Terrified (2 page)
“I mean, I don’t think she committed suicide,” Candy admitted in a quiet voice. She kept her head down, pretending to be focused on the fetal pig in front of her. “I think she’s the one whose body parts they’re finding all over the place.”
“You’re kidding!” Trish said, out loud.
Candy automatically glanced toward Ms. Trotter, who glared at them. “Patricia, Candice? Is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the class? And does it have anything to do with the digestive system of our specimens?”
Their mouths open, both Candy and Trish quickly shook their heads. Then they pretended to get back to work on Boris. Candy stared at the internal organs of the unborn thing. She thought of her Aunt Lisa—and the section of torso found at that construction site.
Candy felt sick. She remembered how beautiful her Aunt Lisa was. They weren’t too far apart in age. Lisa was only twenty-five. She had wavy, shoulder-length chestnut hair and big blue eyes with long, thick lashes. Candy had seen her without makeup, and she was still gorgeous. Candy had seen her naked, too. Her aunt had taken her swimming at the country club pool a few times over the summer, and Candy had snuck a curious peek at her in the locker room. She felt clunky and pale in her aunt’s naked presence. Lisa had long, tan, shapely legs, a tiny waist, and petite perfect breasts. She seemed flawless—until Candy glimpsed the purple-hued bruise on Lisa’s lower back. She also had an ugly scar along her left rib cage—a cluster of three angry-reddish marks, each about the size of a nickel.
Lisa seemed to catch her staring, and she quickly wrapped a towel around her. Earlier, while swimming, Candy had wondered why her aunt—with her killer body—would wear a modest one-piece swimsuit to the pool. Now she knew. “God, Aunt Lisa, what happened?” Candy asked. “It looks like you burned yourself, and your back… .”
Her Aunt Lisa just shook her head, which Candy took as a cue to shut the hell up. Outside, kids screamed, giggled, and splashed in the pool. But in their little alcove of the locker room, Candy just stared at her Aunt Lisa for a moment.
Lisa let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, I’m such a klutz. I—I had an accident with the barbecue, hon. That’s what I get for messing around in your Uncle Glenn’s territory. I fell—and suddenly there were hot coals and me sprawled out all over the patio… .” With a wave of her hand, she seemed to dismiss the subject. “I’m so embarrassed. I don’t even want to talk about it. You know what I think? I think we should head to Old Orchard and go shopping. Fall’s just around the corner, hon, and you’ll need clothes for all the dates you’ll have… .”
Clutching the towel around her, Aunt Lisa retreated toward the shower area. Candy frowned as she watched her duck around the corner of the tiled room. She’d known right then that story about the barbecue was probably a lie.
Glenn was Candy’s uncle—her mom’s younger brother and a big-shot surgeon. He and Lisa had been married for a year. Lisa had a brother with cancer or something, and he was always in and out of the hospital. That was how Lisa had met Glenn—during one of her hospital visits to her brother. She didn’t really have any other family. As for girlfriends, the way Lisa explained it she just grew apart from most of her friends when she married Glenn. She became sort of a big sister to Candy—a big sister with money, who took her places and bought her stuff. Plus she was funny and sweet, and a good listener. Candy confided in her. She didn’t think there was anything she couldn’t tell her Aunt Lisa.
And yet on that afternoon in the women’s changing room by the country club pool, she’d realized there were some things Lisa kept secret from her.
Candy wouldn’t put it together about the bruise and the burn marks until after Aunt Lisa disappeared.
She’d been missing for almost three weeks now. They figured she’d drowned herself. The police had discovered Lisa’s teal-colored Honda Civic parked on a remote bridge in Iowa—of all places. She must have driven half a day to get there. Inside the car, they found a quart of bourbon, a bottle of Valium, her purse, and a note that simply read:
To the People Left Who Care About Me—
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
Though it was obvious the Mississippi had swallowed up Lisa’s body, Candy’s Uncle Glenn reported his wife missing. He seemed to be the only person who refused to believe Lisa had killed herself.
Candy had missed a few days of school in the wake of Aunt Lisa’s suicide. Devastated, she was left wondering why Aunt Lisa had taken her own life—until she overheard her parents talking a week later.
Trying to catch up on the schoolwork she’d missed, Candy often tried different spots in the house to study so she wouldn’t get too bored. That night, it was at the top of the back stairs—just above the kitchen. Her parents didn’t know she was there. Her mother was cooking dinner. Candy could hear ice rattling in glasses and whispered conversation.
“I think Glenn’s feeling so guilty right now, and that’s why he’s in denial,” her mother was saying.
“He’s just sore that Lisa beat him to it,” Candy’s father grunted. “We should have done something, Audrey. What with the way your brother beat that poor girl—and all those secret trips to the hospital to patch her up—I really thought the son of a bitch would end up killing her.”
Sitting at the top of the stairs with a highlighter and a copy of
Beowulf,
Candy remembered the three nickel-size burn marks on her Aunt Lisa’s rib cage and the ugly bruise on her lower back. Lisa had given that vague explanation about tripping and knocking over the barbecue on the patio. She’d said the barbecue was Uncle Glenn’s territory. But in all the times Candy had been at their house, she’d never seen Uncle Glenn cook a single thing—be it on the barbecue, the range, or the toaster oven. Aunt Lisa had always done the cooking, while Uncle Glenn sat back with his fancy imported beer from Germany and a fat cigar from Cuba. Candy remembered how he’d puff on that cigar, and it would glow at the end—making an orange-ashy circle about the size of a nickel.
Beowulf,
Candy remembered the three nickel-size burn marks on her Aunt Lisa’s rib cage and the ugly bruise on her lower back. Lisa had given that vague explanation about tripping and knocking over the barbecue on the patio. She’d said the barbecue was Uncle Glenn’s territory. But in all the times Candy had been at their house, she’d never seen Uncle Glenn cook a single thing—be it on the barbecue, the range, or the toaster oven. Aunt Lisa had always done the cooking, while Uncle Glenn sat back with his fancy imported beer from Germany and a fat cigar from Cuba. Candy remembered how he’d puff on that cigar, and it would glow at the end—making an orange-ashy circle about the size of a nickel.
Candy suddenly stood up. Her copy of
Beowulf
fell off her lap and toppled down the stairs. She managed to compose herself and hurried down the steps to retrieve it. Clutching the book to her chest, she passed through the kitchen without looking at her parents. She just kept walking—toward her father’s study in the front of the house. Her mom called to her that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. “Okay!” she answered, curling up on the leather sofa in the paneled study.
Beowulf
fell off her lap and toppled down the stairs. She managed to compose herself and hurried down the steps to retrieve it. Clutching the book to her chest, she passed through the kitchen without looking at her parents. She just kept walking—toward her father’s study in the front of the house. Her mom called to her that dinner would be ready in ten minutes. “Okay!” she answered, curling up on the leather sofa in the paneled study.
She didn’t tell her parents what she’d overheard—and she didn’t tell them about the bruise and burn marks that no one else had seen.
Candy had never suspected her aunt was being abused. Now certain things made sense. There had always been something about her uncle she didn’t like. He was generous, and gave her the best Christmas and birthday presents. But by the time she hit high school, Candy realized he always talked down to her, like she was stupid or something. And he could be so tactless, too. She never forgot the time he started counting the zits on her face—and said maybe she needed a good dermatologist. She went to bed crying that night. But he talked the same way to her mom and Aunt Lisa—always so critical. He acted like his shit didn’t stink—and everyone else’s did.
As much as she didn’t like Glenn, she had adored his new wife.
Sometimes, Lisa had to postpone their gal-pal dates, and she gave only a vague explanation as to why. Then she wouldn’t be available for days. Now Candy wondered if the absences were because Lisa had been recovering from another round with Glenn. Candy remembered pitching a fit on her last birthday, because late that morning, Lisa had called trying to cancel their lunch plans. She’d managed to talk her aunt into keeping their date at Hackney’s. Sitting at a window table, Candy had been so excited about the grown-up girls’ lunch that she hadn’t really noticed Aunt Lisa wasn’t quite herself. She didn’t say much, and when she did, she talked kind of funny, slurring her words. Lisa had ordered soup, and barely ate it. Candy thought her patty melt was to die for, and tried to get Aunt Lisa to take a bite. She practically had to shove it in Lisa’s face to get her to taste it.
Candy noticed her aunt’s eyes watering up as she chewed. She let out a whimper, and finally spit out the food into her napkin. The glob of half-eaten food was full of blood. Candy gasped when she saw it.
Lisa quickly sipped some water. When she put the glass down again, Candy noticed the water had just the slightest pink tinge to it. “The inside of your mouth is bleeding,” Candy whispered.
Lisa nodded. “I had a rough morning at the dentist,” she said in her slurred speech. She started to cry. “I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t want to spoil your birthday lunch. And now I have. I’m so sorry, hon… .”
They didn’t stay long after that. Candy had the rest of her sandwich wrapped to go. While Lisa drove her back home in the teal-colored Honda Civic, they were uncharacteristically quiet. The sun streamed through the windshield, and in the harsh light, Candy noticed her aunt was wearing a lot of makeup, mostly foundation. But it didn’t completely conceal the bruise on her chin.
Candy recalled carefully kissing her good-bye on the cheek. Yet she’d never allowed herself to wonder what might have really happened to her. She’d believed Lisa’s story about the dentist—as if any dentist in his right mind would send a patient home with a mouth full of blood.
It all started to make sense the night Candy heard her parents talking in the kitchen. Lisa’s brother had died only two weeks before she jumped off that tall bridge in Iowa. Maybe his death had pushed her over the edge. But certainly giving her an extra nudge was an asshole of a husband who abused her.
Just the same, Candy wondered why Aunt Lisa hadn’t told her how she was suffering. If Candy had known, she would have insisted her parents do something—or she might have called the police herself. She might have been able to help her. Candy missed her Aunt Lisa, and yet she couldn’t help feeling angry and resentful toward her.
Then something happened, and she realized her aunt might not have killed herself after all: the upper torso of a woman was found in a garbage bag at that construction site in Hubbard Woods.
Candy stared down at the fetal pig in the dissecting pan—and at the rolled-up plastic bag beside it. She kept thinking of her Aunt Lisa.
“What are you talking about?” Trish asked in a hushed voice. She squinted at Candy. “Your aunt jumped off a bridge and drowned herself. It was in all the newspapers and on TV… .”
Candy shot a cautious glance at Ms. Trotter, who was helping another student. She leaned in close to her friend. “They never found her body,” she whispered. “My uncle used to beat her up. Last summer when we were changing clothes at the pool, I saw the bruises on her—and these burn marks on her side. I didn’t know what it was—until I overheard my parents talking about how he abused her. My Uncle Glenn, I’m pretty sure he used his cigar on her… .”
Grimacing, Trish put down the suture. “God, that’s awful,” she said under her breath. “So he burned her?”
Tears filled Candy’s eyes and she nodded. “I think he killed her. The torso they found yesterday, the newspaper said there were marks on it—three burn marks on her side.”
Trish heard R.E.M.’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” playing on the other side of the bedroom door. She knocked, and then pushed the door open.
Her twenty-two-year-old sister, Mary Ellen, who had graduated from college last year, was sitting on the beige shag-carpeted floor in her pajamas. She had the boom box beside her, and several CDs—some in their cases, some not. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She frowned at her. “Trish, do you mind? I’m busy here! I’m making a mixtape for Greg… .”
Trish hesitated in the doorway. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure her parents weren’t within earshot. “Listen,” she said, biting her lip. “If I told you a secret—I mean, a really, really serious secret—would you promise not to tell anybody?”
Trish’s sister reached over and switched off the boom box, silencing R.E.M. in mid-song. She stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
C
HAPTER
T
WO
HAPTER
T
WO
Seattle, Washington—November 14, 1996
S
he couldn’t put off going to the doctor any longer. She’d been feeling tired, dizzy, and nauseous for at least two weeks now. All the Rolaids she chewed couldn’t chase away the constant heartburn and stomachache. She’d even thrown up a few times, but it provided no relief to the havoc in her stomach. She prayed it was just some strain of flu.
he couldn’t put off going to the doctor any longer. She’d been feeling tired, dizzy, and nauseous for at least two weeks now. All the Rolaids she chewed couldn’t chase away the constant heartburn and stomachache. She’d even thrown up a few times, but it provided no relief to the havoc in her stomach. She prayed it was just some strain of flu.
She didn’t have any health insurance, and this Dr. Christopher Amato was a total stranger to her. He’d probably ask a lot of questions. She’d have to lie to him about certain things. She tried not to think about the appointment, because it only made her stomachache even worse.
Having arrived early, she sat on a park bench outside the concrete and glass three-story medical building by Swedish Medical Center in Ballard. It was a crisp, cold sunny day. Bundled in a trench coat, she glanced through the
Chicago Tribune
, which she’d bought before heading off to the doctor’s office. The newspaper pages fluttered in the November wind.
Chicago Tribune
, which she’d bought before heading off to the doctor’s office. The newspaper pages fluttered in the November wind.
But she couldn’t concentrate on her reading. She kept thinking that Dr. Amato would want to see her previous medical records, and she didn’t have any. The only thing she had was her Wisconsin driver’s license, which showed her name:
Keeslar, Megan Anne.
Before her recent move to Seattle, her address—according to the license—was on West Moreland Boulevard in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Her date of birth made her a twenty-five-year-old Gemini. Her height, weight, eyes, and hair listings accurately described her as five feet nine inches and one hundred nineteen pounds, with blue eyes and blond hair. She figured Dr. Amato might beg to differ on her true hair color once he’d examined her. However, anyone seeing her on the street would have assumed she was a natural blonde.
Keeslar, Megan Anne.
Before her recent move to Seattle, her address—according to the license—was on West Moreland Boulevard in Waukesha, Wisconsin. Her date of birth made her a twenty-five-year-old Gemini. Her height, weight, eyes, and hair listings accurately described her as five feet nine inches and one hundred nineteen pounds, with blue eyes and blond hair. She figured Dr. Amato might beg to differ on her true hair color once he’d examined her. However, anyone seeing her on the street would have assumed she was a natural blonde.
At the moment, no one on the street seemed to notice her at all. A few people—most of them elderly—had passed by, heading through the medical building’s glass double doors. One pale, red-haired, thirty-something woman stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. Just across the busy street were shops and a tavern with an Irish flag by the big wooden door. She didn’t see anything—or anyone—suspicious. Maybe she was paranoid, but lately whenever she noticed a man staring at her on the street or she spotted a shadowy figure sitting alone in a parked car, she automatically thought she was being watched. She had to tell herself that maybe some of those guys looking at her on the street simply thought she was pretty. And not all people sitting alone in parked cars were spies or private detectives.
With a sigh, she went back to her
Chicago Tribune
. She bought the out-of-town newspaper two or three times a week to catch up on what was happening in the Midwest. She always went to the local section first. But this time, she saw something on the top of page two in the front section, and for a moment, she felt as if her heart had stopped.
Chicago Tribune
. She bought the out-of-town newspaper two or three times a week to catch up on what was happening in the Midwest. She always went to the local section first. But this time, she saw something on the top of page two in the front section, and for a moment, she felt as if her heart had stopped.
Prominent Winnetka Surgeon
Arrested in Garbage Bag Killing
Arrested in Garbage Bag Killing
DISMEMBERED REMAINS BELIEVED TO BE ‘MISSING’ WIFE
News of the Garbage Bag Killing was all over the Chicago papers. But the details were so gruesome Megan had stopped reading the articles after they’d found the arm in another black garbage bag. They’d said all the fingertips had been cut off—to make identifying the victim even more difficult. She’d known they still hadn’t found the woman’s head—or her murderer. And she’d had no desire to read about it anymore—not until just this moment.
Now, she needed to find out exactly what had happened.
The newspaper page kept fluttering in the breeze, and her hands were shaking. She thought she might be sick right there outside the medical building. She could only read snippets, because it made her woozy focusing on the printed words:
Winnetka resident Dr. Glenn Swann, 33, a surgeon at Evanston-Northwest Hospital, was arrested Wednesday evening for the murder of his wife, Lisa Densmore Swann, 25. Missing and presumed dead since October 9, Ms. Swann is believed to be the victim in the notorious “Garbage Bag” murder… .
It didn’t make any sense. Just five weeks ago, the
Tribune
had reported that authorities believed Lisa Swann had committed suicide. They said she must have drowned in a channel of the Mississippi River—if the plunge from one of the highest bridges in Iowa hadn’t already killed her.
Tribune
had reported that authorities believed Lisa Swann had committed suicide. They said she must have drowned in a channel of the Mississippi River—if the plunge from one of the highest bridges in Iowa hadn’t already killed her.
Megan scanned some information on the Garbage Bag Killing she already knew. Then she saw his name again:
On Tuesday, Dr. Swann’s 17-year-old niece identified three burn marks on the left side of the victim’s severed upper torso as matching scars she’d seen on her aunt. The torso, discovered in a garbage bag at a construction site in a Winnetka residential neighborhood, was the fourth body part found in three days… .
Megan had to read it twice. She told herself it wasn’t possible. But the newspaper article continued to build up a case against the prominent surgeon. Several people acquainted with the couple admitted they knew Swann had physically abused his wife. One unnamed source at Evanston-Northwest Hospital indicated Mrs. Swann had been treated in the emergency room several times after her husband had beaten her. The source said it was an “open secret” around the hospital, and made comparisons to the accounts of relentless spousal abuse in the previous year’s Simpson-Goldman murder trial.
Megan shuddered, and realized her nose was dripping. She let go of the newspaper for a moment so she could reach into her coat pocket for some Kleenex. She wiped her nose and then kept on reading:
Both Lisa Swann and the dismembered victim had the same blood type, traces of which investigators found in the trunk of Dr. Swann’s BMW. Scraps of black plastic, matching the bags used to wrap the severed limbs and two torso sections of the victim, were also discovered in the trunk of Dr. Swann’s car… .
According to the Cook County coroner, the cutting job on the dead woman looked like the work of a skilled surgeon. Dr. Swann couldn’t account for his whereabouts at the time of his wife’s disappearance. He’d made no friends with authorities in Clinton, Iowa, when he’d publicly criticized their investigation of Lisa Swann’s apparent suicide. One investigator at the site mentioned the scene—the abandoned car by the bridge, the booze, the pills, and an ambivalent suicide note—all seemed staged.
Obviously, the rich, pompous surgeon wasn’t a sympathetic suspect in the eyes of the press or the police. A lot of people had probably made up their minds already that Dr. Glenn Swann was guilty.
Sitting outside the medical building, Megan closed the newspaper and folded it up. Her hands were shaking. She knew indeed that Dr. Glenn Swann had physically abused his wife, but he hadn’t murdered her.
All she had to do was make one phone call, and the charges against him would be dropped. But she couldn’t risk doing that right now. Besides, as much as she hated seeing an injustice done, a voice inside her head kept saying:
He has it coming … the son of a bitch has it coming… .
He has it coming … the son of a bitch has it coming… .
But that didn’t make her feel any better.
She stuffed the folded
Chicago Tribune
inside her purse, unsteadily got to her feet, and headed inside the medical building. All the while, her head was spinning. She held back the urge to throw up.
Chicago Tribune
inside her purse, unsteadily got to her feet, and headed inside the medical building. All the while, her head was spinning. She held back the urge to throw up.
She’d taken a home pregnancy test late last week, and it had come up negative. She knew sometimes those things weren’t accurate. She still had a feeling she was pregnant, but hoped to God it was just the flu.
In the doctor’s waiting room, Megan Keeslar lied to the chubby, twentyish brunette receptionist with the pleasant smile. She said her last primary physician was in the process of moving his practice to Phoenix. She promised to get ahold of him later in the week, and have him forward her medical records to Dr. Amato. She also mentioned she was in the midst of switching insurance. The receptionist’s pleasant smile waned for a moment when she heard this, but then she nodded and gave Megan a clipboard with a blank form and a pen.
Sitting in a maroon cushioned chair by a big tropical fish tank, she started filling out the form. She hesitated when she came to the part about marital status. She ended up checking the box marked WIDOWED/DIVORCED
.
If she was indeed pregnant and had identified herself as SINGLE, her old-fashioned, Catholic mother would have rolled over in her grave. Besides, she kind of liked the notion that she was a widow. And it was sort of true. She’d survived a terrible husband.
.
If she was indeed pregnant and had identified herself as SINGLE, her old-fashioned, Catholic mother would have rolled over in her grave. Besides, she kind of liked the notion that she was a widow. And it was sort of true. She’d survived a terrible husband.
She checked all the applicable boxes about her past medical issues. On the coffee table in front of her, she’d noticed among the magazines Gloria Estefan gracing the cover of
InStyle.
For the person to notify in case of emergency, she wrote down
Gloria Styler
, along with a made-up phone number that had the Portland area code: 503. To explain her relationship, to the emergency-notification person, she wrote down,
Friend.
InStyle.
For the person to notify in case of emergency, she wrote down
Gloria Styler
, along with a made-up phone number that had the Portland area code: 503. To explain her relationship, to the emergency-notification person, she wrote down,
Friend.
The truth was she had no friends or family in Portland, and she didn’t know a soul here in Seattle—or at least, she didn’t think she did. She’d gotten Dr. Amato’s name from the phone book. It was no mistake his name began with an A. For the last three weeks, she’d been living—
hiding
more like it—in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. The rent was cheap—within her budget. She had some money stashed away, but had to make it last. She had furnished the unit with a mix of Ikea and garage sale finds. The bookcase was bricks and boards—and she’d strung Christmas lights around it in a desperate attempt to cheer the place up. It looked like a sophomore in college lived there. Once every half hour from seven in the morning until ten at night, the Monorail churned right past her living room window. She was on the fourth floor of a cold, characterless six-story modern apartment building in Seattle’s Belltown area. Nobody seemed to know anyone else in the building. It was easy to be anonymous there. Last week someone had thrown up in the stainless-steel elevator, and it hadn’t been cleaned up for days. It still smelled rancid in there. So she’d been taking the stairway—a creepy cinder-block echo chamber—four flights up to her place.
hiding
more like it—in a tiny one-bedroom apartment. The rent was cheap—within her budget. She had some money stashed away, but had to make it last. She had furnished the unit with a mix of Ikea and garage sale finds. The bookcase was bricks and boards—and she’d strung Christmas lights around it in a desperate attempt to cheer the place up. It looked like a sophomore in college lived there. Once every half hour from seven in the morning until ten at night, the Monorail churned right past her living room window. She was on the fourth floor of a cold, characterless six-story modern apartment building in Seattle’s Belltown area. Nobody seemed to know anyone else in the building. It was easy to be anonymous there. Last week someone had thrown up in the stainless-steel elevator, and it hadn’t been cleaned up for days. It still smelled rancid in there. So she’d been taking the stairway—a creepy cinder-block echo chamber—four flights up to her place.
Not that she ventured outside much. She was afraid to leave the apartment, afraid someone might recognize her. Still, she’d made those few trips to Ikea and the garage sales. She always felt she was pushing her luck taking the car out of the building’s underground garage. It still had the Wisconsin plates on it, and the last thing she wanted was for some cop to pull her over. So—she walked rather than drove whenever she could. There were mad dashes to the Vine Street Gourmet, a nearby mini-market with ridiculous prices and a fresh deli counter. And she’d pick up a copy of the
Chicago Tribune
at a magazine stand in Pike Place Market.
Chicago Tribune
at a magazine stand in Pike Place Market.
Earlier in the week, she’d ventured down the block to the Cinerama Theater to see
The English Patient
, which had just opened. Despite the dark, crowded theater, she hadn’t been able to stop worrying someone from her past might be there and notice her. Then she’d started to feel nauseous. She’d left in the middle of the movie, rubbing her forehead to hide her face as she hurried up the aisle.
The English Patient
, which had just opened. Despite the dark, crowded theater, she hadn’t been able to stop worrying someone from her past might be there and notice her. Then she’d started to feel nauseous. She’d left in the middle of the movie, rubbing her forehead to hide her face as she hurried up the aisle.
Every time she stepped out of that depressing little apartment, she felt as if someone was watching her. This trip to the doctor was particularly nerve-racking. And then she saw that story in the
Tribune
. There was no photo of the victim, Lisa Densmore Swann, in the
Tribune
article, but the story was grisly enough to gain national attention. And it wasn’t so farfetched to think that photos of Lisa Swann could start popping up in various papers throughout the country—including Seattle.
Tribune
. There was no photo of the victim, Lisa Densmore Swann, in the
Tribune
article, but the story was grisly enough to gain national attention. And it wasn’t so farfetched to think that photos of Lisa Swann could start popping up in various papers throughout the country—including Seattle.
The thought made her stomach take another turn.
With the clipboard in her lap, she glanced at the paragraph before the line for her signature:
I certify that all the information stated herein is true to the best of my knowledge… .
I certify that all the information stated herein is true to the best of my knowledge… .
She was about to sign her name, but hesitated. She took a deep breath, and then with a shaky hand, she scribbled,
Megan Anne Keeslar – 11/14/96.
She felt woozy as she got up and returned the form, pen, and clipboard to the receptionist.
Megan Anne Keeslar – 11/14/96.
She felt woozy as she got up and returned the form, pen, and clipboard to the receptionist.
The brunette glanced up at her and took the clipboard. “Are you feeling all right?” she asked with concern.
Clinging to the edge of the counter, all she could do was shake her head.
The receptionist said something about getting her into an examination room so she could lie down. Then she called one of the nurses.
Megan let the older, sturdy-looking ebony-skinned nurse lead her into the annex. The narrow hallway seemed to be spinning. The nurse took her into one of the little rooms and had her sit down on the examination table. She gave her a glass of water, and it helped. The nurse had a kind, careworn face, and a jet-black coiffure that looked lacquered.
“Thank you,” Megan whispered. “I—I’m sorry to be such a bother. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I—I think I might be pregnant.”
“Well, we’ll see what Dr. Amato says,” the nurse replied. She opened a cabinet drawer and pulled out a folded pale blue smock. “Let’s get you ready for him. You still seem a little wobbly. Do you need help undressing?”
Megan nodded sheepishly. The nurse hung up each item of clothing as Megan handed it to her. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror above the sink. Sitting on the cushioned table, she was down to her bra and panties.
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