Dead Ringer: Chapter Ten

Chapter Nine here. Chapters One through Eight summaries here.

CHAPTER TEN

I went two whole days without having to give more than a glancing thought to Rachel Roper.

After she’d failed to show for her appointment, Mark shooed me away, saying if anything pressing came up, he’d call me. When I left, he was reading up a a new business opportunity, cybersecurity and investigations. I stood at the door and stifled a huge mock-yawn. Mark rolled his eyes.

Coming back to the hospital Friday morning felt like a welcome return to the familiarity of routine. To be honest, I was feeling a little drained by all the recent dramas. First, Paolo and Gina triggering my anger and grief that rides around too close to the surface, then Rachel Roper dangling the lure that is every pastor’s Kryptonite — “Save me!” — and how fast I bit.

I walked in to an empty office. On Mavis’s frighteningly neat desk was a piece of bright pink paper with “At the DENTIST,  return by lunch,” printed in big black letters. Fred’s office was dark, and I could see through to the window overlooking the parking lot.

He’d had left a small mountain of grants paperwork on my desk with a scribbled note, “More to come.” I made a pot of coffee and then settled in to the work of sorting through it all.

Two large faith-based organizations provided half our funding. Another forty percent came from the hospital budget, and the remaining ten percent came from bequests and personal donations.

The faith-based groups required quarterly reports, and the hospital wanted monthly reports — the ones I was almost always late getting to Mavis — as well as compiled six-month reports. I was so engrossed I didn’t even hear Fred until he tapped on my open door. I jumped about two feet out of my chair, and uttered an unintended, “Shit,” followed by a sheepish, “Sorry.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you. Got a minute?”

“Sure,” I said, grateful to leave the stack of paperwork and follow him into his office. We spent the next hour going over several manuals, dozens of guidelines, and lists of contacts that together made the grants paperwork I’d left look like playtime at kindergarten.

Shutting the last of the large three-ring binders, Fred said, “You’ll be working more closely with Mavis.” I didn’t miss the pointed look he gave me.

“I understand,” I said, and added, “I hope you will have a word with her and let her know of your expectations?”

“I expect you both to get along, if that’s what you mean.”

“I expect the same,” I said and added, “It’s just that there is a good deal of animosity directed at me. I’m not sure what to do about that.”

Fred hesitated a moment before speaking. “I hope you can be patient,” he said. “Mavis is good-hearted and means well. She was brought up in a very religious household, very strict. You can’t blame her for that.”

“No,” I said. “Of course it’s my goal that we work smoothly together.” Fred was clearly deflecting my concern and letting me know where he stood. It made sense. Mavis was his full-time employee, and highly valued at that. She was militantly organized in her work, so prompt the folks at the Royal Observatory could set Greenwich Mean Time by her, and a staunch protector of Fred’s schedule. I, on the other hand, was a temporary hire, contracted for a short twelve months, several of which had already passed.

I’d planned to try again to talk to Fred about my work with Omega, but something had shifted, something that left me feeling on the outside. I let the moment slide by.

“So. We’re good to go then,” Fred said, and gesturing with his head, reminded me, “I keep everything on the credenza behind me.”

“Got it,” I said.

“Listen, Blainey, just give her time.” His tone had warmed slightly. “You’re both good people. This can work just fine, I know it.”

“Of course,” I said and smiled. “Thanks,” although I wasn’t sure what I was thanking him for.

Mavis had returned from the dentist, her teeth cleaned and sharpened for another six months. On her desk were a couple of cans of diet shakes she hastily slid into a desk drawer as I walked by.

Jenny Malone continued to improve. She was breathing on her own and awake enough to give me a smile. Nora and David looked like brand new people. Hope does that.

Saturday morning dawned clear and bright, even though the weather forecast had predicted a day of much-needed rain. I planned to go to the hospital later and read through more of what Fred had given me, but before anything else, breakfast, and I meant a serious breakfast, not some wimpy dry whole wheat toast and fruit thing. 

I picked up the phone and called Frankie and Delma.

“Hey, sugar,” Delma answered. The wonders of caller ID.

“You all up for some breakfast?” I asked.

“Frankie’s not awake yet.”

“Well get his skinny ass out of bed and meet me at the Copper Kettle at 9:30.  Tell him I’m buying. That’ll get him going.”

“I’m on it.  Are they serving corned beef hash today?”

“Pretty sure. Those gooey cinnamon buns, too.  See you over there.”

“Hot damn,”  she said and hung up. 

I made a short pot of coffee and took a cup outside. The sky was pink as the inside of a seashell.  I sat inhaling the fresh scent of dew-laden grass, blooming gardenias, and the pungent smell of ever-present pines. A soft breeze fluffed my mess of hair and traced my neck, and in those few minutes some kind of renewal came over me, filling me with a quiet joy. I was still young enough to enjoy life but old enough to be grateful for a whole lot of hard-won wisdom.  My health was good. I had meaningful work to do. Mark and I were on good terms, and I’d been given a second chance to be a colleague.  The sun shone on my face and I breathed  a small prayer of thanks.

The Copper Kettle is one of those time-warp places with greasy walls and stained carpet, sub-par lighting and waitresses who will call you “honey” and ply you with so much coffee that upon leaving you possess the ability to power a small city.  It’s about three miles from my house but I hardly ever go there because everything they serve is so bad for you that I heard the Surgeon General’s considering sticking a large label on the front of the building.

But Saturday mornings are like St. Peter’s Cathedral at Christmas — standing room only with faithful pilgrims piled deep, waiting for the blessing of a holy repast.  The angels themselves would sing about the lightness of their buttermilk pancakes.  Who knows, maybe they do. 

It took me longer to find parking than it did to drive there and the spot I was lucky enough to nab provided me with a long walk to the restaurant.  I consoled myself with the thought that after what I was planning to eat, I’d need the exercise so I didn’t waddle for the next two days. Delma and Frankie were already in line, as I knew they would be, and both waved enthusiastic two-armed  hellos to me. We did a little group hug thing amidst “How are you?” and “You look great!”  to the eye-rolling of  our neighbors in line.  But the hell with them if they didn’t understand the simple delight of knowing people who love you and are glad to see you.

An hour later we emerged into the sunlight, arteries clogged, stomachs bulging. Clouds had moved in and a meaningful breeze had kicked up, making it cool enough to do some weeding in my flower beds without sweat dripping into my eyes. Later, I sat out on my deck sipping a cold beer and tearing into a hot, drippy slice of the pizza that had just been delivered. I sighed, looking forward to a nice, quiet evening.

The first call came around 1:45 a.m. I came to with a start, flailing about in the dark to find the phone.

“Hello?” I said, my heart pounding. It’s always somebody dying when it’s the middle of the night.

No response, but I could hear breathing. I found the bedside lamp and turned it on.

“Hello?” I said again. Whoever it was hung up. Caller ID listed “Unknown” for the number.

I lay in my bed and breathed, trying to calm down. Just goddamn it. The middle of the goddamn night, and I was wide awake now. I got up and padded out into the kitchen, opened the fridge the way you do when you think you want something and you don’t know what but you’re sure if you open the door the thing will be right there.

Opened the fridge. Stood looking inside it, blinking against the light. Closed the fridge. Padded back to my bedroom.

It took a while, but I finally fell back to sleep. Just in time for the second call, which came at 3:15 a.m. This time I grabbed the receiver and said forcefully, “Hello! Who is this, please?”

Silence. Again with the breathing. I waited. Then, “click,” another hang-up.

I wasn’t going to sleep again, I knew that. Might as well get up and do something productive rather than lie in bed fuming.

At 4:45 a.m. the phone rang again. I let it roll to my answering machine.

Silence on the line. And then, a voice I could barely recognize, sounding as if it came from underwater. “Blainey? Are you there? It’s Rachel.”

“Where are you?” I asked, none too kindly. Rachel had that drug-addled voice my brother Sean used to get.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, then I guess I can’t help you.” Bitchy, I know, but I was working with too little sleep and too short a fuse.

The next thing I heard was a man’s barely suppressed shout, “What the hell are you doing?” followed by Rachel’s voice, saying“I was just…” and then a sharp “click,” and the line went dead.

Chapter Eleven