“How is she?” Mike asked.
Dusty Mike was not surprised by the man’s reaction to the sound (or sight) of him. As hard as he tried not to invoke it, fear (followed by a polite attempt at covering up that fear) seemed to be people’s unavoidable reaction to him.
Which was the main reason he kept to himself.
And seemed to have most of his conversations with the dead.
“She’s the same,” the man replied, then quickly excused himself and left the room.
So, although still sobering, the sight of his young friend wasn’t as jolting as it might have been. Having someone be shocked at the sight of him helped him, somehow, to be not so shocked at the sight of Sammy.
“Hello, friend,” the gravedigger said after he’d stood by silently for a minute. “Las’ time we saw each other in the hospital, I was the one in the bed an’ you was the one visitin’.” And after another moment of reflection, he leaned a little closer and said, “I know you can hear me. I know ’cause I’ve been where you are. Somewhere between earth and angels. It’s not a bad place, is it? I was ready to let go of earth, but it was your voice that made me hold on. Did I ever tell you that? I could hear you when we was down there in the crypt. I was all but gone, but I could hear you, and it made me want to come back.” He took a choppy breath, then whispered, “So if you’re considerin’ lettin’ go, don’t. There’s lots of people here who want you back. Includin’ me.”
Now, for anyone who knew Dusty Mike and knew the history of Sammy’s courageous determination to find and save him, this would have been a touching scene.
To Lana Keyes, however, finding a strange, raven-like man leaning over her daughter was terrifying.
“What are you doing?” she cried. “Get away from my daughter!”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, hobbling away quickly.
But having gotten an even better look at the grave digger, Lana Keyes was now certain that the man was in her daughter’s room for nefarious purposes. “Help!” she screamed as he hobbled from the room. “Somebody, help!”
With enough volume and drama to raise the dead (although, again regrettably, not her own daughter), Lana’s cries were answered immediately.
Nurse Faith (who had happily accepted a double shift) was the first to skid in. “What’s wrong?!”
“Stop him!” Lana cried, pointing a shaky finger in the direction of Dusty Mike, who was retreating down the hallway.
“Stop him!” Nurse Faith cried at a colleague covered in rainbows, then grabbed a nearby laundry cart to help corral the man.
And then (just back from her break) Nurse Scrabble joined in the action.
Dusty Mike was surrounded.
Lana, who had hurried back to Sammy’s bedside, wasted no time using her phone to call 911. And after frantically describing the situation (as only an overwrought drama queen could), she disconnected, certain she’d saved her daughter’s life.
Then Nurse Scrabble entered the room. “Why, exactly, are we stopping that man?” she asked.
“He was hovering over my daughter! I think he’s the one who attacked her and was here to finish the job!”
“Ummm … according to a woman in the waiting room, he’s a friend of your daughter’s?”
“A friend? That man is a friend?”
Nurse Scrabble shrugged. “According to the woman in the waiting room. Her little girl says so, too.” She came farther into the room. “Is there any sign of … anything?” She rounded the curtain and studied the monitors, then checked Sammy over. “Was there any specific reason you—” And then she noticed something.
The movement sensor was, once again, turned off.
“Did you do this?” Nurse Scrabble asked, pointing to the switch.
“Did I do what?”
“Turn off the motion sensor.”
“Why would I do that?”
Nurse Scrabble eyed her skeptically. “So you could crawl back in bed with her?”
“No!” And then (realizing the implication) Lana gasped. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“So maybe there’s a short circuit in the system,” Nurse Scrabble said (totally avoiding the question).
“Or maybe that man turned it off!”
The women stared at each other until Nurse Scrabble finally said, “Okay, well, look. Your daughter is fine.”
“How can you say that? She’s in a coma!”
Nurse Scrabble took a deep breath. “She’s as fine as she was before her friend came to visit.”
“And turned off the sensor so he could kill her!”
“Ma’am, please. I understand that you are upset, but there’s no sense in making accusations. Do you want to talk to him? Straighten this whole thing out?”
But rather than do as the nurse suggested, Lana said, “Why aren’t there restrictions on who can come in here? Why isn’t it family only? Why isn’t someone overseeing the activity here?” Then she added, “And why are you allowed to wear a shirt that has HEART intersecting with ATTACK? It’s insensitive and completely tasteless!” She sniffed the air. “And why does it smell like cigarettes in here?”
Nurse Scrabble raised an eyebrow and tried her own avoidance tactic. “How did your consult with Dr. Jha and that specialist go?”
Lana looked away. After she and Darren had viewed images of Sammy’s brain on a computer (where eye sockets were visible and, in a word, creepy), and after listening to both doctors’ opinions, the conclusion from the consultation had been a maddening wait-and-see.
That’s the best either had to offer.
Wait and see.
“Look, Mrs. Cole,” the nurse said sympathetically, “I know this is hard. We’re doing the best we can, all right? Everyone wants your daughter to wake up, including me. You’ve just got to hang in there.”
Feeling suddenly disarmed, Lana nodded.
“And please leave the sensor switch alone, all right?”
Not really hearing, Lana nodded again. She was preoccupied with the nurse’s earlier words, which were echoing through her brain.
Words nobody had ever said aloud to her before.
Words that made her feel … quiet.
Almost calm.
As the nurse left the room, Lana folded into a chair with a sigh. In a day where so much had gone wrong, she was grateful for this one small, innocent mistake.
The nurse had called her Mrs. Cole.
22—THE ACOSTAS (AND THE PIG)
After Marissa darted off to confront her mother about moving to Ohio, the (slightly shuffled) six-pack of teens continued their trek toward the hospital. Billy was uncharacteristically quiet—silent, even—shuffling along with his pillowcase and backpack as the other teens tried to figure out what to say.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Billy finally said.
Holly tried to catch his eye. “I never did, either.”
Billy’s focus shifted from the sidewalk to Holly as he connected the dots. Of all the people he knew, Holly was the one person who could relate.
“You can’t hide it anymore,” she said softly. “And that’s a good thing.” Then she added, “It’s okay to let us in.”
“It is,” Dot said, maneuvering to walk beside him.
“They’re right,” Cricket said, moving in on his other side.
Billy took a deep breath, then glanced around at the group. “Thanks, guys.”
Everyone murmured something nice, and after they’d walked along for a little while, Casey reset the mood by saying, “If I’m not wrong, the last time Billy Pratt walked through town with a loaded pillowcase, it was Halloween.”
“Dude!” Billy cried, transforming into his old self. “What a night!”
“Don’t remind me!” Holly laughed, because what a night didn’t even begin to describe it.
Billy laughed, too, then said, “You know, it’s probably better if I don’t haul a pillowcase into the hospital.” He turned to Casey. “How about we go by your house first so I can dump this stuff
?”
“Good idea,” Casey said, then looked at the others. “We could meet you at the hospital.”
“I’m going with you,” Heather said. “I want to get rid of my backpack.”
Now, Holly would have been fine with meeting them at the hospital, but Cricket and Dot were clearly in the mood to follow Billy anywhere, and after they’d also volunteered to tag along, Holly reluctantly let the teen tide sweep her to the Acostas’ house.
Being a sidetrack of only two blocks, the detour should have been a short one. Especially since Casey promised to be right back as he and Billy and Heather hurried inside the house to drop their things while the others waited on the sidewalk. But (in the apparent tradition of sidetracks) there was a snag.
“Hey!” Billy called, poking his head back through the front door. “Candi says come in! There’s food!”
“Candi?” Cricket asked, to which Holly replied, “Heather’s mother,” knowing this key information would dissuade any rational being from going inside.
But then Dot said, “She’s Casey’s mom, too, right?” And (because Cricket didn’t know Candi’s role in the whole History of Nastiness) that was all Cricket needed to start up the walkway. And since Cricket was headed in Billy’s direction, Dot followed suit, leaving Holly planted alone on the sidewalk.
“Oh, just come!” Billy called out to her with an exaggerated wave.
For most of her young life, Holly Janquell’s circumstances had created a situation where she’d had no friends. And standing by herself on the sidewalk brought back the horrible feeling of being all alone in the world.
But there was Billy, waving her on, and she realized that the things she’d said to him also applied to her.
She needed to let her friends in, too.
And so (after a deep, fortifying breath) Holly unplanted herself from the sidewalk and hurried to catch up.
Now, the Acostas’ house had a long (somewhat volatile) history. Inside, it had been a battleground, where fights between (and among) Acostas had raged both pre- and postdivorce, shifting over time from parent-parent to parent-teen to parent-teen-teen.
It had also been a spy zone, where Sammy and her friends had hidden in shrubbery, peeked through windows, and even infiltrated the enemy camp. Of the friends now assembled, Cricket was the only one who’d never been on (or around) the property.
But in addition to having been a battleground and spy zone, the house had also served as a retreat for Billy Pratt.
A place where he could escape.
Figure things out.
And as the three girls entered the house, it became clear that Billy wasn’t the only one using it that way.
“Come in! Come in!” Mr. Acosta was saying. “How are you?” He stuck a hand out to Cricket. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Warren, Casey and Heather’s dad.” Then he turned to the other girls and said, “Holly and Dot, am I right?”
For Holly, the complexity (and stunning weirdness) of the situation was truly beyond measure. Not only was she inside the home of the girl who’d called her a homeless hag, but she was shaking hands with Heather’s curiously effusive father—who, until recently, had been living in Hollywood, head over heels in love with Sammy’s mother.
How could any family recover from that?
So, leaving Cricket and Dot to chat with the dad, Holly cornered Casey and asked, “Your parents are back together?”
“They’re taking it a day at a time,” Casey whispered. “It’s weird but … good.” He grinned. “He’s definitely still on the couch.” Then he dropped his voice even further and added, “Look, I know you don’t trust Heather, and I don’t blame you. I haven’t forgotten the way she treated you, or Sammy, or me for that matter. I’m just trying to give her a chance.”
Suddenly Warren Acosta was next to them, and (also keeping his voice down) he asked, “How’s Sammy?”
Casey gave a little shrug. “As far as we know, the same.”
“Your mother and I wanted to go see her, but there’s really nothing we can do, and it would probably be …”
His voice trailed off, so Casey nodded and finished the thought. “Awkward. Lana and Darren are dealing with a lot.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Visiting hours are until eight. I think we’re going to hang around there until they kick us out.”
Casey’s dad nodded. “Well, get something to eat before you go.” He clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And call me. We care, you know.”
So the teens gathered in the kitchen, and while Candi Acosta bustled around (in an apron and a hot mitt and high heels, no less), working the microwave as well as the oven, delivering little baked quiches and mini hotdog snacks, a revived Billy entertained the group, riffing on everything from artichokes to zombies, making even Holly laugh.
For a moment, it was as though the events at the Pratt home had never happened.
As though the battles inside the Acosta home were long forgotten.
As if no one they knew was in a coma, clinging to life.
And then, mid-bite, they heard the siren.
The wailing, urgent siren.
First in the distance, and then closer.
Right up the street.
Right there.
Mini dogs and quiches were dropped as the teens raced to the window. And when they recognized the driver of the squad car that screamed past, jaws dropped and eyes popped, and in unison the friends cried, “Let’s go!”
Now, if there’s one person in Santa Martina who’s a wilder, faster driver than Sergeant Gil Borsch, it’s Candi Acosta.
Even when she’s wearing an apron and heels.
Like a streak of red lightning, she drove Casey, Heather, and a white-knuckled Holly to the hospital in her little sports car, while Warren pulled up in his sedan a good two minutes behind her with Billy, Cricket, and Dot. As fast as Candi had driven, though, she hadn’t caught Sergeant Borsch. His squad car was already parked (albeit in a red zone), and he was nowhere in sight.
“Should we wait?” Warren called over to Casey as the teens bailed out of his car and raced for the hospital entrance.
“No!” Casey called back. “I’ll text you!”
So as the teens disappeared inside, the Acosta adults drove away, pulling out of the hospital parking lot just as a certain bright green panel truck was pulling in.
On the drive from Sisquane, Jan DeVries had concluded that he’d been nuts to give Lucinda Huntley and her pig a lift. The last time he’d done it, a simple funeral-flower delivery had nearly become a Wild West shootout. The woman might look old and frail, but she was trouble.
Pig-packin’ trouble.
And now that he’d picked her up (again) he felt responsible (again).
What was he going to do with her?
Or the pig?
Why hadn’t he just swerved around them and kept going?
So (having given himself a stern talking-to) the burdened Dutchman parked the truck and, reminding himself that neither the pig nor the old woman was his actual responsibility, and that he was not (N-O-T) going to be persuaded to have anything to do with her quest to get a pig (a PIG!) inside a hospital, he marched around back and rolled up the door.
Lucinda was already standing.
The pig was asleep on its side.
“Thank you, young man,” Lucinda said, then gave the pig a little poke with her foot. “Come along, Penny.”
“Hold on a minute,” Jan DeVries said. “I’m going to show you how to operate the lift gate. That way you can be in charge of your pig and your own coming and going, ja?”
The old woman studied him. “Still sore about the funeral? Is that it?”
“The—No! I have things here I need to do, and they do not include a pig. If you want to leave her in the truck and come with me, that’s fine, ja? If you insist on trying to get her into the hospital, you’re on your own.”
“Penny’s not the reason we got in trouble that day,” Lucinda said
carefully. She nudged the pig again. “But if that’s how it’s got to be, show me how to work this rig.”
So the Dutchman demonstrated how to lower and raise the lift, then tried one last time to dissuade Lucinda from bringing her pig. “If you want a ride back home, I’ll be leaving in maybe half an hour.”
“Don’t concern yourself with me, young man. I’ll be fine.” Then she turned her attention to Penny, who (with some rather loud snorting) had finally gotten to her feet.
“Ma’am,” Jan DeVries said (clearly exasperated), “it’s going to be completely dark in a couple of hours. There’s no way you can walk home.”
Lucinda Huntley aimed a look at him, her eyes like the double barrels of a shotgun. “Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, and I will afford you the same courtesy.” She pulled the lever, raising the lift. “Now, weren’t you in some sort of hurry?”
So with a shake of his head Jan DeVries gave up. And after retrieving his sack of Dutch goodies, he locked the cab of his truck and left Lucinda Huntley and her pig to their own devices.
Whatever those might turn out to be.
23—FAIRY-TALE FANTASY
Having seen the KSMY broadcast on the Cheezers big screen, someone in the mob of teens who had not gone to Billy’s house made a suggestion that got passed around and unanimously agreed upon.
It would be a tribute to Sammy!
A sign of solidarity!
And they might even get on the news.
So in flash-mob fashion, they hit the mall stores, rummaging through boxes of shoes to find their size (in fashion-forward patterns or colors, of course). Those who couldn’t pay outright called their parents, pled their case, then handed their phones to the store clerks, who happily took down credit-card information. Like locusts buzzing through crops, the teens wiped out stacks of high-tops and low-cuts.
Then, with happy tummies and stylin’ feet, the group (now thirty-seven in number) made its way over to the hospital with renewed energy and purpose.
Unfortunately, they were blocked at the reception desk.