by Sarah Kuhn
“Yes,” he finally said. “I do want to kiss you again. But I don’t think I should.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“I don’t totally agree with Leah,” he said, still playing with my hair. Which was making it extra hard to focus on what he was saying. “I don’t think we were trying to create drama. But I do think we know how to make things fun. Exciting. Kissing you is both of those things.” His hand stopped messing with my hair and cupped my face. “And usually I think we both know how to make sure things stay in that place and don’t get messy.”
“You with your ‘no article of clothing left behind’ rule,” I said, and was dismayed to hear my voice coming out all thin and breathy.
“You with your ‘no one interests me for more than five seconds’ thing,” he said. “Normally I’d trust both of us to keep things there with this, too—we could have fun—”
“—until we don’t,” I said. “And then we just reset to being friends who don’t kiss. No harm—”
“No foul. But right now, you’ve got a ton going on, Bea. You’re dealing with some serious emotional shit. I don’t want to get us all tangled up in a way that’s going to hurt you.”
He was looking at me so earnestly, his thumb stroking my cheek. Like Supportive Friend Sam, but Supportive Friend Sam who was definitely maybe about to kiss me again, and that combination was so intoxicating, it took me a few moments to fully process the utter load of shit that had just come out of his mouth.
“Hold. Up,” I said, taking a big step back, out of cheek-stroking, hair-playing distance. “Are you seriously saying we can’t kiss again because I won’t be able to stop myself from falling in love with you?”
I burst into uncontrollable giggles.
“Oh my god,” I gasped, leaning back against the wall. “Oh, mercy.” I doubled over, clutching my stomach. The giggles just kept pouring out of me. The release felt good after the past couple days of superheroing boredom and Ghost Mom weirdness, and I kept giggling until my sides hurt and tears streamed down my face.
“Why is that funny?” Sam said, his voice peevish. “It’s not that far out of the realm of possibility.”
“I assure you it is.” I stood up straight and wiped tears from my eyes. “You are astonishing levels of full of yourself, Samuel.” I closed the distance between us yet again and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know what? I think kissing someone who’s not all gaga over Calendar Sam would be good for you. It will knock your sense of self down to an acceptable, normal person level. So let’s kiss. Let’s kiss up a storm. As long as it’s fun and exciting, we’ll keep kissing. And I one-hundred-percent promise to never fall in love with you.”
“You sure about that?” His expression had shifted from sulky to amused to something more familiar. Now it almost looked like he was challenging me. How quickly he forgot how far ahead I was in our point competition.
“Oh, yeah,” I said, leaning in closer so my lips nearly brushed his. “Count on it.” I was pleased to hear his breath quicken, to see his gaze lock on my mouth. To see that I could distract him as well as he could distract me. I pulled away and was even more pleased to hear him let out a groan of disappointment. I turned toward the door. “Now. Let’s get the non-kissing part of this show on the road.”
* * *
San Francisco General Hospital had once been modern and state of the art—at least that’s how I remembered it from ten years ago, when I’d been a wide-eyed, impressionable twelve year old. The hospital I saw now, though, had definitely seen better days. Everything about it was chipped and peeling and relentlessly beige. And the unimpressed woman who greeted Sam and me from behind the front desk had a flat, beige quality about her as well.
“Visiting hours ended fifteen minutes ago,” she droned, not looking up from her computer screen.
“Oh, we’re not here to visit anyone,” I said.
“The entrance to Urgent Care is around back,” she said.
“Not here for that, either—”
“We as a facility are satisfied with our current roster of representatives from pharmaceutical companies—”
“And also not that,” I said, my frustration rising. “If you could give me a moment to explain: my name is Beatrice Tanaka and my mother passed away in this hospital—”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, still looking at her computer screen, monotone unchanged. “If you’ll wait here, the doctor will be right out to guide you through—”
“She didn’t die today,” I snapped, my irritation boiling over. Honestly. I should’ve donned my superhero costume for this outing. Maybe then she’d take me more seriously and stop interrupting me at every turn. Unfortunately, my costume was at the dry cleaner. “She passed away ten years ago. I was wondering if I could look at any of her records you might have from that time period. Maybe even the room where she, um, died.” I felt that lump rise in my throat again, that weird little gut punch that always came out of nowhere. Sam’s hand brushed against my back. I shook him off and cleared my throat.
“I do not have the authority to release medical records. You will need to submit your request in writing,” she said. “And I can’t allow you into the patient rooms area of the facility unless you’re an approved visitor during visiting hours or a patient yourself.”
“It’s part of an important supernatural investigation,” I pressed. “An official case being pursued by Jupiter/Tanaka, Inc. and—”
“If it’s official, then you obviously have some kind of written authorization co-signed by the San Francisco police department.” Monotone Lady peered up from her computer screen for the first time. She regarded me over the tiny half-lens glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She totally had the air of that stereotypical humorless librarian who’s always shushing everyone. “I am a big fan of everything Evie and Aveda do for our city, of course. But protocol must be adhered to. I’m sure they understand that.”
“Of course,” I said through gritted teeth.
Frak. Evie had warned me this might be a problem, had suggested I just find out what we needed to get the records, and we’d come back, but . . . but . . . I didn’t want to wait. I wanted to actually do something, something beyond the mind-numbing minutiae that’d been occupying my superheroing thus far. I wanted to make meaningful progress in figuring out what was going on. I wanted to save Mom.
Maybe I could fake an injury and become a patient myself, if that’s what it took?
“Listen. Edna,” Sam said, smiling warmly at Monotone Lady. What? How did he know her name?! Had he just guessed? Oh—I saw now that she was wearing a nametag. Though “Edna” would’ve been a pretty good guess, it was such a Humorless Librarian name. “Obviously we don’t want to get you in any kind of trouble.” I suppressed my eye-roll. He was using his heartthrob voice. “But it would mean so much to our investigation if—”
“Sorry.” Edna cut him off and turned back to her computer. “Rules are rules.”
“She must not have seen your calendar,” I murmured, nudging him in the ribs.
Don’t give up. The voice popped into my head. I’d been so wrapped up in Edna and Sam and my roiling frustration, I nearly jumped.
Don’t give up, it repeated. Convince her.
Mom? I thought at the voice. It didn’t sound quite like her, though. It didn’t have the familiar musical quality of the voice that had communicated with me back in the It’s Lit bathroom. And it was more urgent, more demanding. Maybe she’d gotten more desperate in the hours since she’d last talked to me. How? I thought. ’Cause Edna here made it pretty clear—
You know how, the voice said.
I did?
I glanced back at Edna. She was staring at her computer screen with renewed ferocity, as if concentrating extra hard would force us to leave. How could I get her to change her mind? How could I take this person who obviously felt very s
trongly about not giving us any further information and make her feel the exact opposite way—
Oh. Of course.
I mean, we were investigating a case, weren’t we? This was clearly a Greater Good situation. But what kind of emotion could I hit ol’ Edna here with? She was so dedicated to her monotone, I couldn’t tell if she possessed any emotions at all. I glanced around her desk, looking for some kind of hint of a personal life. But her desk was pretty bare, Spartan—and neat as a pin. Nothing there except—wait. I squinted, zeroing in on a photo of a tiny Pomeranian wearing about a million pink bows tucked next to the phone on her desk. Bingo.
I took a deep breath and focused, calling up a feeling of warm sympathy. I mixed in a dash of pity—sadness for this poor girl standing in front of Edna, looking for answers about her dead mother. I didn’t bother with the gentle aromatherapy approach. I projected that feeling at Edna full blast, a powerful fastball from an ace pitcher. I saw it hit, saw her shake her head in confusion.
“Bea,” Sam said. “Should we go or—”
“Shh,” I hissed, focusing with all my might on Edna. I plastered a sad look on my face and kept pushing my feelings cocktail at her. “Edna,” I said, “please. I really need to get this information today. It’s super important. See, it’s Pancake’s birthday—that was Mom’s prized Pomeranian puppy.” I said a silent apology to the real Pancake for twisting his identity in this manner.
“Your mother’s dog is still alive ten years later?” Edna said, her brow furrowing suspiciously. “Poms have very delicate health.”
“It’s a small miracle,” I said, really going all in on the lie. “We got him right before Mom died. As a therapy animal.” I could feel Sam staring at me, probably in bewilderment. I just bulldozed on and kept not looking at him. “He’s getting pretty old now, the poor dear. And it would mean so much to him if I could show him a photo of the room where Mom passed. To remind him of the last time they were together.” God, this lie was atrocious. I wiped a fake tear from my eye and projected even harder. I saw her eyes soften, saw her look at me with more care than she had since we’d arrived.
“Your dog came with your mother to the hospital? We don’t allow animals in here,” she said, but her voice sounded a bit unsure now. I saw her gaze wander to the dog photo on her desk.
“Oh, I know,” I said quickly. “We had to smuggle Pancake in. That really is kind of an unfair rule, don’t you think? I mean, pets are technically part of the family, aren’t they? Seems very discriminatory.”
“That it does,” she said, her eyes still on her desk photo. I could see her love of rules warring with her love of her own dog. She met my gaze again. “That was nice of you to do for your mom.”
“Mmm,” I said, nodding, like it was hard for me to even talk about. “I think if Pancake could experience one memory of her on his birthday, it would mean so much.”
“Weeellll . . .” Edna said, and I could tell she was wavering.
So close. I was so close to getting her to relent, I could feel it.
“I thought you said it was part of a supernatural investigation,” Edna said, her brows drawing together. “What does getting a photo for Pancake have to do with that?”
“Um . . .” Dammit. She’d tripped me up. “That was . . . not exactly true,” I said, making my face extra regretful. “I told a bit of a white lie. I’m so sorry. I would do anything for Pancake. Anything. Do you know what that feels like, to love something so much?”
Her gaze went to her dog photo again, and I could see the internal struggle playing out on her face. She wanted to say yes to me. But her ingrained love of doing things properly (and, let’s face it, the tiny bit of power she was able to wield over people while she was sitting behind that desk) held her back.
I reached deep inside of myself and projected my feelings cocktail at her, pushed it with all my might, imagined myself burrowing inside her brain and taking hold and refusing to let go.
You want to help Pancake, I thought at her fiercely. I know you want to, somewhere deep inside. Just say yes. Say, ‘I’ll get you the records.’ Say—
“I’ll get you the records.”
“What?” I shook my head, unsure I’d heard right.
Edna stared back at me, her expression suddenly very mild. Her eyes were glazed and she wore the oddest little half-smile—a complete change from the stern enforcer she’d been just moments ago.
“I’ll get you the records,” she repeated, tapping away at her computer. “What was your mother’s name?”
“Uh, Vivian. Vivian Tanaka,” I said, still trying to process Edna’s abrupt change in demeanor. Sure, I was used to shifting people’s moods gently, gradually. But I’d never implanted a direct thought and had them spit it back at me word for word. And . . . was that even what had happened just now? If not, it seemed like a pretty big coincidence.
Well, now wasn’t the time for pondering. I’d take the win and dissect it later.
“Ah, yes,” Edna said, tapping on her computer monitor. “I’m afraid those records—which should have a note of which room your mother was in—aren’t located here. They’re too old to have been digitized, though we’re slowly getting up to speed on that. Any charts of deceased patients that are ten years or older are kept in our archive in the basement.”
“And we can go down there?” I asked.
Edna gave me that bland smile again. “Of course, dear. Bernard should be working. Tell him I sent you. Tell him it’s a code six-two-nine.”
“Thank you so much, Edna!” I said, grabbing Sam’s hand and pulling him toward the elevator. Best to get down there before the mental whammy wore off.
“Poor Pancake,” I heard her murmur as we hustled into the elevator.
I pressed the button for the basement level and the doors closed and we were on our way.
“Holy shit,” I said, turning to Sam. “I think I just implanted a whole actual thought in that lady’s brain.”
“And you’ve never done that before?” he said.
“No. Usually it’s just a big emotion. An emotional state. A mood. Not a whole word-for-word thought!” I shook my head in wonder. The whole thing was stoking my adrenaline, making me giddy.
“So you extra mind-mojo-ed her,” he said. “New power development?”
“Maybe. There was this voice, talking to me and . . .” I frowned, trailing off. Where had that voice come from?
“Your mother again?” Sam said.
“Maybe,” I said. “I definitely need to experiment with this.”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, revealing a dimly lit corridor. If I hadn’t been riding the high of what I’d just accomplished, I probably would’ve been totally creeped out. The floorboard creaked under our feet, and a couple of naked lightbulbs swung above our heads. It looked like the set of a haunted hospital horror movie where the ghosts of former patients are about to rise up and murder whoever comes along.
We made our way down the creepy corridor and pushed through the double doors at the end. A sad-looking sign that said ARCHIVE was posted next to them.
If the reception level of the hospital looked dated, this basement records room looked positively archaic. Rows and rows of metal shelving housed box after box of papers sporting various complicated labels. The whole thing was presided over by a short, round man with a truly impressive combover and a tie with a soup stain on it. In contrast to Edna’s desk, his was a total mess: papers, folders, and the occasional frozen burrito wrapper jostled for space, but the most prominent feature was his collection of pens. Pens of all kinds were jammed into a haphazard array of cups and coffee mugs. Every shade, tone, and hue of every color of the rainbow was represented.
“Hello,” he said, blinking at us in surprise. “Are you lost? If you’re trying to check in, everything has to go through Edna upstairs—”
“We’ve al
ready seen Edna,” I said, giving him what I hoped was a winning smile. “She actually sent us to you.”
“She did?” He frowned, looking instantly suspicious. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I pressed on. “You’re Bernard?”
“I am.” The cloud of suspicion hadn’t left his face. He reached over and fiddled with one of his mugs of pens, as if to soothe himself.
“We’re looking for information on a patient who passed away here ten years ago,” I said. “Vivian Tanaka. Edna said you could pull her file for us?”
“I can,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “As long as you’re sure you have permission.”
“We do,” I said. “Edna said to tell you we have a code six-two-nine.”
“Well, then,” he huffed. “All right. This will take a moment, though.”
He tapped a few keys on his computer, muttering under his breath, then rose from his chair and stalked toward the back of the room, wending his way through the maze of shelves.
“Interesting system they’ve got here,” Sam said.
“I think that’s an insult to the word ‘system,’” I said. “I would classify this as a ‘big ol’ mess.’”
After a moment, Bernard shuffled his way back to us, brandishing a fat file folder.
“The record you requested,” he said, sounding extremely put out.
I practically snatched it from him and started rifling through the mess of medication records, chemo reports, and other paperwork that made up the end of Mom’s life.
“Excuse me,” I said, as I got to the end of the file. “There’s no death certificate here. Or any record of her death. This file ends three days before she actually died.”
Bernard shrugged. “Whatever we have is in there.”
“But . . . but . . .” Frustration welled in my chest. Frak, no. My mission could not end this way.
“Perhaps your mother was transferred somewhere else before she died,” Bernard continued.
