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Authors: Robin Hathaway

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BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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The logistics of getting a rental car proved more complicated than I'd imagined. If I rode my Honda to Bridgeton to pick up the car, what would I do with my bike afterward? And I couldn't let Lolly drive me, because I'd given my word to the social worker that I wouldn't let Lolly drive. Who could I ask to drive me? Not Tom. He'd have too many questions. Paul or Maggie, of course. Maggie was free, and volunteered eagerly.
I had to lie again about my mission. I told Maggie my father was ill. Poor Dad, by now he was at death's door. Maggie asked me to drive her car because I knew the way. As we drove, to be polite, I asked about her son, Nick.
“He's in better spirits,” she said. “They're letting him do some drawing and painting.”
“No kidding.”
“He did a lovely watercolor of a view from his bedroom window—from memory. He told me he never realized how beautiful it was until he couldn't see it anymore.” Her voice choked up, but she was in control. She swallowed and went on. “He gave it to me. I'm going to have it framed and hang it over the mantel. You'll have to come see it sometime.”
“I'd like to.”
“The teacher says he has real talent. Did you know that prisoners could sell their arts and crafts through some galleries and gift shops? Their profits are saved for them in a special account, and when they get out, they can draw on it.”
“That's great,” I said, although I knew it was unlikely that Nick would ever get out.
“I've joined the Prisoners' Aid Society. They help prisoners during their incarceration and afterward, when they're released. It's a very inspiring group.”
I glanced over at my friend. She looked different. I had been so absorbed in my own problems, I hadn't noticed. She was sitting up straight, her expression was alert, and she was making plans for the future. Maybe my little talk had done some good. “Here we are,” I said, turning into the Budget rent-a-car lot.
I completed the paperwork quickly. The attendant brushed out the car and familiarized me with its idyosyncrasies. The whole transaction took less than ten minutes. We set off, me in the lead in a brand-new Toyota, and Maggie following behind in her old Ford Escort. It was a relief, I thought guiltily, to be alone and not have to talk about Nick. He wasn't a favorite of mine. And now I could think about my own problems without interruption. What a selfish bitch you are, I berated myself. Maggie is coping again. She seems to be in charge of her life. You should be glad. And I was, truly. At least something was going right.
Back at the motel, I thanked her for the lift.
“I hope your dad's okay,” she said
I mumbled something unintelligible and hurried off to pack.
 
 
Getting the rental car was duck soup compared to persuading Max to go to New York. When I told him I had already rented a car, he was furious.
“What's the big idea. You're my doctor, not my caretaker!” He glared at me.
I knew he was right. I should have spoken to him first. I sat down on the sofa and explained to him the reason I had acted so quickly. I told Max I had to continue his morphine shots. Lolly couldn't do that, and he would need them for at least another twenty-four hours, until the nerves in his hand settled down. The only way I could take care of him and check on my dad's health was to take him with me. Lolly couldn't be left alone. And I knew Lolly wouldn't go without Sapphire.
“I can do without the morphine,” he said stubbornly.
“Look, we'll be driving at night. No one will see you. My father is one hundred percent trustworthy. You can count on that. You will stay in his apartment while I do my errands for him. He never has visitors. And we'll be back tomorrow night,” I promised.
“It's still risky.”
I gave a heavy sigh. “As a famous sage once told me, ‘Life is a risk. The sky might fall, Doctor,'”Iquoted Max.
“Wise guy,” he said. But he shut up.
Persuading Max to go to New York was a breeze compared to packing up Max, Lolly, and Sapphire for the trip. First, I had to deal with Max's medical paraphernalia and medicines; then there were Sapphire's supplies—water dish, food dish (Lolly claimed the cat wouldn't eat out of any other dishes and her appetite was poor anyway), litter box, kitty litter, cat food—wet and dry—and an eyedropper for giving her milk if she refused to drink by herself.
I resurrected an old cat carrier from the cellar, scrubbed it out, and placed Sapphire inside. That was easy. She was too sick to put up a fight. The catch was loose, but she was too weak to try to get out. I had to get her to a vet. That was part of my plan. I remembered the vet who had cared for my pets when I was a kid, Dr. March. If he was still in practice, I'd take Sapphire to him. And what else are you going to do, Jo? Fly to the moon?
By the time we had made sure the stay-at-home cats had plenty of food and water and Lolly had kissed each one of them good-bye, it was 6:30 P.M. “They've never been alone before, Jo,” Lolly explained.
“There are eleven of them, for Pete's sake! Can't they keep each other company?” I said irritably.
Lolly looked at me reproachfully.
“Sorry. Come on, get in the car. I'd like to get there before midnight.” And before Regina departs this world, I added under my breath.
Max sat next to me in the front, resting his hand on a pillow. Lolly was in the backseat with Sapphire. I had managed to squeeze most of our luggage and the cat supplies in the trunk. We were going to be gone for only one night, for god's sake! Lolly insisted on keeping some dry cat food and water in the backseat in case Sapphire got hungry or thirsty during the trip. I jammed my thermos of coffee (instant mixed with tap water) into the hole beside the steering wheel, checked the gas gauge—the tank was almost full—and started up.
Once we were moving, my mood lightened. I realized that Max and Lolly might be excused for having some trauma over this trip. Neither of them had been away from Bayfield and its quiet bucolic atmosphere for many years. Living in Bayfield was a little like living in a time warp—a slower, quieter time. Except for television and the local newspaper, they had little contact with the high-speed, high-tech outside world the rest of us knew. Remembering my own culture shock when I'd returned to Manhattan after being away for a year, I had to sympathize with my passengers, even the four-footed one. As we approached the Jersey Turnpike, I tried to prepare them for what they were about to experience. At the same time, I was preparing myself.
“The drivers tend to be pretty wild,” I warned them. “They cut in front of you and tailgate if you go less than eighty miles an hour. You have to be alert every minute.”
Max cast me a nervous look. “Are you sure you're up to this?”
Thanks for the vote of confidence. “We'll see!” I said with a glee I didn't feel.
And the turnpike was nothing, I realized, compared to driving in Manhattan. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I'd never driven to Queens from Manhattan. I'd always taken the subway. “Oh hell.”
“What's the matter?” Max asked.
“Nothing.” I paid the toll and headed for the big green-and-white sign: NEW YORK 100 MILES.
Sapphire picked that moment to begin to yowl. The morphine took the edge off Max's anxiety (nothing like a little drug fix), but every few minutes Lolly would ask in a plaintive tone, “Are we almost there?” or “How much longer?” or “What time is it?”
Sapphire settled down around New Brunswick, but as soon as we hit Manhattan, the stop-and-go traffic annoyed her and she started up again. I got lost only three times, and we pulled into the garage next to Dad's print shop a few minutes after midnight. Dad was waiting up, fully dressed, and gave us a big welcome.
“I thought he was sick,” Max whispered to me as he got out of the car.
Oh god. I'd forgotten that little detail.
“He has his good days,” I muttered.
Dad had meticulously prepared the two bedrooms for us. Lolly and I were to sleep in my room, Max in Dad's room, and Dad on the couch in the living room. He had even fixed up a cozy basket for Sapphire in the kitchen. But in true cat fashion, she ignored it and curled up on the sofa, where Dad had barely enough room for himself.
Everyone was settled and sleeping soundly—I could hear Lolly's regular breathing next to me in the bed—but I was wide-awake. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw endless streams of taillights ahead of me and blurs of headlights coming toward me, and I felt the anxiety of getting my three dependent charges here safely all over again.
And I knew I had to get up at the crack of dawn and go to Bellevue and see Regina—
the purpose of this trip
—and wring a confession from her (
if
she was the
right
Regina). And I hadn't had a minute alone with Dad to tell him to act more sickly. Then there was the vet! What if he had retired? After a few more such unproductive thoughts, I fell into a restless, dream-torn sleep.
I woke to the sound of hilarity in the kitchen. From snatches of conversation, I deduced that Dad was making pancakes in the shapes of animals for Lolly—and Lolly was laughing. He used to make them for me, I remembered, and he was very good at it. My favorite was the elephant. Uh-oh! If they were up, it meant I must have overslept again! I quickly showered and dressed and joined them in the kitchen. Max was sitting in the breakfast nook, staring out the window at the rooftops, as I had done a little over a week ago. I wondered what
he
was thinking.
Dad had just completed a giraffe pancake, but when he tried to transfer it from the pan to Lolly's plate, its neck broke in two.
“Oh dear,” moaned Lolly.
A bad omen?
Max turned from the window and said, “I'll take the head.”
“No, Daddy! You can have the feet.”
“And who gets the tail?” I asked.
They all looked at me.
“Late risers always get the tail,” Max said.
“Huh.” He must be feeling better, I thought.
“I'll make another giraffe,” Dad said, and turned back to the stove.
As I drank my coffee, I tried to join in the jollity, but my mind was occupied with Regina and how I could identify her. Then it hit me. What an idiot I was. Here were Max and Lolly—in my custody, so to speak. Either one could identify her. But my euphoria faded fast as I thought about it further. What excuse could I give for dragging Max to the hospital to see a complete stranger, especially when he wasn't feeling well? And if she was
his
Regina, how cruel to have him see her in her present condition, when she was near death's door. As for Lolly, confronting her mother after all these years might be too traumatic for her to handle. Dad was saying something.
“Here's your pancake.” He slid a perfect elephant onto my plate.
He'd remembered.
I ate it—trunk first, then the ears, the body last, just as I had when I was six. When I reached for more syrup, I noticed Sapphire sleeping under the kitchen table. Euphoria began to rise in me again. Regina may not have loved her daughter, but she'd loved her cats. And Sapphire had been her favorite; Lolly had said so. Why not take Sapphire to the hospital and see if Regina recognized her? What better way to establish her identity.
I finished my pancake, rose abruptly, and dumped my dishes in the sink.
“What's up?” Dad looked at me suspiciously, wary of my impulsive ways.
“I've got to go.”
“Where?”
“To take Sapphire to the vet.”
“What vet?”
“Dr. March.”
“Is he still in practice?”
“I don't know.” Why was he being so difficult? Had he forgotten I was going to see Regina and that I had to make up some excuse for
leaving the house? And now I had to have an excuse for taking Sapphire with me.
“Why don't you give him a call first? You'll save yourself a trip if he's retired.”
Ignoring him, I pulled my jacket from the closet and hauled the cat carrier into the kitchen.
“But she hasn't had her breakfast,” Lolly objected.
“So much the better. Sometimes doctors have to do tests, and they're better done on an empty stomach.”
“Can't I go with you?” she asked.
“No, Lolly, I want you to stay here with your dad, in case he needs anything.”
Max seemed better, but he still looked a little dopey from the morphine.
“But—”
“Lolly, you and I can do a jigsaw puzzle,” Dad said. He had finally remembered why I had come. He kept still as I slipped Sapphire into her box, but when I made for the door, he asked, “When will you be back?”
“I'll call you.” I said, and slammed the door.
 
 
I was halfway to the subway before I remembered I had a car. I hesitated, then pushed on. I couldn't face driving in Manhattan traffic again so soon. Even with the cumbersome cat carrier, the train would be easier—and quicker. While waiting on the platform, I called the hospital for Regina's room number, praying she wasn't in ICU, where only relatives were allowed to visit. The operator told me she was on the sixth floor—the floor for critical patients, I remembered—in room 603.
I was grateful that Sapphire didn't yowl on the subway. Then I worried that she was too sick to yowl. I promised myself I would take her to the vet as soon as I had seen Regina.
Bellevue Hospital looked the same: a frowsy Victorian frump surrounded by sleeker, more modern neighbors. I knew her well. I'd spent four years there. I paused out front, trying to think of the best way to smuggle a cat inside. Then I remembered a door at the back where we interns used to sneak out between shifts for a smoke. I could hardly believe I had once been a smoker. I'd stopped cold after attending my first lung operation—the patient, a middle-aged male smoker. One glimpse of that shriveled black tissue had been enough. I shuddered just thinking about it. Later, during my pediatric training, I had seen a child's lungs. A beautiful, healthy salmon pink.
The things we do to ourselves!
By now, I had reached the back of the building and was maneuvering the cat carrier through the maze of trash cans. I had to be careful. Security would be much tighter now, as it was everywhere since 9/11. Damn. There was an orderly in green togs, enjoying a cigarette. He was blocking the door.
He should know better!
He spied the cat box and grinned. “Whatcha got in there?”
“A friend of a patient.” I grinned back.
He peered inside. “Man, she looks like a patient herself.”
“She is. I thought she might like to see her owner before I take her to the vet.” I looked sad.
Dismissing the possibility that Sapphire might be sitting on a bomb, he stepped away from the door to let us in.
The interior of the hospital came back to me immediately. It was like stepping into an old pair of jeans. I was familiar with every nook and cranny. I walked automatically to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor. Miraculously, no one got on in the interim. I sped down the corridor, my burden bumping against my thigh, and scanned the room numbers—601, 602, 603. I poked my head in. Two beds, only one occupied, with a woman, her eyes closed. As I drew closer, I recognized all the signs of the terminally ill. Regina had been removed from the ICU because nothing more could be done for her and they had to make room for other patients, people
with a more hopeful prognosis. She had been brought to this room to die. She was conscious, but she was on oxygen and appeared very weak. I had second thoughts about my plan. How could I disturb a woman who was so ill? It went against my entire medical training and feelings for human suffering. Fate took the matter out of my hands.
When I'd entered the room, I'd set the cat carrier down on a chair beside the bed. The carrier was old and the door latch was loose. With a burst of energy—or curiosity (curiosity killed the cat!), Sapphire crawled out of the carrier and onto the bed. Before I could reach the cat, the woman opened her eyes and a look of horror spread over her face. “Get him out of here! I'm allergic to cats,” she croaked.
I scooped up Sapphire, stowed her in the carrier, and almost knocked down a nurse on my way out.
“Wait!” the nurse cried. I kept going.
Fortunately, an elevator came and the doors opened just as I arrived. It was crowded, but I managed to squeeze myself and the cat carrier inside. I held my breath all the way to the ground floor. It wasn't until I got outside that I realized my test had worked only too well. It had proved that this Regina was not the one I was looking for.
BOOK: Sleight of Hand
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