A Faint Cold Fear

  7

  Sara sat in the main lobby of Grady Hospital, watching a steady stream of people coming and going through the large front entrance. The hospital had been built over a hundred years ago, and Atlanta had been adding on to it ever since. What started out as a small facility designed to service the city’s indigent population, with only a handful of rooms, now had nearly a thousand beds and trained over 25 percent of the doctors in Georgia.

  Since Sara had worked here, several new sections had been built onto the main building, but not much had been done to blend the old with the new. The new lobby was huge, almost like the entrance of a suburban shopping mall. Marble and glass were everywhere, but most of the old hallways leading off it were lined with avocado green tiles and cracked yellow floors from the forties and fifties, so that stepping from one to the other was like stepping through time. Sara guessed that the hospital authority had probably run out of money before the refurbishment was complete.

  There were no benches in the lobby, probably to discourage homeless people from hanging around, but Sara had been fortunate enough to grab a plastic chair someone had left near the doorway. From where she was sitting, she could watch people coming and going through the large glass doors, starting or ending their day. Even though the view was straight onto one of the parking decks for Georgia State University, the skyline was visible, dark clouds creeping along the rooftops like cats along a fence. People sat on the front steps smoking or talking to friends, killing time before their shift started or their bus came to take them home.

  Sara glanced at her watch, wondering where Jeffrey was. He had told her to meet him here at four, and it was five past. She assumed he’d been caught in traffic—rush hour on the downtown connector tended to start around two-thirty and lasted until eight—but Sara was still anxious that he might not show. Jeffrey had a history of underestimating how long things would take. Sara was gripping her mother’s cell phone in her hands, thinking about calling Jeffrey, when the phone rang.

  Sara answered, saying, “How late are you?”

  “Late?” Hare gasped. “You told me you were on the Pill.”

  Sara closed her eyes, thinking that the last thing she needed right now was her silly cousin. She loved him to death, but Hare had a pathological inability to take anything seriously.

  She asked, “Did you talk to Mama?”

  “Ayup,” he answered, but did not elaborate.

  “How are things going at the clinic?”

  “All that crying,” he groaned. “I don’t know how you stand it.”

  “It takes a while to get used to,” Sara told him, feeling sympathetic. She still cringed when she thought of the time a six-year-old ran screaming from her in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly because he recognized her as the woman who gave shots.

  “The whining,” Hare continued. “The complaining.” He pitched his voice into a pointed falsetto. “ ‘Put the charts back where they belong! Stop drawing doodles on the prescription pads! Tuck in your shirt! Does your mother know about that tattoo?’ Good God a’mighty, that Nelly Morgan is a hard woman.”

  Sara found herself smiling as he made fun of the clinic’s office manager. Nelly had been in charge of the clinic for years, even as far back as when Sara and Hare were patients there.

  “Anyhooooo,” Hare drew out the word. “I hear you’re coming back tonight?”

  “Yeah,” Sara told him, dreading where this might lead. She decided to make things easy for him. “I know you’re supposed to be on vacation. I can work tomorrow if you want to take off.”

  “Oh, Carrot, don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I would much rather you owe me for this.”

  “I do,” she told him, stopping just short of thanking him; not because she wasn’t grateful but because Hare would find some way to turn her words into a joke.

  He said, “I guess you’re working on Greg Louganis tonight?”

  Sara had to think about his question for a second before she understood what he was asking. Greg Louganis was a gold-medal-winning Olympic diver.

  “Yes,” she said, and then, because Hare worked at the emergency room in Grant, she asked, “Did you know Andy Rosen?”

  “Thought you might put three and three together,” he said. “He came in around New Year’s with a banana split on his arm.”

  Working in the ER, Hare had slang for every condition known to man. “And?”

  “And not much. The radial artery snapped up like a rubber band.”

  Sara had wondered about this. Slicing your arm straight up was not the smartest way to kill yourself. If the radial artery was cut, it tended to close itself off quickly. There were easier ways to bleed to death.

  She asked, “Do you think it was a serious attempt?”

  “A serious attempt to get attention,” Hare said. “Mommy and Daddy were freaked out. Our golden boy basked in the rays of their love, playing the brave trouper.”

  “Did you call a psych consult?”

  “His mother’s a shrinky-dink,” Hare told her. “She said she would take care of it her own damn self.”

  “She was rude about it?”

  “Of course not!” he countered. “She was very polite. I just thought I’d editorialize to make it seem more dramatic.”

  “Was it dramatic?”

  “Oh, it was for the parents. But if you ask me, their little love was calm as a cucumber.”

  “You think he did it to get attention?”

  “I think he did it to get a car.” He made a popping sound with his mouth. “And what do you know, a week later I was walking the dog downtown and there goes Andy, driving a shiny new Mustang.”

  Sara put her hand to her eyes, trying to make her brain synapse. She asked, “Were you surprised when you heard he killed himself?”

  “Very,” Hare told her. “That boy was too self-centered to kill himself.” He cleared his throat. “This is all entre nous, you understand. That’s French for—”

  “I know what it means,” Sara interrupted, not wanting to hear Hare’s made-up definition. “Let me know if you think of anything else.”

  “All right,” he said, sounding disappointed.

  “Is there anything else?”

  He blew air through his lips, making a sputtering sound. “About your malpractice insurance . . .”

  He gave Sara enough time to feel like she was having a small heart attack. She knew he was winding her up, but like every other doctor in America, Sara’s malpractice premiums were higher than the national debt.

  She finally prompted, “Yes?”

  “Does it cover me, too?” Hare asked. “Because if I make one more claim on mine, they’re gonna ask for the free steak knives back.”

  Sara glanced at the front doors. To her surprise, Mason James was walking toward her holding the hand of a two- or three-year-old boy.

  She told Hare, “I’ve got to go.”

  “You always do.”

  “Hare,” Sara said as Mason grew closer. She noticed for the first time that he walked with a pronounced limp.

  “Yee-es?” Hare asked.

  “Listen,” Sara began, knowing she would regret her words. “Thank you for covering for me.”

  “I always have,” he said, chuckling as he hung up the phone.

  Mason greeted her, a warm smile lighting up his face. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “It was just Hare,” she said, ending the call. “My cousin.” She started to stand, but he indicated she should stay seated.

  “I know you’re tired,” he told her, swinging the little boy’s hand. “This is Ned.”

  Sara smiled at the child, thinking he looked very much like his father. “How old are you, Ned?”

  Ned held up two of his fingers, and Mason leaned down to peel up another one.

  “Three,” Sara said. “You’re a big boy for three.”

  “He’s a sleepy boy,” Mason said, ruffling his hair. “How’s your sister doing?”

  “Better,” she t
old him, feeling for a split second like she might cry. Other than the few words she had said to Sara, Tessa was not talking to anyone. She had spent most of her time awake staring blankly at the wall.

  Sara told Mason, “She’s still in a lot of pain, but her recovery looks good.”

  “That’s great.”

  Ned walked to Sara, holding out his arms. Children were often drawn to Sara, which came in handy considering that more times than not she was poking and prodding them. She tucked the cell phone into her back pocket and picked him up.

  Mason commented, “He knows a beautiful woman when he sees one.”

  She smiled, ignoring the compliment as she shifted Ned on her lap. “When did you get the limp?”

  “Kid bite,” he told her, laughing at her reaction. “Doctors Without Borders.”

  “Wow,” Sara said, impressed.

  “We were vaccinating kids in Angola, if you can believe it. This little girl took a chunk out of my leg.” He knelt in front of her to tie Ned’s shoe. “Two days later they were talking about whether or not they were going to have to chop off my leg to stop the infection.” He got a wistful look in his eyes. “I always thought you’d end up doing something like that.”

  “Chopping off your leg?” she asked, though she knew what he meant. “Rural areas are underserved,” she reminded him. “My patients depend on me.”

  “They’re lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. This was the sort of compliment Sara could take.

  “I can’t believe you’re an ME.”

  “Daddy finally stopped calling me Quincy after the third year.”

  He shook his head, laughing. “I can imagine.”

  Ned started to fidget in Sara’s lap, and she jiggled him on her knee. “I like the science. I like the challenge.”

  Mason glanced around the lobby. “You could be challenged here.” He paused for a moment. “You’re a brilliant physician, Sara. You should be a surgeon.”

  She laughed uncomfortably. “You make it sound like I’m wasting away.”

  “I don’t mean that at all,” he said. “I just think it’s a shame you moved back there.” As an afterthought, he added, “No matter the reasons why.” He took her hand on this last note, squeezing it gently.

  Sara returned the squeeze, asking, “How’s your wife?”

  He laughed, but did not let go of her hand. “Enjoying having the house to herself now that I’m living at the Holiday Inn.”

  “You’re separated?”

  “Six months now,” he told her. “Makes being in practice with her a bit tricky.”

  Sara was conscious of Ned in her lap. Children understood a lot more than adults gave them credit for. “Does it look final?”

  Mason smiled again, but she could tell it was forced. “Afraid so.”

  “How about you?” he asked, a wistful tone in his voice. Mason had tried to see Sara after she left Grady, but it had not worked out. She had wanted to cut her ties with Atlanta to make it easier to live in Grant. Seeing Mason would have made that impossible.

  She tried to think of a way to answer Mason’s question, but her relationship with Jeffrey was so ill defined it was hard for her to describe. She looked toward the doors, sensing Jeffrey before she could see him. Sara stood, using both hands to shift Ned onto her shoulder.

  Jeffrey was not smiling when he reached them. He looked as exhausted as she felt, and Sara thought there was a little more gray in the dark hair around his temples.

  “Hi,” Mason said, holding out his hand to Jeffrey.

  Jeffrey took it, giving Sara a sideways glance.

  “Jeffrey,” she said, shifting Ned, “this is Mason James, a colleague of mine from when I worked here.” Without thinking, she said to Mason, “This is Jeffrey Tolliver, my husband.”

  Mason seemed as shocked as Jeffrey, but neither of them could hold a candle to Sara.

  “Nice to meet you,” Jeffrey said, not bothering to correct the gaffe. He had such a shit-eating grin on his face that Sara felt tempted to do it herself.

  Jeffrey indicated the child. “Who’s this?”

  “Ned,” Sara told him, surprised when Jeffrey reached out and chucked Ned under the chin.

  “Hello, Ned,” Jeffrey said, bending down to look at him.

  Sara was taken aback by Jeffrey’s openness with the boy. They had talked early on in their relationship about the fact that Sara could not have children, and she often wondered if Jeffrey restrained himself around kids on purpose, trying not to hurt her feelings. He certainly was not holding back now, as he made a funny face, causing Ned to laugh.

  “Well,” Mason said, reaching out for Ned, “I’d better get this one home before he turns into a pumpkin.”

  Sara said, “It was nice seeing you.” There was a long, awkward silence, and Sara looked from one man to the other. Her tastes had changed considerably since she had dated Mason, who had light blond hair and a solid build from working out in the gym. Jeffrey had a lean runner’s body, and dark good looks that made him sexy in a dangerous sort of way.

  “I wanted to say,” Mason began, digging around in his pocket, “I had a key made for my office. It’s 1242 on the south wing.” He took out the key, offering it to Sara. “I thought you and your family might want to rest there. I know it’s hard to find a private place in the hospital.”

  “Oh,” Sara said, not taking the key. Jeffrey had noticeably stiffened. “I couldn’t impose.”

  “It’s no imposition. Really.” He pressed the key into her hand, letting his fingers linger against her palm longer than necessary. “My main office is at Emory. I just keep a desk and a couch here to shuffle paperwork.”

  “Thank you,” Sara said, because there was nothing else she could do. She dropped the key into her pocket as Mason held out his hand again to Jeffrey.

  Mason said, “Nice meeting you, Jeffrey.”

  Jeffrey shook Mason’s hand, his reserve somewhat diminished. He waited patiently while Sara and Mason said good-bye, his eyes following their every movement. When Mason had finally left, he said, “Nice guy,” the same way he might say, “Asshole.”

  “Yeah,” Sara agreed, walking toward the front doors. She could sense something coming and did not want it to play out in the lobby of the hospital.

  “Mason.” He said the name like it brought a bad taste to his mouth. “That the guy you dated when you worked here?”

  “Hm,” she answered, opening the door for an older couple who were going into the hospital. She told Jeffrey, “A long time ago.”

  “Yeah,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He is,” Sara allowed. “Are you in the parking deck?”

  He nodded. “Nice-looking.”

  She walked out the door, saying, “Uh-hm.”

  “You sleep with him?”

  Sara was too shocked to answer. She started to cross the street toward the parking deck, willing him to drop it.

  He jogged to catch up with her. “Because I don’t remember you naming names when we swapped lists.”

  She laughed, incredulous. “Because you couldn’t remember half of yours, Slick.”

  He gave her a nasty look. “That isn’t funny.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes,” she groaned, incapable of believing he was being serious. “You sowed enough wild oats before we were married to qualify for farm subsidies.”

  A group of people milled around the entrance of the parking-deck stairwell, and Jeffrey pushed through them without a word. He opened the door, not bothering to see if Sara caught it before it closed.

  “He’s married,” she told him, her voice echoing in the concrete stairwell.

  “So was I,” he pointed out, something she did not think said much in his favor.

  Jeffrey stopped on the first landing, waiting for her to catch up. “I dunno, Sara, I came a long way to get up here and see you holding some other guy’s hand with his kid in your lap.”

  ?
??You’re jealous?” Sara could barely manage the question around a shocked laugh. She had never known Jeffrey to be jealous of anyone, mostly because he was too egotistical to consider the idea that any woman he wanted could possibly want someone else.

  He demanded, “You wanna explain this to me?”

  “No, frankly,” she told him, thinking that any moment now he would say he was teasing her.

  Jeffrey continued up the stairs. “If that’s the way you want to play it.”

  Sara climbed after him. “I don’t owe you an explanation for anything.”

  “You know what?” he said, continuing up the stairs. “Blow me.”

  Anger rooted Sara to the concrete. “You’ve got your head so far up your ass you can just reach around and do it yourself.”

  He stood above her, looking as if she’d deceived him and he was feeling foolish. Sara could see that he was deeply hurt, which took away some of her irritation.

  Sara resumed the climb toward him. “Jeff . . .”

  He said nothing.

  “We’re both tired,” she said, stopping on the tread just below him.

  He turned, walking up the next flight, saying, “I’m back home cleaning your kitchen, and you’re up here—”

  “I never asked you to clean my kitchen.”

  He stopped on the landing, leaning his hands on the railing in front of one of the large glass windows that overlooked the street. Sara knew she could either stand on her principles and spend the four-hour drive back to Grant in terse silence or make the effort to soothe his hurt ego so the trip would be bearable.

  She was about to give in when Jeffrey inhaled deeply, his shoulders rising. He let the breath go slowly, and she could see him calming down.

  He asked, “How’s Tessie?”

  “Better,” she told him, leaning against the stair railing. “She’s getting better.”

  “What about your folks?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, and the truth was, she did not want to consider the question. Cathy seemed better, but her father was so angry that every time Sara looked at him, she felt like she was choking on guilt.

  Footsteps announced the presence of at least two people above them. They both waited as two nurses came down the stairs, neither of them doing a good job of hiding their snickers.