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"Gary Schmidt?" I said. "It's Savannah Levine."
"Whaaa?" He sounded like I'd woken him up.
"It's Savannah Levine. You called me?"
"I didn't call no Suzanna. This is my phone." He mumbled something I didn't catch, then hung up.
I looked at Adam. "Either you don't need basic English to teach college or that wasn't Gary Schmidt."
"Wrong number?"
I checked my outgoing call list. "No, but I'll try again."
The phone rang through to voice mail.
I shook my head. "Either the service screwed up the first time or someone else has Schmidt's cell, which isn't good."
"What did he say?"
"That it was his phone. Which could mean it's his phone now. I'll keep trying."
We arrived at the hospital at the start of visiting hours. After a few wrong turns, we found Mrs. Schmidt. She wasn't going to be answering any of our questions, though. She was still in a coma.
"Are you relatives?" chirped a voice. A young nurse with short, blond hair had popped into the room.
"No," I said.
"Oh." Disappointment dragged the cheer from her voice. "Friends then?"
"Yes."
"Good. I hope you'll stay and talk to Maura. I know it's not easy, seeing her like this, and it may seem silly talking to her, but it really does help. In the first few days, she had nonstop visitors, students and friends. Then it just petered out. That's typical, sadly."
"How about her husband? I hear he spends a lot of time here."
"Hours on end . . . until yesterday. He didn't come in at all. That's why I was hoping you were relatives. Her doctor needs to speak to him, but we haven't been able to reach him. We've called the Schmidts' home number and his cell, and left messages. His employer says he's on leave and they haven't heard from him since the accident. We're getting worried. He's been here every day, and before this, he always let us know if he'd be away even for a few hours."
Adam said we'd try to track someone down. A lie, but it mollified her.
fifteen
Because we'd said we were here to visit Maura Schmidt, we couldn't very well leave without doing that. Well, I could, but Adam said it wouldn't be right.
So we made a good show of it. Sat beside her bed and held her hand and talked to her. Or I presume that's what Adam did. I got coffees.
When I came back, he was standing there, looking down at the comatose woman, and he looked . . . sad. Sympathetic. I stood outside the door and watched him for a moment, and wondered if that was how I was supposed to feel, too.
With Paige and Lucas, it's easy to roll my eyes at their empathy overflow. No one can be expected to feel as much for strangers as they do. My bellwether is Adam.
I pushed open the door. "You okay?" I said as I handed him his mocha.
He shrugged. "Sure. Just thinking about their house. All those hobbies." A small laugh. "Boring as hell, but they obviously liked them, and they just seemed . . ."
"Happy. Small, boring, happy lives." I paused. "It's the last part that counts, though."
"Yep. It is." He sipped his drink. "Just feel bad for them, you know?"
I nodded. Put it that way and I got it.
