He stared across the desk, appearing to focus on every movement of Sarah’s chapped and bitten lips. After she finished a lengthy recitation of the facts about her mother's accident, hospitalization, and subsequent discovery of her perilous financial condition, he looked at Sarah for a long time, as the clock on the corner of his desk ticked loudly.
"Well, Ida was right about you. You do need help and fast," he yelled.
"Yes," she yelled back. "Can you help me?"
He lifted a sheaf of papers and a white business sized envelope with a shaky hand, and appeared to be oblivious to her question. Sarah looked at the clock, wondering how soon she should repeat the question.
“You need to petition the Court to be appointed your mother’s Guardian of Property and Person. Guardianship is a legal procedure by which a court seeks ‘to protect those who, because of illness or disability are unable to care for themselves.’ Your mother meets the criteria. She’s incapacitated and unable to make medical or financial decisions for herself. There are no other alternatives. She has no spouse or other legally appointed guardian. Although she has two other children, you’re living with her and you’re already acting as her Surrogate.”
He stopped, pulled a large white handkerchief out his breast pocket, blew his nose like a trumpet and replaced the handkerchief in his pocket. He continued to yell.
“The court needs evidence she’s disabled before they will grant you guardianship. She has the right to be at the hearing, but in this case, she’s in a coma and unable to attend. You’ll need to get two doctors to certify she’s unable to make a health care decision and to manage her property. Any problem with getting that?”
“No, I could get two dozen doctors to certify she’s in a coma. She isn’t even responding to my bad jokes.”
He smiled and displayed a bright white set of perfect teeth. Sarah grinned back at him.
“Okay. Give me the names of the doctors caring for her. I’ll have my wife get in touch with them for documentation. I’ll see if we can expedite this.”
Sara stared at him.
“What is it? Was there something you didn’t understand?”
“Who’s your wife?”
“You met her on your way in. Her name is Molly. She’s my receptionist, paralegal, secretary, and wife. I like to keep things in the family.”
“Oh.” Sarah almost fell out of her chair. Molly, his receptionist—paralegal—secretary—wife, was a beautiful, willowy blonde with enormous breasts and big, blue, dewy eyes. Hers had been the pleasant voice on the phone when Sarah called Sol’s office. She appeared to be close to Sarah’s age. Sol, on the other hand, seemed to be three days older than dirt.
He guffawed and slapped his knee, enjoying Sarah’s reaction. “I love the look on people’s faces when I tell them that. It makes me feel ten years younger. Molly, come on in, honey, we’ve got a new client.”
The door opened and Molly walked in holding a tray with two cups of coffee and rugelach cookies. She turned to Sarah and said, “Did he just tell you I’m his wife?”
Sarah nodded.
Molly set the tray down on Sol’s enormous desk, stood in front of him, and shook her index finger. “Sol, you keep telling people that whopper and I’m gonna make you marry me. Now stop it. She looks like she’s about to have kittens.”
“But, Molly, you know how much I love a good joke.” Tears ran down his cheeks and he slapped his thigh as he guffawed and snorted.
His humor was contagious. She hadn’t laughed this hard since her mother’s accident. Wiping tears from her eyes, Sarah asked, “Molly, is there a rest room I could use?”
“Yeah. Let me take you there. You behave, mister!”
Sarah could hear him chortling as she went out of the office and into a hallway.
“Does he do that to everyone?”
“Nah, he only does it to clients he thinks have a good sense of humor. You’re a friend of Ida’s, so he must’ve figured you’d like a good joke.” She pointed at an open door. “There you go, hon. If you need anything, just holler!”
Looking in the mirror, Sarah realized why he thought she could take a joke. She looked like a clown. Dust was smeared across her cheeks and forehead and some spots of what appeared to be mildew decorated her sweater. She washed her hands and face and finger combed her shoulder length blonde hair. She should have put it in a ponytail before they went to the archives.
“You want some coffee, hon?” Molly was at her side, escorting Sarah back to Sol’s office.
“Yes, I’d love some. Why didn’t you tell me my face was covered with dust?”
“I thought it was Ash Wednesday or something, so I didn’t want to be insensitive. Besides, I knew Sol wouldn’t care. He can hardly see your face, much less what’s on it. He’s real near-sighted.”
“Do me a favor. If I ever come in here looking like that again, please tell me. I just left a dusty, moldy medical archives and there were no mirrors.”
Sarah sat back down in the client’s chair.
Sol was engrossed in reading the documents she’d seen him holding earlier, his nose practically next to the paper.
She sipped her coffee, nibbled at a rugelach, and waited. Even upside down, the handwriting looked familiar. Where had she’d seen it before? It was almost half-past noon. She wondered how much longer this would take, and looked out the window at the traffic.
“Well,” he yelled, startling her. “Ida is quite fond of you, young lady.”
That explained the familiarity of the handwriting on the paper he was reading.
“I’m quite fond of her. She’s a wonderful person.”
They nodded at each other.
“What do I need to do now? Do I give you a retainer?”
He waved his hand at her. “Not to worry. Ida asked me to take care of this matter for you. I’m her lawyer and her financial manager, so there’s no need for you to pay.”
“Is that legal? I thought I had to give you a dollar at least. That’s what they show in all the legal thrillers.”
He grinned at her. “You want to give me a dollar?”
“Yes.”
“Okay!” He put his hand out and Sarah placed a dollar on his palm. He waved it at her, and put the bill on the desk. “Now we shake on it!”
They shook hands while Sol laughed again, and Sarah rushed out in hopes to beat the rush-hour traffic.
A cab sat at the curb with the motor running. Sarah tapped on the glass and asked if he was available.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Sarah glanced back up at the office window. Molly waved and smiled. Sarah thought she could hear laughter, too, but that was probably just her imagination. A short ride later, she climbed out in front of the main entrance to the hospital. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing. It’s on Mrs. Weinstein’s account.”
“Can I give you a tip?”
“Nope. She said not to take any money from you. Have a good day.”
Did Molly think she was too poor to afford a cab ride? Sarah had enough money for cab rides—just not to pay all her mother’s past due bills. She took a deep breath and reminded herself to have an attitude of gratitude. Molly was being generous, not throwing Sarah a pity party.
A wall of payphones by the hospital entrance reminded her to check in on her mother. She pulled out her cell phone and leaned on a corner of the ATM.
“GBMC-ICU. This is Debbie.”
“Debbie, this is Sarah, Mrs. Wright’s daughter. I think I met you the night my mother was admitted.”
“Yes. Your mom looks great.”
Practically dropping the phone in a rush of excitement, Sarah yelled into the receiver. “Is she talking?”
“Sorry, I meant her color and vital signs were normal. She looks like she’s sleeping.”
Disappointment slowed her pulse. “Oh. Same as yesterday. Yeah, she has better color now than she’s had in the past five years. Must be the lack of alcohol in her syst
em.”
“Is there anything else you need?”
“Did she have the EEG yet?” Sarah gazed at the parade of employees and visitors hustling, strolling, and sauntering by and did a double take. From the back, one of the men in a white lab coat looked like Dan. Her heart lurched, but when the physician turned his head to speak to a colleague, she realized she was mistaken. Her eyes welled up with tears.
“Hello? Are your there?”
She shook her head to clear the nostalgia. “Sorry.”
“I said, yes, she did, but the results haven’t been interpreted yet. That could take a day, depending on how busy the doctor is.”
“I’ll be in later this evening. Tell her I called, will you? I think she hears everything and just isn’t letting on. I’m beginning to think this is her idea of a practical joke.”
“That would be quite a joke.”
Sol Weinstein might feign a coma as a practical joke. Now, there was a fix-up. Her mother and Sol Weinstein. What a perfect couple. Perhaps they could run off to Elkton, the “Las Vegas of Maryland,” and get married in one of the little chapels. Sarah smiled at the thought. She was punchy from fatigue and being on the edge twenty-four/seven. She should eat something and try to recharge her batteries. Forgoing the temptation of a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie, Sarah picked up a chicken Caesar salad and a latte at the coffee and snack bar. She set the food down on her desk. The red message light blinked on her phone. She put it on speaker so she could unwrap her lunch and eat while she listened.
“Sarah, I found an image we can use from the National Library of Medicine Web site. It’s an 1886 etching of a toddler with a facial malformation caused by congenital syphilis. I printed it out, and I’m going to go put it on the poster when I get a break between patients,” Peter said.
Good job, Peter. Way to go, she thought. That should help put a little punch in his poster.
A second voicemail. Peter, again, but this time his voice shook. “Sarah, when you get in, come over to the Pediatric Clinic right away. I have something to show you. Marian needs to see it, too.”
So much for lunch.
Peter was with a patient when Sarah arrived moments later at the clinic. Surrounded by mothers, babies and toddlers, she sat in the waiting room. Two boys fought over a bright yellow toy truck while a little girl with pink bows in her curly pigtails sat on her mother’s lap and sucked her fingers. A ceiling mounted television blared cartoons day and night.
Sarah sipped her coffee and watched a dog with a badge chase a rascally cat burglar.
Peter emerged from the exam room, pale and drawn.
“What happened? Bad diagnosis for a kid? You look ill.”
“When you see this, you will, too.” He held a manila folder in his hand. He led the way to Marian’s office and passed by the poster.
“Any response to your ‘Comments?’ sign?”
He gave a grim little laugh and shook his head. “You could say that.”
“What’s the emergency?” Marian asked when they entered her office.
“This.” He lay the folder down on Marian’s desk and opened it.
On the white ‘Comments?’ sheet someone had written, “Satan pretends to be an Angel.”
The sight of the reddish-brown letters made Sarah put her hands behind her back. “I hate to be all CSI, but doesn’t that look like dried blood?”
“Where and when did you find this?” Marian asked.
Sarah went over the placement of the poster, her suggestion to put up the comments sheet, and their two-hour expedition to the archives.
“It’s a little after one now,” Sarah continued. “That hallway is secured with a swipe card from both the main corridor and the clinic side. Only employees, faculty or students can enter that area.”
“Peter, do you feel this is targeted at you or the poster?” Marian asked.
Peter and Sarah exchanged glances.
“I think it’s about the poster and the investigation we’re doing in the Clinic,” he said.
Marian nodded. “I agree. We found more cases of congenital syphilis associated with the same church. I’ll have to make another call to the Police.”
* * * *
Back in her office, Sarah tossed the wilted salad in the trash and pulled out her marked-up to do list. She started to write “Call Dan,” then scratched it out. She drummed her fingers on her desk, yanked out the Greater Baltimore telephone book, and started looking up “Woods.” Perhaps one of the hundreds of “Woods” on the three pages of fine print would be related to the Bessie Woods in that photo. She gave the same spiel with each phone call.
“Hi. This is Dr. Sarah Wright. I’m calling from the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, Department of Pediatrics. May I please speak with Bessie Woods?”
The responses ran the gamut of possibilities—none good.
“What? Who? Nobody here by that name.”
“Lady, you got the wrong number!”
“Is this another telemarketing scam? You people are unbelievable.”
“I don’t owe you money, so just go away.”
A stream of profanity ended with “Drop dead.”
She called Woods, E., of 4555 Pecan Hollow Court, Baltimore. A recorded message in a quavering, elderly woman’s voice picked up after three rings. “You have reached the home of Dr. John and Elizabeth Woods. We are unable to come to the phone right now, but your call is important to us. Please leave a message at the tone.” The machine beeped.
Sarah opened her mouth to leave a message, and a tinny, machine generated voice said, “Mailbox full” and clicked off.
When she looked up the address online, she was surprised to find it was less than a mile from where she lived. Well, that was convenient.
Someone tapped at the door—not the code.
“Who is it?”
“Baltimore Police, ma’am.”
When she opened the door, a leprechaun of a woman with short red hair, fair skin, and freckles looked up at her. Sarah half expected her to start Irish step-dancing. The imp flashed a shield and introduced herself.
“I’m Detective O’Grady, of the Child Abuse Unit, Special Investigation Section. Tell me about this research you and Dr. Lassiter have been doing.”
She gave the woman a rundown on the project and her hypotheses about the results of the data. Then she told her about the events of that morning. O’Grady took copious notes, asked if she could call on Sarah in the future, shook hands with an iron grip, and left at a brisk walk. The cop was professional, speedy and strong.
As she opened and closed her hand, still wincing, Sarah’s cell phone rang. She rushed to get it. Maybe it’s call from the ICU, she thought. Nope. Wrong area code. Where the heck was it from? “Hello?”
“Sarah. How are you?”
“Dan?” Her breath whooshed out of her and she plopped into her desk chair, grateful for the soft landing. “How’d you get my number?”
“You gave it to my mother. She said she saw you at the deli.” His voice filled with concern. “What’s going on with Ethel? Are you okay?”
She felt as if she was breathing through a straw. Heat rushed up her neck and face and her thighs trembled. Holy. Moley. If the sound of his voice could do this to her after all this time, she could only imagine what his scent would do to her. Good grief. She was doomed to love this man forever, but could he ever love her back again? With her voice cracking, she whispered, “She told you about Ethel?”
“My mother said she’s in a coma. Is that true?”
“Oh, Dan, it’s been terrible.” Hot tears rolled down her face. “I don’t know where to start. I couldn’t get into everything with your mother. Things are a mess.” She took a deep breath and began the saga from the time she found the police cars on her lawn. By the time she was done, he’d been quiet for so long, she thought he’d hung up. “Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m so sorry. How are you holding up under all this?”
“I have lis
ts of things to do as long as my arm. Debra’s been supportive, but Matt’s been a curmudgeon. Told me to call him when she’s dead.” Sarah understood her brother distancing himself from Ethel’s insanity, but sometimes he could be a jerk. Even if he didn’t want to help Ethel, the least he could do was extend some support to her.
“Is there anything I can do for you, Sarah?”
Dan, the man who predicted Ethel’s demise, was more compassionate than her own brother. Fresh tears blurred her vision. “Your phone call’s the high point of my day. I really miss---”
“Hang on. Another call’s coming in.”
Sarah smacked her forehead. She’d been about to tell him how much she missed him and still loved him. Stupid move. He had a girlfriend. What was she thinking? Get a grip on it, Sarah.
“Okay. I’m back. What were you about to say?”
“Oh, I was going to tell you about this case I’m working on.” She described the poster, the note, and her conversation with the police detective. She played up how closely she worked with Peter and omitted the fact that he was married. Desperation drove people away. No need for Dan to think she was pathetic, even if she was.
“You’ve got a lot happening in your life,” Dan said. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to touch base and see how you were.”
“Thanks for calling. That was very kind of you.”
“Call me if you want to talk. I’m still your friend, Sarah.”
She sat and stared at the cell phone, replaying the conversation and her body’s responses in her mind. She willed him to call her back to tell her he was through with Bobbi and ready to hop on a plane to be at her side. Given that the circumstances were similar to those that led to their break up in the first place, however, that was probably too much to ask of anyone, even someone as forgiving as her ex-fiancé. Everyone had their limits, the place where they threw their hands up and said, “Enough. This isn’t working.” She’d passed that boundary a year ago. No point in wishing for what she could never have again. They were friends—nothing more.
Some Other Child Page 8
