hard. I thought I would be rewarded. I need to recalibrate those expectations.”
“Why does that hurt?”
Because I’m taking all those expectations and throwing them out the window. I have to. I need to. But I’m still afraid.
I took a sip of water as I considered how to answer her question convincingly. “Perhaps hurt was the wrong word. I’m afraid. Of failing. Of disappointing my mother and father, even though they aren’t here to see me fail.”
“Fair enough. But have you considered that you want to fail?”
I sucked in my breath. “You think—”
“I don’t think anything,” Faith said gently. “I’m only asking you to consider the possibility. Remember what we talked about. How children absorb the attitudes around them, even before they’re conscious of those attitudes.” As I opened my mouth to protest, she held up a hand. “I am not accusing your parents of doing that. Or your sister, Grace. But you told me how your grandmother fought with your father about moving up north.”
Oh. That. Yes.
I rubbed my hands over my face, which felt curiously numb. My father and my grandmother had shouted at each other for days over my parents’ decision to leave the dirt farm and Georgia for a better life up north. Even years later, their conversations by telephone had turned into bitter arguments.
Well, I couldn’t tell Faith the truth, not all of it, but I could acknowledge the truth she told me.
“I think you might be right.” My voice came out hoarse, and I had to take a deeper drink of water before I tried again. “Thank you for that insight.”
Her mouth tilted into a wry smile. “Insight belongs to the patient, not the therapist. But you’re welcome.”
Our conversation continued—patient on her end, distracted and halting on mine—over the next twenty minutes. I talked about my grandmother and her Alzheimer’s. We spoke about the burden of guilt, visited unto the second and third generations. All the time, I was aware of her watchful gaze. Eventually we came to the end of our session.
“So,” Faith said. “Shall I see you again in two weeks?”
Now I hesitated. For all I knew, Micha meant for us to take off for the New Confederacy tonight.
Pretend nothing has changed, said that voice that could have been Sara’s.
“Yes,” I said. “Two weeks is fine.”
Faith Bellaume frowned—I almost expected her to denounce me as a liar—but she said nothing more than, “Until two weeks, then.”
***
Danger avoided. Discretion preserved.
The rest of my Monday afternoon faded back into the ordinary and mundane. Afternoon rounds proved to be a repeat of the morning. Nothing life-threatening or even faintly unusual. For the first time in a very long while, I felt competent, and not merely as if I were going through the motions.
Nevertheless, I didn’t dare to breathe deeply until my so-called ordinary workday ended and I could shuck off my useless scrubs. My scalp itched. My skin felt sticky with invisible sweat. All I wanted was to disappear into apartment 2B with another cup of that delicious tea.
At seven P.M., the hospital locker room was empty, wrapped in the sharp scent of antiseptic, overlaid by sweat and latex. Most of the surgeons and other doctors either worked in the on-call room or had not yet begun their shift. I was glad. I couldn’t bring myself to pretend much longer. Micha had told me to expect further instructions today. She had not shared when or where to expect them. Family resemblance, much?
A hot shower put me into a better mood. My face no longer felt numb. And if disappointment had a distinct smell, at least I’d rid myself of that. I scrubbed myself dry and reattached Lazarus before massaging my scalp with the new hair oil I’d bought the week before.
Back in the locker room, I dug out my street clothes.
And stopped when my hand encountered a book-shaped object. The outer surface was slick, the corners blunted, and when I ran my fingers around the edges, I could make out the rough-cut edges of pages. Definitely a book. A hardcover, no less.
I fished the book out of my bag and examined the cover. Trail of Echoes, read the title. An Elouise Norton novel, by Rachel Howzell Hall.
Oh my. One of my favorite books, from one of my favorite detective series. Talk about strong black women taking names and getting shit done. And this was not only a hardcover but a signed limited edition.
Every detail spoke of Micha and her ingenuity. I didn’t usually buy hardcovers, but this was the kind of book I would treat myself to.
And today, I think, I will treat myself to a good dinner.
An hour later, I had a table to myself at Sally’s Kitchen, near the back of the restaurant. The waitress set the plate of shrimp and grits in front of me, then refilled my glass of water. “You sure you don’t want nothing else?” she said.
I took in the mound of grits and shrimp, with its clouds of sharp, spicy goodness, and considered that anything more might be fatal. “Nothing for now, thank you.”
“Well, you just let me know if you change your mind, honey.”
She winked at me and went on to her next customer.
I set to work on my meal—no hardship there. Sally’s had been a favorite of mine since my days at Howard University. Back then, I’d hurried through eating so I could get back to my dorm and my studies. Tonight, I took my time, savoring each bite while I tried not to think about the book in my bag.
One thing hadn’t changed—I’d be taking home at least half the shrimp and grits for dinner tomorrow. With a sigh, I leaned back and signaled to the waitress.
“Dessert?” she said.
“Oh, Lord, no. But a glass of wine would go down well.”
The waitress delivered the wine and a carton for my leftovers. “You take your time, sweetheart. I can tell you had yourself a long day.”
A day that would get even longer before I was done.
With the stage set, I retrieved Micha’s book from my bag and casually leafed through the opening pages as I sipped my wine. Lou, her partner, the opening notes of the mystery, were all just as marvelous as I remembered. However, I was part of a new and different mystery myself, so I stopped reading and ran my fingers over the edges of the pages.
Nothing, nothing, nothing . . .
And then I found it—a sheet of paper inserted in the middle of chapter 3. Casually, I paused. The sheet was nearly empty, except for three short paragraphs in close-written script, in handwriting utterly unlike Sara Holmes’s. (But very much like Micha’s, I suspected.) In the upper right corner was a raised pattern of dots.
And I knew what that meant.
I settled back into my seat and read from the beginning of chapter 3. Every once in a while, I turned back a page or two, as if to double-ch
eck an earlier clue in the plot. At last I reached the page from Micha.
The following instructions are critical for proper care and handling. To wit, excessive exposure to heat proves fatal to certain fabrics. Use only the gentlest soaps and conditioners. Air-dry when possible. When you have committed these to memory, please dispose of your instructions according to government regulations.
I snorted. The handwriting might have been Micha’s, but the style was pure Sara. Was this straight-up family resemblance or deliberate imitation? I read on.
Ignore the previous persiflage. Now for the true instructions. Keep this letter in the book and keep the book in your bag. There will come a time to destroy our evidence, but not yet. Here are the first steps into adventure . . .
Step #1. Return that last phone call from your sister and ask about your grandmother. Do this tonight and no later, please. Your sister will tell you that your grandmother’s health has not improved, and that she needs professional care.
I must have choked, because my waitress paused next to my table. “Is something the matter, honey?”
“No. Nothing,” I said quickly. “Just swallowed the wrong way.”
Nothing except that Micha and Sara’s people had rifled through my life, apparently. Damn them both.
“Mmmm-hmmm. Lemme fetch you some more water, then.”
I accepted the water, and on second thought, ordered a small carafe of wine, before I returned to my instructions.
Tell your sister you will make all the necessary arrangements in person. If she objects, or she wants a reason, tell her that you feel guilty for all your good fortune.
Oh god. She did know Grace.
Step #2. Request a month’s personal leave from work. Do this tomorrow, as early as possible. If your CMO wants a reason, tell her you want to review home care facilities for your grandmother.
Right. How the hell was I supposed to do that, if I was faffing around the New Confederacy?
It was as though Micha had read my future thoughts, because the next line read:
Don’t worry about the apparent contradictions. I’ll take care of everything. Step by step is how we shall dance across the border, find my cousin, and save the world. When you are ready for the next set of instructions, press the dots in the margin next to these words.
I ran my fingertips over the margin—lightly, because I wasn’t certain I wanted or needed to read those next instructions. The dots were faint, little more than a pattern of imperfection in the heavy paper. Not like the dots in the upper right corner, which would turn these pages into dust. Something . . . even more ingenious, I guessed.
I’ll find out soon enough.
I refilled my glass and settled down to read the rest of chapter 3.
12
I splurged and took a cab back to 2809 Q Street and the apartment I no longer shared with Sara Holmes. Once the door to apartment 2B closed behind me, I dropped my bag in the entryway and tossed my jacket in the general direction of the closet.
They are watching you, Micha had told me, back in the tea shop.
A totally unnecessary warning. They’d been watching me and this apartment for several months, according to Sara. Still, the reminder was a good one. I continued into my bedroom, where I changed into sweats and a T-shirt. Even if no one monitored the apartment at this precise moment, the knowledge that cameras recorded my every movement left me queasy.
I glanced at the clock. Only nine P.M. Far too early to call Grace on the West Coast. So, dear reader, what would Janet Watson do, to fill in the hours?
Tea. Tea would be good.
I filled the kettle and set the water to boil, then fetched my new/not new book from my bag. By the time the tea had brewed, I had read deep into the unfolding mystery of the present, which tied inexorably to Lou’s past.
Girl, I know all about that. I poured a cup of tea and glanced once more at the clock. Too soon, yet. Grace and her family would be finishing up dinner right about now.
Around eleven P.M., I yawned and set the book aside, then wandered into my bedroom, where I made a pretense of checking my messages and email on my tablet. After a suitable delay, I called up a video-chat channel and dialed Grace’s number.
Within a couple beeps, the screen illuminated to show a man’s dark brown face. He glanced down at what had to be the caller ID display, then back at my face. “King family residence. May I ask who’s calling?”
I recognized Grace’s husband. Colin, that was his name. We’d met briefly at their wedding five years ago, each of us eyeing the other suspiciously. Less than a year later, I had vanished into the military, and two years after that, Grace and her husband had escaped to the West Coast.
“Colin, hello,” I said. “It’s Janet. Grace’s sister—”
Shouting broke out in the background. “Papa! Papa! Is that Aunty Kayla?”
Two girls wrestled their way into the video pickup. Both of them were laughing and shrieking. In the background, Grace was demanding that her children stop acting like wild animals, but I could hear the laughter in her voice.
“Hush,” Colin told his daughters. “Go back to your mama. Ain’t you both supposed to be in bed by now?” Then he leaned closer to the screen and said softly, “Janet? Is something wrong?”
Everything, I thought. I had to quash the bubble of anxious laughter before I could go on with my charade.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “May I speak with my sister?”
He hesitated a moment. “I guess that’s okay.”
Okay? Since when is talking to my sister not okay?
Before I could say anything I regretted, Grace replaced her husband in the video pickup. “Janet.” Her voice was breathless. “What’s wrong?”
What was wrong is that when I called my family, they could only think of disaster. My own damned fault, with me not calling them or answering their messages, except to make excuses. Not that Grace ever made it easy to talk or write—
I pinched the bridge of my nose and reached for that quiet deep inside, the one Faith had taught me about. “Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to talk about Gramma.”
Grace frowned—the exact same way our mother had frowned whenever we disappointed her. Only now did I realize that faint lines fanned out from my sister’s eyes, and her hair had taken on a silvery cast. Grace was three years younger than me, but she had aged faster and harder. How much of her life had I missed these past few years?
“Took you long enough,” she said.
My baby sister was too damned good with delivering guilt. No doubt she got that from our father’s side of the family. Except . . . except this time, she was right.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know I haven’t . . . I haven’t done right these past few years. I’m sorry.” My breath puffed out in a weak laugh. “Maybe I felt guilty.”
“Girl, you should feel guilty.”
But I heard a touch of humor in that statement.
“So tell me,” I said. “How is she?”
“Not so great,” Grace said. “The doctors say it’s definitely Alzheimer’s. Getting worse these past two months.”
Oh. Christ, indeed. And where was his mercy now?
“Fucking Alzheimer’s,” I said.
My sister blew out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “That’s what I said. Aunt Jemele still lives at the old home, but she’s getting on. There’s Uncle Jimmy, and Uncle Samuel, but they ain’t so young themselves, and the older grandkids have been leaving as soon as they can.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” I murmured.
Now she did laugh. “Damn you, Janet. You always did say too much. But yeah, can’t say I miss that farm.”
“So,” I said. “Tell me about these home services.”
Aunt Jemele had sent Grace a list of services in the county. We talked about the options available down in rural Georgia, and the ones that might prove best for our grandmother. The overla
p between the two was slim, but better than I had expected.
After that, we talked another hour. About the dirt farm as we remembered it. About those first years in the DC area, how it all looked like a jumble of concrete, except those few pocket fields behind the house, and how we had to learn what seemed like a whole other kind of English. About East Coast, West Coast, and how white people were all alike but at the same time they were all different. But I noticed Grace never spoke about our parents, or about anything grand or tragic. Neither did I. Perhaps it was enough, for now.
“I was thinking,” I said. “Maybe I should make a visit. See what those facilities are like. I am a doctor, after all.”
Grace snorted. “As if you would let anyone forget.”
“Damn, you, Grace. I was just trying to—”
She cut me off with a wave of her hand. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. In the background, I heard Colin ask a question, but she shook her head at him and mouthed a reply.
Seems Colin thought I was causing trouble. I almost told Grace to forget about it, and we could talk later, but then she turned back to me. “You’re right,” she said. “You being a doctor will help. Those home care places, maybe the government pays for everything these days, but everything means all kinds of different things, depending on who you talk to, never mind about how they treat their people.”
She made it too easy, my sister did, to follow Micha’s instructions.
“I need to ask for personal leave,” I replied. “But I want to get down there by next week. Maybe sooner.”
“Good.” Her expression wavered. Then she said, “You always did what’s right.”
I wish that were true.
But those damned cameras were keeping watch, so I simply shrugged. Grace and I said our good-byes, and I promised to send her a report on my findings. Then I clicked off the chat line and powered down the tablet.
One A.M. Tomorrow would be a long and weary day. But then, I’d trained for days exactly like that, back in the service, and earlier, during my residency. So, I took my tired self off to the bathroom, where I followed every step of the drill to care for my stump and my device. And because Janet Watson would do such a thing, I poured a small glass of whiskey and settled back into my pillows to read one more chapter about Elouise Norton and her search for justice.
The Hound of Justice Page 13
