The breath escaped my lungs. Yes, for now, I did belong.
I dragged my suitcase inside and shut the door. At our meeting the day before, Hudson had described where to find the service elevator, which was tucked in between the staircase and the rear corridor. It took me swiftly and quietly to the second floor, where I once more faced my doubts.
But my thumbprint unlocked apartment 2B without any fuss.
As I walked through the door, Sara Holmes’s texting gadget hummed.
I have some last-minute errands. Expect me at 5 p.m. Can you cook?
For a moment, I was too outraged to think. So many assumptions were built into that short message. Did she ever realize how she sounded? Did she care?
Luckily for someone, the gadget had no reply function. I stuffed it into my pocket and continued into the vestibule, where I propped my suitcase and tablet bag against the wall, so I could make a proper survey unencumbered by baggage.
The living room was exactly as I remembered it, with the enormous padded couch and two wingback chairs facing the window and its view of central DC, where Lincoln and Washington and Jefferson sat in silent self-satisfaction. A faint aroma of wood polish hung in the air, with an even fainter scent I could not identify. Roses? Incense?
In the kitchen, I discovered the cabinets filled to overflowing. Plates and serving dishes. Pots and pans. Glasses of every kind and color. And a truly astonishing array of machinery. Sara’s? I doubted that, after her text message, but then I spied a double row of herbs in pots underneath the window. I leaned close to sniff the sharp clean scent of the rosemary, the pungent thyme, the whiff of damp soil.
There were clues here. Ordinary ones. Intriguing ones.
Or perhaps they were simply ingredients for that night’s dinner.
I padded down the hall toward the bedrooms. The closets and the bathroom were empty, except for a prim stack of toilet paper rolls. No towels. Another item I had forgotten about, dammit. After the kitchen, I had expected to find her belongings stored away or stacked throughout the corridor.
The only matter we had left undecided on Friday was the choice of bedrooms. The one to my left was the largest, I remembered. It overlooked the garden along the rear of the building. I tested the latch—it was unlocked—and pushed the door open.
Just as last weekend, the room was empty except for the king-size bed, which sprawled over the gleaming hardwood floor. Unlike last weekend, a miniature grand piano occupied the nook by the window. But my attention was snagged by a square of paper directly in front of me.
I cautiously plucked the note from the floor and opened it.
Mine, it said.
My breath puffed out in silent laughter.
Oh, yes, this was Sara, so completely Sara.
I ran my fingers over the paper—no, it was parchment. I recalled the texture from college, when we studied calligraphy and illuminated manuscripts in art history class. Holmes had used an ordinary pen, but the strong lines and especially the flourish after the final e reminded me of those older scripts. The thickness of the sheet was unusual, even for parchment. In the upper left corner, a curious pattern of bumps caught my eye. I tilted the sheet this way and that. Sunlight gleamed off the thin metallic threads half-buried in the material. A tracking device? Delivery confirmation, translated to paper?
I returned the note precisely to where I’d found it. Stared at it a moment, then laughed again. Dear Jacob. Do you know what your friend is like? Of course you do. You tried to warn me from the start.
The second bedroom was smaller, but like everything else in the apartment, its dimensions seemed perfectly proportioned—a bright, sunlit sanctuary with a high patterned ceiling, made even more lovely by the humming air conditioner. Two narrow windows overlooked a second garden that ran along the right-hand side of the building. The garden, well tended as one might expect, was filled to overflowing with more wildflowers, roses, and a cluster of crabapple trees that were already dropping their leaves. Beyond the low brick wall that divided number 2809 from the next property, I saw the angled tower that made one corner of the neighboring house. Was that a shadow I saw behind the curtains? One of the neighbors, watching?
Abruptly, I was exhausted. No, dammit. I will not run away. Not this time.
I fetched the suitcase and computer bag from the vestibule and hauled them onto my bed. Clothes were the first and easiest items to dispose of. The bedroom had a series of built-in drawers along one wall. Underwear went into one, T-shirts in the next, then socks and trousers and all the rest, rolled tightly in military fashion.
The room included three narrow closets as well. My few dress suits, remnants from my life before the war, did not even fill half of one. If I wanted, I could transfer the boxes of leftover childhood mementos, which my parents had lovingly preserved, from the storage unit in Suitland.
Another dangerous pause overtook me, another moment wishing for a past I could never recover.
I threw myself into motion once more. Within a few moments, I had unpacked the tablet and its accessories, and arranged them on the desk by the window. The apartment provided us with Wi-Fi as part of our rent, but I would need to research options for email accounts and privacy keys. I didn’t want to depend on the VA, or the honor of Hudson Realty.
The tablet booted. I brought up a browser to test the connection. All good. Later I would check the portal for any communication from my new employer. For now, I continued with the present and mundane. The paperbacks I had brought from Alton, or acquired in the past two weeks, fitted into one set of shelves underneath the window. My medical supplies went into a smaller cabinet next to my bed. I automatically counted the bottles and boxes. I would need a new supply of swabs before the week ended. More antiseptic. Not to mention blankets and sheets.
And towels, dammit.
I sank to my knees next to the bed and pressed my fists against my eyes. Oh, Saúl. You were wrong. I can’t do this.
You can. I could almost hear his voice. One small bite at a time.
I had many, many small bites ahead of me. All of them dry and unseasoned.
Stop whining, I told myself. You have a job. And a life better than the one your parents had on that dirt farm.
A week from Monday, it was. I would report to the VA Medical Center at eight a.m. for orientation and training for my new position as a medical technician. Twenty-five dollars an hour, thirty hours a week guaranteed. No benefits, but the opportunity to advance through training. BioStar’s offer had been for $35 an hour, but they could not promise me a start date earlier than October 13. It was the start date, not any recommendation from Holmes, that had decided me.
Sara Holmes. I tilted my head back and stared at the ceiling as I tried to untangle her character. How had she known about the jobs I had applied for? Why did she claim to need a partner to share the rent? Or perhaps none of that mattered. After all, I didn’t need a friend or companion. I only wanted a refuge from that dreadful hostel. If her agenda provided me with a refuge both lovely and private, who was I to argue?
From far off, a door crashed open.
At once, I dropped to the floor, reaching automatically for a weapon, a club, anything to beat away the enemy. There were six patients in the critical ward, a dozen more in recovery. I had to get them away . . .
The loud tap, tap, tap of heels over the tiled entryway broke through my panic. I recognized that pattern. I’d heard it seven days ago, in the National Gallery of Art, and again, outside Jenna Hudson’s office.
I released a shuddering breath. I was in DC, not Alton. The intruder was Sara Holmes, not a troop of enemy soldiers. A very angry Sara, however, judging from that slammed door. Was that any less dangerous?
The tap, tap, tap vanished around the corner. Moments later, the other bedroom door slammed shut. I waited, my breath held tight as I listened for more clues about Sara and what had broken that seemingly unbreakable façade of arrogance.
Jacob himself had warned me. Some might call he
r difficult, he’d said. I had taken his words for a challenge. How soon before I regretted doing so?
Now. Yesterday. I wanted to laugh. Instead I choked down a sob.
Gradually my heartbeat slowed. Quiet settled over the apartment, drifting through the rooms like winter snow. I still could not bring myself to move. I lay with my cheek against that cool and polished floor, taking deep and steady breaths. Eventually I would stand up. Eventually I would continue to unpack my suitcase, arrange my new life. It would have to be soon, or I risked drowning in lethargy. But not yet. Not . . . quite yet.
From far away, I heard a crash of chords from the piano.
A crash, loud and angry, as angry as the door slamming shut. A moment of heart-shaking silence followed, as though Sara had startled herself. Then came a series of single notes, slow and tentative at first, but gathering speed and assurance, like the flood tide I’d once witnessed up north in Canada. My knowledge of music was like my knowledge of cooking and art—enough to care about the details, not enough to call myself an expert. But this piece I remembered from one of my last outings with Angela. Appassionata, the piece was called. By Bach—no, Beethoven.
Chord by chord, the melody rose upward like a host of angels toward a grand and glorious redemption.
I was no Christian, nor was this a sacred song.
But this. Yes, this.
If I were a god, I might ask for such a joyous noise.
I listened a few moments longer to that oh so glorious music, then picked myself up slowly from the floor. A list, I told myself. All I needed was a list to start. I sat down at my new desk and my tablet, opened up a new text document, and began to type.
5
September 17. Redemption. Funny word, that. It dropped into my head this morning as I was negotiating the deluxe coffeemaker in apartment 2B. Dictionaries say redemption means “deliverance.” And, oh, those days I spent hiding with my patients in a ditch, I would have said deliverance had the loveliest syllables in all recorded time. A couple of entries down, you come to a different definition. “Atonement.” Christ’s blood for ours. Punishment transferred, not grace bestowed. I think a lot about grace and punishment these days. Maybe next week, when I’m not so wrung out, I’ll have something profound to write. Not today.
I wrote in my journal today. That I managed to write anything, and at six a.m., was almost worth recording by itself. The entry was nothing more than a quick scribble, but I had needed the act of writing itself, more than the particular words. I had needed the feel of my favorite pen between my fingers, needed to see the bright green ink trace patterns on the page, patterns that made words that made a string of sentences that echoed, however imperfectly, my thoughts. Epiphanies could come later, if they came at all.
But I knew the root and reason for choosing that particular subject. Today was my first day flying solo at the VA Medical Center, with no nurse supervisor dictating my every word or action. Today was just me and the patients in that interview room. It would be hard, maybe harder than my first day of residency at Georgetown, because I had to remind myself constantly that these were not my patients. I was only a technician.
One day, one victory at a time, I told myself. Each victory to tip the scales weighed down by Alton. Each day to bring me closer to a new device, to my life redeemed.
I drank off the last of my coffee and scanned my tiny domain to make sure it was ready for inspection. Counters cleared and wiped down. Check. The roll of exam paper in its slot and a fresh segment draped over the table. Check. Keyboard, screen, and electronic pen, ready for use. The inventory of equipment and supplies signed by the previous shift supervisor. Check and check. For the next seven and a half hours, minus lunch and federally mandated breaks, this would be my world.
It’s part of the new VA, my nurse supervisor had told me that first day.
A VA driven by the need to economize, what with Congress so anxious for funds, and the White House unwilling to spend its waning political capital in this difficult election season. And so they had instituted this new system, where medical technicians interviewed the patients, took their blood pressure, and handled dozens of other tasks once assigned to the nurses and physician assistants. Our time was cheaper than theirs, and since we worked thirty or fewer hours a week, we cost the VA no benefits.
I closed my eyes, felt the roiling in my stomach subside. The heavy scent of antiseptic hung in the air, familiar and welcome, and from the corridor came the hum of equipment, the voices of nurses deep in a technical discussion. Even the blank white sterility of my surroundings felt like a coming home of sorts.
“Watson.”
My supervisor, RN Roberta Thompson, stood in the doorway.
I set my mug aside at once and paid attention. You did that with Thompson. She was tall and lean and brown, with a nose like a hawk’s beak, and a temper that came and went, like summer thunder. She spared one glance toward my coffee mug—a breach of regulation, but one so frequently broken that everyone ignored it—then made her own survey of the room.
Apparently, I passed, because she gave a brisk nod of approval. “Your first patient wants a follow-up consultation,” she said. “I showed you the procedure yesterday, but we’ll go over it again now. Are you logged in? Good. Click menu option VAQF-03. Patient questionnaire number 0400 is the one you want. Memorize this form, Watson. Love it as you love your mother. Oh, sorry. I forgot about your mother. Well, as you love your paycheck. Got it? Now tap that icon to copy the patient ID to your personal list.”
I worked through the menu options with my electronic pen until I reached the screen showing the appointments scheduled for today. Confirmed appointments were blue. Patients who had checked in were marked green. From here, I could select the next one for their interview. The joke about my mother had left me sweating, but I contained myself.
“Got it,” I said.
Thompson regarded me with a long stare. “Do you, now? Listen anyway. This is the standard questionnaire we use for follow-ups. I told you this before. I will likely tell you six more times this week. This form has all the necessary input fields—which you will enter completely or I will chew your sorry ass into a million pieces. If you think you need more information, Dr. Watson, you only need to click one of these happy icons to the right. Green for patient history. Yellow for details about their previous visit. Red connects you to the laboratory portal to request any tests or look up results. If you decide to request any tests—and you better have a damned good reason—you need my okay or a doctor’s. Got it?”
I knew that tone from my residency days. “I do.”
Thompson grinned. “I like your attitude, sunshine. Don’t disappoint me. Good luck.”
She left me to inspect the next technician and room.
The clock on the wall flipped silently to eight forty-five a.m.
According to regulations, my official workday started at nine a.m., but I knew from VA gossip that official had an elastic meaning. Once a patient had completed the initial check-in procedure, they were often led directly to an interview room. So I stowed my coffee cup in a bottom drawer, then double-checked the status of my terminal. My duties were simple enough—ask the questions from the screen, pick this answer, check that box, type a few notes, then record their vital stats, and send the poor scrub off to the next waiting room.
“Med tech?”
One of the office staff stood outside my door. Alice, that was her name. She indicated the patient standing behind her. Sergeant Michael Williams. Ex-sergeant Williams, here for a follow-up exam. I picked up the electronic pen and gave him my best professional smile. “Good morning. Let’s get you started.”
* * *
Name and date of birth, please.
Military ID.
Date of discharge.
Date and location of your last medical exam.
Any changes in your medications?
Any new symptoms?
The questionnaire guided me through the questions, with onl
y a few variations, depending on the answers I tapped with my electronic pen. I needed to type any personal observations, however, and with the scant fifteen minutes allocated for each patient, I found myself keeping more and more to the lists and menus. Regulations also stated I was to double-check those answers against the patient’s medical history. One of the senior med techs—the only one who didn’t glare at Dr. Watson—told me I would spend at least half an hour at day’s end catching up on the required follow-up work. “Unpaid oversight and training” was how the employee manual described it. I could log the time for pay, but I might risk an official reprimand. I’d most certainly risk unofficial displeasure.
A faint hum from the digital clock caught my attention.
The numbers had ticked over to 11:43. Two minutes to the next patient. Seventeen until my lunch break. I rested my head in my hands and wished for a cup of strong coffee. I’d been at work three hours. It felt more like three hundred.
I had just enough time to massage my temples before Alice appeared with the next patient, a small woman, brown skinned and compact, her hair shaved close to her skull. She might have been in her twenties, but it was hard to tell from the lines of pain etched on her face.
“Doctor?” she said.
My pulse jumped at the old title. And her accent, a liquid lilting rhythm, called up memories from Alton and the attack.
“I’m not the doctor,” I told her. “I’m here to review your history first.”
I pointed to the examination table. She limped over to it and awkwardly took a seat. A part of me registered the loose camouflage pants and olive-green T-shirt, clothing that closely resembled a soldier’s uniform without crossing over that invisible line. And unlike so many other patients that day, she didn’t argue when I ran through all the usual questions about her service history and recent medical symptoms.
A Study in Honor Page 6
