Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  “Sold? By their own parents?”

  “A parent may want a better life for a child, as well as for themselves and the children who remain. But please remember that I refused to take the girls.” Emma’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t want the coyote to think he could get away with that. I should have realized what would happen. As you obviously know, both girls came back to the hospital through the E-R. Maria was dead. Soledad was in serious condition.”

  “So you are keeping Soledad? For your, shall we say, purposes?”

  “To tell the truth,” Emma said, “I don’t know. And this won’t be the only time girls will be smuggled in here. So I have to think of something.”

  Rachel was shaking her head. “No matter how you spin it, pretty it up, Jefferson Medical Center is stealing kidneys. And that ward out there is a black-market organ ward.”

  There was a long pause before Emma said, “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “If everything is so clean and nice, why did someone try to kill me last weekend?”

  “What?” Emma sounded shocked, but Rachel wasn’t sure the doctor’s look was not just carefully studied surprise.

  “Exactly,” Rachel said. “Whoever it was, missed me and hit my friend.”

  “My God,” Emma said. “Believe me, there’s no connection to Jefferson, to the transplant team here. I guess I can see how you could think there might be, but that event has to be a coincidence. We save lives here. We don’t take them.”

  “I’m not convinced, Emma.”

  “Well, forgive me for this, but if you tell the police your suspicion, they won’t believe you. We’ve seen to that. I’m sorry, Rachel, but we had to. What we’re doing here is too important.”

  999

  Rachel walked back to the garage trying to order her thoughts. This must be what it would be like on another planet, where enemies were friends and some friends could not be trusted.

  Eventually, Emma had come to some decision and allowed her to leave, had escorted her out of the hospital. They stopped at the ladies’ room on the first floor and while Rachel dug her clothing out of the waste paper bin, Emma watched, head slowly shaking. “You really are very clever.”

  At the garage, she barely stopped at her cubicle to check phone messages before walking up the ramp to her Civic and heading for Pasadena. She had to see Hank.

  Making her way through the hospital lobby, she took the stairs to the sixth floor. The door to 614 was open.

  Both beds were made up with fresh linens. Both were empty.

  Now what?

  Rachel hurried down the hall to the nurses’ station.

  “Where is the patient from room six-fourteen?” she asked the man behind the counter.

  “Bed A or B?”

  The look he gave her seemed wary and a tide of panic rose inside Rachel. “I don’t know,” she faltered. “The bed by the window.”

  He went to a computer, tapped a few keys and squinted at the monitor. “Sullivan?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s been transferred to an isolation unit.”

  “Isolation? Why?”

  “You are a relative?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Apparently there’s an infection. This is just a precaution until the antibiotic takes effect.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “No ma’am. No visitors allowed in isolation.”

  “How long will he be in isolation?”

  “If the antibiotic is successful, it could be only a few days.”

  999

  Back at the garage, Rachel called Goldie’s number and left a message. Marty’s line rang six times. Rachel hung up. His voice mail was likely full. He probably hadn’t been home in a while. She knew what that meant. She looked up the number of his favorite poker club, punched it into her phone and asked for him. Everyone there knew him. “This is his daughter,” she added, suspecting they protected men from fuming wives.

  “I don’t think he’s here, but I’ll check. Hang on.”

  The line went empty for what seemed like a long time.

  “Nope, not here. I asked around. They say he hasn’t been in since his big win.”

  Rachel thanked him and hung up. Big win? A new big win or the old big win? They usually didn’t come in pairs. But no way could Marty stay away from a poker table very long, and he was not only loyal to One-Eyed Jack’s, he never switched clubs after a sizeable win. Supposed to be bad luck or something.

  Rachel chewed on her pencil. Something didn’t feel right.

  If there was worrying to be done, she’d have to do it later. Right now, her head felt like it was going to explode. She had to find someone to help her reconcile all this bizarre information.

  Looking up, she saw Irene pushing her cart up the garage ramp. The woman was carrying an umbrella, although there was no sign of rain. That and the high-collared prim blouse she wore today made her silhouette look like a plump Mary Poppins. She parked the cart in the space Rachel always saved for her and, umbrella still in hand, came to the booth.

  “Dear girl! It is such a lovely day and here you are looking so glum.”

  Wondering if she could trust Irene with her quandary, Rachel gave a small shrug and decided no, probably not. Not right now, anyway. Irene might be on first name terms with just about everyone over the age of six in Los Angeles County, but she loved nothing more than a nice morsel of gossip. Rachel needed to think things through. And helping with that was probably not Irene’s strong suit.

  As it turned out, she was wrong.

  “It isn’t your friend, is it, luv? He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse, has he?”

  “No.” Rachel shook her head. “At least I don’t think so.”

  Today, Irene’s hair was in gray pin curls. The woman’s mouth made a broad smile below apple-red, round cheeks. “No, of course not. I knew that.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Oh, from time to time, I take me a look into the unseen present as well as the past and future. Things will be not quite as expected, but he will be in fine fettle in no time. You’ll see.”

  Rachel knew Irene wanted her to ask for details, but she never quite believed the woman when she was playing the mystic, so instead, she pulled out the handbag Peter had given her. “I need to pay you for the weekend. I’m sorry. I should have done it before. Can I give you a check?”

  “Of course, dear girl. But just this once. I don’t care to have the tax man poking about in my business.”

  Writing out the check, Rachel realized she didn’t know Irene’s last name.

  “Never mind. It’s very long and hard to spell. Just write it to Irene. And thank you kindly. But I dare say, you do still look peaked. Tell Irene what is troubling you.”

  “Oh, it’s just that I have to decide what to do about something. And I haven’t quite got it sorted out in my head yet.”

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Not right now, no.”

  “You have to decide something on your own say-so and you don’t know what that say-so is.”

  “That probably describes it.”

  “Then you would be well advised, dear girl. Very well advised, indeed, to consider the words of Dr. Reinhold Niebuhr.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind, luv. The man’s name is not important. It’s the little prayer he wrote for a service at a church in Massachusetts that has helped so many folks make the choices they have to make. It was a Congregational church. Nineteen forty-three.”

  “All right.” Rachel waited for some bland little homily that had caught Irene’s attention.

  “Give us the grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change the things which should be changed, and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.”

  999

  Rachel went through the motions of the day’s work, stopping a couple times to wonder how Irene had managed to come up with virtually the same lines so many alcoho
lics kept in their wallets or posted on the doors of their refrigerators. Was the woman really clairvoyant? How did she know the name of the person who authored it and where and when? Or did she make up that part?

  Whatever, Rachel gained a smidgen of serenity from it, enough to get through the day with reasonably sensible thinking. What did she have to accept? That Hank had been horribly injured, for one thing. That now he had an infection dangerous enough to land him in isolation.

  Was there anything in her power to change? By mid afternoon, when she saw Emma come through the street door, she knew at least one answer to those questions.

  She motioned to the doctor, walked over to where Emma waited, leaned against the wall, and crossed her arms. “I have a proposal.”

  Faint alarm seemed to register in Emma’s eyes. “Yes?”

  “I will not go to the police about this,” Rachel began. “At least not right now. But I have a price.”

  “And that is…?”

  “Soledad.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  “What are you saying, Rachel?”

  “You said yourself you don’t know what to do with her. You said her parents probably had sold her. And I have very little doubt that whoever locked her in that van in my garage left her there to die. Your system, if we can call it that, is set up for boys. Apparently Soledad has no one to take care of her and nowhere to go. And she’s only eleven years old. In the long run, you don’t have many choices. You can send her back to the people who sold her and try not to know when they sell her again.”

  “There is the Department of Social Services,” Emma said.

  “Oh, sure. I’ll bet people are lining up to provide a foster home, let alone adopt, an eleven-year-old Mexican girl who barely speaks English and is in this country illegally. Do you know how Social Services even deals with a case like hers?”

  Emma gave Rachel a long look as if sizing up her intent. Finally the doctor said, “Frankly, no, I don’t. I’ve been thinking I should try to find out, but I’m afraid of tipping my hand.”

  Rachel raised her chin and stared hard at Emma. “So here’s another option. I want to ask her if she would like to come live with me.”

  999

  The autumn sun made their shadows very long as the two women threaded their way along the sidewalk among pedestrians newly freed from offices and anxious to get to their cars and go home.

  “You’re sure you’ve thought about this enough?” Emma asked. “The job you’d be taking on is not a small one. Soledad is nearing puberty. What do you know about teenage girls?”

  “Not a lot,” Rachel had answered. “Except I was one. A long time ago.”

  “Shouldn’t you wait another few days?”

  “Not really. Look, I don’t want to take her right away. Not until you say she’s strong enough. Not until she says she says she’s ready. But everything in my life is so frigging uncertain right now that one more uncertainty will drive me straight over the edge.”

  “Given your emotional state, you think you’re up to the task?”

  “I’m probably a better option than the county or the coyote or someone who deals in sex slavery which, as you mentioned, may be right around the corner for someone like Soledad.”

  Emma stopped on the corner and looked into Rachel’s face. “Forgive me, but I have to ask. What if you’re convicted for drug theft?”

  Rachel drew in a long breath and was silent a moment. “I told you, Emma. I didn’t do it.”

  “As a matter of fact, I know you didn’t. But I didn’t say what if you’re guilty, I said what if you’re convicted.”

  Rachel ran her gaze along the tops of the buildings across the street, lined in red by the lowering sun. “I have a father, friends. If worse comes to worst, I can make arrangements.” She hoped that was true. “It’s better than the people who sold her or left her to die.”

  They walked the rest of the way to the hospital in silence, went in the side door and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Pushing the button inside the car, Rachel asked, “Is that ward the reason for the weird floor numbering?”

  “I don’t think so,” Emma said. “I think they originally used European floor numbering for some obscure reason, and never changed it.”

  The elevator stopped at the ground floor and three people in whites entered. One looked at Emma and said, “I thought you had left.”

  The doctor shrugged. “Forgot something.”

  Rachel wondered if these and all the other Jefferson staff members knew about the special ward. Despite Emma’s explanations, it seemed like a lot of people to trust with a secret. Maybe it was a case of hiding in plain sight.

  The answer was obvious when they all got off on the same floor. Emma was clearly well versed in the charade. The doctor turned left instead of right, and with Rachel following, walked around another ward until the others veered off, then headed back in the right direction.

  “Surely a few other people besides me have stumbled across that ward,” Rachel said.

  “Not many, actually. Most people are in a hurry and they know the building rambles. They see the Closed sign and turn back. Almost everyone knows we used that area at one time as a celebrity ward, long ago, actually, but celebrity gossip hangs on. Employees know the celebrities were moved to the top floor, the old wing was closed and slated for revamp. All that is reported in the employee newsletter. Supervisors were asked to announce at staff meetings that the old ward was unsafe due to earthquake damage. Now we mention from time to time that we’re using it as a charity ward for young Latinos.

  “People are busy. They don’t remember exactly what they’ve been told, or when.”

  “Smoke and mirrors.”

  “Whatever.” Emma shrugged. “It works for the politicians. Why not us? Only four employees have gotten too curious. They no longer work here.”

  “Did they have a bottle of some controlled substance planted on them?”

  Emma didn’t answer. She swung open the door that bore the Closed sign and moved quickly down the hall.

  Soledad was laughing at a television show on a Spanish language station. She jumped, startled, eyeing Emma and Rachel worriedly as they entered her room.

  “It’s okay, Soledad,” Emma said in English and followed it with Spanish that sounded calm and sedate compared to the Mexican boys’ rapid-fire sentences.

  When Emma paused, Soledad began shaking her head. “No.” Then she began chattering quickly in Spanish.

  Rachel asked Emma, “What did you say to her?”

  “I said I can’t keep her here much longer, that she is too young for the organ donor program and that in another week or so, when she has gained a little more weight, she can go home.”

  “What was she saying no to?” Rachel asked.

  “She doesn’t want to go home. Not exactly surprising. She says her father left the family long ago. Her mother died last year. She says the people who handed her over to the coyote were kind to her, but they aren’t her family. She worked for them. She did laundry and took care of their children. The people gave her food and clothes and let her sleep on the floor of a shed with a goat and a donkey.”

  “Good God. That passes for kindness?”

  “Actually, where Soledad comes from, it does.”

  “And it was out of kindness that they sold her?”

  “I would guess that they couldn’t afford to feed her anymore,” Emma said. “And they probably thought Soledad was going to live the good life in America, so why shouldn’t they take a little money to ease their own lives in exchange.”

  “She speaks a little English. Let me ask if she wants to come with me. Maybe let me say it and you translate.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Soledad,” Rachel began, “I own a parking garage, a place for cars. I have an apartment there.” She waited for Emma to translate, then went on. “The living space not very big and there is no yard to play in. I don’t know of any kids your age in the area. I don’t even
know where the school is.” Rachel waited again.

  Soledad, watching her very carefully, seemed to be studying every nuance of word and expression.

  “That said, would you like to come stay with me for a while?”

  Soledad was nodding slightly as if she understood the words but wasn’t sure it was a question she was supposed to answer. She moved her eyes from Rachel to Emma and back, then nodded vigorously. “Sí. Yes. For me.” She grinned broadly, showing a splash of white teeth in a face that promised to be very pretty one day.

  Rachel put her arms out and Soledad threw herself into them.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  “Are you out of your ever lovin’ mind?” Goldie said when Rachel told her about Soledad. “You have flat out taken leave of your senses.”

  They were sitting on the front steps of the InterUrban headquarters across the street from the garage. The night was chilly. Both wore bulky sweaters.

  “Maybe,” Rachel said, thoughtfully. “But somehow it seems like a good idea.”

  Goldie threw up her hands. “The road to the hot place is paved with ideas like that. Teenage girls want hundred-dollar aerobics shoes, ninety-dollar jeans, fifty-dollar blouses that are eight sizes too small. They do drugs, they get their body parts punctured. They get pregnant.”

  “I thought you liked kids,” Rachel said.

  “I come from a big family. Eight of us. I’m the oldest. I love kids. Right up to about age six. After that any adult should have the right to strangle one.”

  “They aren’t all that way.”

  “No, but you aren’t likely to be getting one of the point-oh-five percent that isn’t.”

  “Soledad has nothing and nobody. She needs an anchor.”

  “Yeah, well, people who get caught in anchor lines get drowned. As in dead.”

  “You trying to talk me out of this?”

  “You could call it that,” Goldie said.

  “Maybe I need a purpose.”

  “What you need is to take off those rose-colored glasses. They have made you blind and warped your mind. Have you talked to Hank about this? He just might have some little bitty notion about it.”

  “I tried to. I tried to see him twice. The first time he was still under heavy sedation. The second time, he was in isolation.”