Now That You Mention It
Page 62

“He’s getting on the T!” I said to the dispatcher. “Where the hell are the cops?”
I ran down the stairs, the dispatcher yelling at me, Boomer chuffing with excitement. The train was right there, people getting on and off, and I couldn’t see him anymore. If I dropped Boomer’s leash and left him, I could jump the turnstile.
The train pulled out of the station. Tears of fury and frustration burned my eyes.
Gone. He was gone.
* * *
When I unlocked the door of Bobby’s (formerly our) apartment later that afternoon, I was shocked to find he was home.
“I thought you were working,” I said.
“Hey!” he said, coming out of the kitchen to hug me. “How are you, Nora? Boomer! Who’s my boy?” He crouched down and let Boomer put his paws on his shoulders, then looked up at me. “You look fantastic. It’s great to see you.”
I was still nauseous with adrenaline, clammy with sweat and fear and could feel my hair expanding with Boston’s humidity. I couldn’t look fantastic, and it irritated me that stupid Bobby couldn’t see that.
The police had shown up a minute after the train pulled away. They took notes, but we all knew the guy wouldn’t be found. It had taken an hour of walking before my heart rate dropped to normal.
“Have a seat,” Bobby said, standing up. “Make yourself at home. I mean, it’s still your home, isn’t it?”
“Not really,” I said. “But I appreciate the thought.”
“Wine?” he asked.
“Water, please?”
For the next half hour, Bobby talked, and I sort of listened and stroked Boomer’s head.
This was the place I’d come to recover. Bobby’s apartment had never really felt like home to me any more than my office downtown did. It was pleasant and comfortable and familiar, and yes, there were still touches of my personality here and there—the throw pillows for the couch, the umbrella rack, because everyone in Boston should have an umbrella rack. The cheerful yellow kettle in the kitchen.
Today, having seen my attacker, it felt like a sanctuary once again, and I didn’t like that. I didn’t want Bobby’s sanctuary. I wanted to make my own.
I wished I was back in Maine. With Boomer, who was really my dog, not ours. The deal was that we were supposed to alternate taking the ferry. So far, I’d been the one doing it because of my easier schedule. No more.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he said. Babe. Blick.
“I’m a little distracted, that’s all. I should go.”
“But you haven’t told me how you’re doing,” he said, stepping a little closer. “And you know, obviously, I still care about you.”
Just then, my phone chimed with a text from Jake Ferriman. Ferry canceled because of weather. Check back at 7 a.m. for next available.
“Shit,” I muttered.
“What is it?”
“My ferry got canceled.”
“Yeah, a big rain’s coming in.” He tilted his head. “Let’s have dinner. You can stay over if you want.” He reached out and touched my cheek, and no, thank you, it was a little too reminiscent of last year, when my face had been swollen and bruised and throbbed with every beat of my heart, when Bobby had taken care of me. Good care, mind you. Until he got tired of it.
“No, thanks.” I bent down and kissed my dog’s head. “Be a good boy, Boomer. I’ll miss you.” I looked at Bobby. “See you soon.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay?” He gave me a soulful look.
“I’m sure. Thank you, though.”
Out on Beacon Street—because Bobby had really, really wanted a Beacon Street address, even though it cost the earth and my old apartment had been bigger and nicer and cheaper—I texted Roseline and told her I was in town for the night.
Get your ass over here! she wrote back. This is the best news ever!
I sighed with relief. Thank God for female friends.
* * *
Roseline did everything for me that I would’ve done for her—she fed me, gave me wine, loaned me soft, clean pajamas and urged me to take a bath in the enormous tub in the guest bathroom. Her husband was a sweetheart, the kind of guy who was great at chatting but also who knew when to leave.
I didn’t tell her about seeing Voldemort. There didn’t seem to be any point.
I called the clinic and told them I was stuck in Boston; a few minutes later, Gloria called and told me she’d left via Portland, driving up the coast so she could see another sibling’s new baby. “Dr. Larsen will cover,” she said, referring to our on-call night doctor. “He loves being needed. Don’t worry.”
“Did you have fun with Slytherin?” I asked.
“I did,” she said. “Gave him three guesses as to where I lived, and he got them all wrong. And we had a little fight, which was kind of fun.”
“I take it you made up.”
“Yep. He texted me an hour ago, begging forgiveness.”
“A great quality in a man.” That was one of the things about Bobby—getting him to apologize was akin to extracting bone marrow.
“You have fun with Roseline,” she said. “Tell her I said hi.”
I didn’t sleep well. Then again, I didn’t have a panic attack, either, or a nightmare. I just thought.
In the morning, the rain whipped against the windows. “Want me to call in?” Roseline offered. She was already dressed for work, and Amir had left. “We can go to a museum, get a pedicure, whatever you want.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “Actually, I want to swing by the hospital. My friend’s daughter is having surgery today. Pituitary tumor. Cushing’s disease.”
“Well, let’s go, then, chouchoute.” Rosie’s office was just down the block from Boston City.
On the way there, I got a text from Jake Ferriman that he was running, rain or no rain. I wrote back and told him I’d catch the later boat, or go to Portland and to Scupper from there.
The differences between New England’s biggest hospital and the island clinic were vast. The clinic could be as tranquil as a yoga studio. In fact, I’d found Amelia in lotus position in her office, sound asleep, last week.
But I did love working there more than I expected. At my Boston practice, I’d see upward of a dozen patients a day. On procedures days, it might be six or seven. I loved my field, but the clinic gave me more variety. Jimmy McNulty, who needed eight stitches when he fell off the monkey bars in the park. Aaron James had had food poisoning (those expiration dates mean something, people!). He was so dehydrated from vomiting and diarrhea that I had him stay overnight. I’d stayed, too, just because he was a widower (gay, though, so not a contender for stepfather, unfortunately). Since he had no family on the island, I slept in another bay, checking on him every two hours, chatting when he started feeling better.
And I loved my coworkers. Gloria and Timmy were rock-solid nurses, unfazed by anything we’d seen so far, even the patient with the foreign body in her vajay-jay—a perfume bottle—that she most assuredly did not sit on, despite her claims. (Nice try. I’d seen at least half a dozen of those cases during my residency.) Gloria and I had gone to a movie the other night at the island’s tiny theater and giggled inappropriately through the previews.
Here at Boston City, there were more employees than residents of Scupper Island. I smiled and waved to the folks I knew, stopped to talk to Del, my favorite CNA, then made my way to the surgical floor. Checked in with the nurse on duty, flashed my hospital badge and asked after Audrey. She’d gone into the OR about an hour ago. Dr. Einstein (such a reassuring name, and a wicked nice guy) was her surgeon.