Dead Ringer: Chapter Fifteen

Catch up with a reread of Chapter Fourteen, or if you’re new here you can find chapter links and summaries here.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I felt awful showing up to Jenny’s party without a gift or even a card. I’d been so consumed with Rachel Roper, I’d forgotten all about the birthday party. Before heading to Pediatric ICU, I ran downstairs to the lobby gift shop and bought a silver mylar helium balloon bearing a rainbow-colored unicorn and the words “Congratulations!” printed in sweeping calligraphy. I hurried back upstairs, grabbing a mask at the nurses’ station, and slid in behind three women in green scrubs just in time for the final, muffled, drawn-out notes of  “Happy Birthday to youuuu…”

Jenny took a deep breath — because she finally could — and blew out all thirteen candles on a white sheet cake iced with pink and blue roses, and we all burst into raucous applause. The room was wall-to-wall with flowers and balloons and palpable joy. Masked nurses and respiratory techs, surgeons and anesthesiologists, folks from radiology, the pharmacy, and even the custodial staff lined up to wish her all good things, many of them wiping their eyes as they did so.

I waited until everyone had gone. “Hey, kiddo,” I said and handed her the balloon, taking both her hands in mine. “You made it. You’re a rock star.”

Jenny nodded. “I did,” she said. “I really did.” She reached her arms up for a hug, which I gladly gave.

I went around to the other side of the bed and hugged Nora and then David, both of them openly weeping.

Nora said through tears, “You know, thirteen years ago there was the most enormous electrical storm the night I went into labor with her.” She reached out to smooth Jenny’s bangs away from her forehead. “The sky just lit up like it was daytime, and I knew then, someone really special was about to make her entrance.”

Jenny put her hand over the fresh scar on her chest and said, “I’m the lucky one. I got to join the best mom and dad anyone could ever have. And I mean this from the very bottom of my brand new appropriately-beating heart.” With that I had to reach for the box of tissues.

Jenny would likely be at St. Regis for another two to three weeks, and then if all continued to go well with her recovery, she’d be back at her house in the Foothills, in plenty of time for the beginning of the school year. I shook my head as I left her room. Who says miracles don’t happen anymore?

At home I cranked up the air conditioning and changed into the uniform I wear when I clean my house — raggedy blue sweats, a decades-old white Hang Ten t-shirt from a Wrightsville Beach surf shop, and a bright green paisley bandana to keep the mop of hair out of my face.

I like order, and Rachel’s mysterious situation had left me feeling at sixes and sevens. I took the opportunity wherever I could, to take my stand against chaos, even if it just meant being able to walk around my freshly sparkling house feeling momentarily serene. I attacked the kitchen first.

Two hours later, I stepped out of the shower, tired but happy, and put on clean pajamas. I picked up the phone and ordered a pizza from Leaning Tower, checking in my fridge as I did so — “Yes, pepperoni. Sure, extra cheese is fine.” — to make sure I still had that one Pilsner tucked in the back. Then I called Mark.

“Yo,” he said.

“Tomorrow still good to head out to WindDancer? 9:15 work?”

“Nope, can’t,” he said. “Unavoidable conflict came up.”

“Ah. Okay. Would later work? I have until noon.”

“Afraid I’m tied up for the rest of the day.”

“Okay,” I said again. “Well, I’m going out there to see if I can talk to Rachel again, get a little more info.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mark said. I was pretty sure I heard someone whispering to him in the background. “Hang on a sec.” It sounded like he covered the mouthpiece with his hand while he spoke to someone. “Okay, I’m back,” he said.

“Hey, I won’t keep you,” I said. “Hope you have a great day tomorrow, whatever you’re doing.” I thought I did a pretty good job of keeping the frustration out of my voice.

“Gonna try,” Mark said and hung up.

I was definitely going to need that beer.

The next morning I walked into WindDancer’s lobby as an instrumental version of “The Wind Beneath My Wings” drifted quietly from invisible speakers. To be honest, that song has always irritated the hell out of me.

There was a different receptionist at the desk this time.

“Chaplain Blair to see Rachel Roper, please,” I told the slight, blonde woman who then tap-tap-tapped on her computer keyboard and peered at her screen, using a long pink fingernail as a guide while she read. The nametag clipped onto her beige blouse read “Melanie.”

Her blue eyes went back and forth, then flicked to me, then back to her screen again. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but per Mr. Roper’s request, you are on a restricted list from seeing Ms. Roper.”

Her words hit like a slap. “Excuse me?”

She repeated herself verbatim, like a little automaton.

“Is Mr. Roper here?” I asked.

She didn’t answer, just pressed her lips together.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Roper, please,” I said.

“Again, I’m sorry, but your name is on the restricted list,” she began.

“I heard you the first time. I’d like to speak with Weston — Mr. Roper — and hear his reasons directly.” I could hear my voice rising but could do nothing to stop it. “I have cause to believe his sister is being held here against her will,” I said and added, “I’ve already spoken to law enforcement about my concerns.” Not completely true, but when under pressure don’t we often go to ‘I’m gonna tell mom and dad and then you’ll really be sorry’?

That’s when I felt a hand on my arm, and turned to look up at a burly security guard. With excruciating politeness, he said, “Miss,” and began steering me toward the front door.

“Hey,” I said to him. By now the three other people in the lobby were openly gawking. I took a deep breath and lowered my voice. “I don’t mean to cause trouble, all I want to know is if my…” Oops. I’d almost said client. “My friend, Rachel, who I’ve been providing pastoral care and support to, is all right.” My eyes scanned the lobby and then locked on a figure coming down the fancy staircase.

Lamar Gustafson.

“It’s okay,” he said to the guard as he walked over to us. “I know Ms. Blair. I’m happy to speak with her.” All the while, he looked past me as if I was a small, annoying child to be ignored, and I had never wanted so badly to punch someone in the face.

The guard let go of my arm with a shrug. Melanie at the receptionist’s desk sat down and did not look at me again. I followed Lamar over to a long, moss-green velvet sofa and sat with him.

“Blainey,” he started in a cloying voice.

“Don’t,” I said. “Don’t bullshit me. Just tell me what’s going on. How is Rachel? I’m seriously concerned that she doesn’t want to be here. Why can’t I see her?”

“You can’t see her because after your last visit she became very agitated and upset and had to be sedated. Weston doesn’t want you bringing up this ridiculous story of hers about a lost daughter. First of all, it’s just not true, and second any mention of it leaves her in deep distress. It’s part of her illness, that she clings to this fabricated notion of a missing child.”

He was lying, of course. I could see it in his eyes and in the anxious way he’d begun kneading his knuckles.

“Rachel has approached me more than once asking for my support,” I said. “It should be her choice.”

“I’m serving as her chaplain now,” he said.

“Is that what she wants?”

“It’s what Weston wants, and therefore it’s what Rachel wants. Weston has the legal right to make these decisions for her, and Rachel wants what makes Weston happy.”

What the hell, I decided to just go for it, asking in a voice loud enough that a couple of people turned and stared, “What if Weston is the father of this daughter he says doesn’t exist?”

“You can’t be serious,” Lamar said, and he stood abruptly, his knobby knees trembling. I thought of how cushy a job he had here among the rich, and how much he loved cruising around in that Mercedes.

I stood up, too, and moved to stand right in front of him. “When you give Weston a full report of our conversation, please be sure you clearly communicate my suspicions,” I said.

“I’ll do nothing of the kind. I’ve tried to be understanding, Ms. Blair, intuiting that you yourself seem to be suffering from undue stress, but I think it’s past time for you to leave.”

“It’s Chaplain Blair, you epic tool,” I said. “And this isn’t over.”

“Oh, but it is,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me. “Now, please leave before Russell here has to see you out.” He nodded toward the security guard who nodded back at him.

I hustled out of there with as much dignity as I could muster and got into my car and drove toward town, intending to go to the Brady Police Department.

Later, I’d have to reach out to my counselor and confess my embarrassment and shame at how badly I’d lost my cool. I’d make the call when I got to the hospital, since I was due in at noon.

But right now I desperately needed to speak with Chad Miller.

Chapter Sixteen