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Nurse Fenton was, mercifully, off duty when Claire arrived. She checked in with the younger, nicer lady at the desk, whose name was Helen Porter, and went to find the least uncomfortable chair in the waiting area. The building wasn't completely lame; there were laptop connections and desks, and she set herself up there. The wireless was crap, but there was a LAN connection, and that worked fine.
Of course, the filters restricted where she could go on the internet, and she quickly grew frustrated trying to find out what was happening in the world outside of Morganville ... more of the same, she guessed. War, crime, death, atrocity. Sometimes it hardly seemed that vampires were the bad guys, given the things people did to each other without the excuse of needing a pint of O neg to get through the day.
She wondered if the vampires had made any headway tracking down who could have staked Sam. Surely they'd found out something. Then again, they hadn't had a lot of luck cornering Shane's dad, either ...
Her laptop connection stopped working, right in the middle of an email to her parents. She'd been avoiding making the call, because there was this dangerous temptation to start spilling out her hurt and fear and look for comfort -- after all, wasn't that what parents were for? --but if she did, they'd either come running to town, which would be bad, or they'd try to pull her out of school again, which would definitely be worse. Worse in every way.
Still, she knew she was overdue to talk to her mom, and the longer she put it off, the more stress it was going to be for both of them.
Claire logged off the laptop, packed it, and opened up her new cool phone. It glowed with a pale blue light when she dialed the number, and she heard faint clicking. That probably meant the call was being recorded, or at least monitored. More reason to be careful about what she said ...
Mom answered the phone on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Hi!" Claire winced at the artificial cheeriness of her tone. Why couldn't she sound natural? "Mom, it's Claire."
"Claire! Honey, I've been worried. You should have called days ago."
"I know, Mom, I'm sorry. I got busy. I got transferred into some advanced classes, they're really great but there's been a lot of homework and reading. I just forgot."
"Well," her mother said. "I'm glad to hear that those teachers are recognizing that you need special attention. I was a little worried when you told me the classes were so easy. You like challenges, I know that."
Oh, I'm challenged now, Claire thought. Between the classes and Myrnin, being stalked by Jason and being terrified for Shane ... "Yeah, I do," she said. "So I guess this is all good."
"What else? How are your friends? That nice Michael, is he still playing his guitar?" Mom asked it as if it was a silly little hobby that he'd give up eventually.
"Yes, Mom, he's a musician. He's still playing. In fact, he was playing in the University Center the other day. He got quite a crowd."
"Well, fine. I hope he's not playing in some of those clubs, though. That gets dangerous."
There was more of that, the danger talk, and Claire worried that her mother was, if not remembering exactly, at least remembering something. Why would she be so fixated on how dangerous things could be?
"Mom, you're overreacting," Claire finally said. "Honest, everything's fine here."
"Well, you started out this semester in the emergency room, Claire, you can't really blame me for worrying. You're very young to be out on your own, and not even in the dorm ..."
"I told you about the problems with the dorm," Claire said.
"Yes, I know, the girls weren't very nice -- "
"Not very nice? Mom! They threw me down the stairs!"
"I'm sure that was an accident."
It hadn't been, but there was something about her mother that wasn't going to accept that, not really. For all her fluttering and worrying, she didn't want to believe that something really could be badly wrong.
"Yeah," Claire sighed. "Probably. Anyway, the house is great. I really like it there."
"And Michael has our numbers? In case there's any problem?"
"Yes, Mom, everybody's got the numbers. Oh, speaking of that, here's my new cell phone -- " She rattled off the digits, twice, and made her mother read them back. "It's got better reception than the old one, so you can get me a lot easier, okay?"
"Claire," her mother said. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine."
"I don't want to pry, but that boy, the one in the house -- not Michael, but -- "
"Shane."
"Yes, Shane. I think you should keep your distance from him, honey. He's old for you, and he seems pretty sure of himself."
She did not want to get into the subject of Shane. She'd nearly stumbled over saying his name, it hurt so bad. She wanted to talk to her mother the way she'd used to. They'd talked about everything, once, but there was no way she could really talk about Morganville with her family.
And that meant, there was no way she could talk about anything at all.
"I'll be careful," she managed to say, and her attention was caught by the young nurse standing in the doorway of the waiting area, waving for her attention. "Oh -- Mom, I have to go. Sorry. Somebody's waiting for me."
"All right, honey. We love you."
"Love you too." She hung up, slid the phone into her pocket, and grabbed her backpack.
The nurse led her through another set of glass double doors into an area labeled ICU. "He's awake," she said. "You can't stay long, we want him to rest as much as possible, and I can already tell he's going to be a difficult patient." She smiled at Claire, and winked. "See if you can sweeten him up a little for me. Make my life easier."
Claire nodded. She felt nervous and a little sick with the force of her need to see him, touch him ... and at the same time, she dreaded it. She hated the thought of seeing him like this, and she didn't know what she was going to say. What did people say, when they were this scared of losing someone?
He looked worse than she'd imagined, and she must have let it show. Shane grunted and closed his eyes for a few seconds. "Yeah, well, I'm not dead, that's something. One of those in the house is enough." He looked awful -- pale as, well, Michael. The baseball bat had left him with Technicolor bruising, and he seemed fragile in ways Claire hadn't even thought about. There were so many tubes and things. She sat down in the chair next to his raised bed and reached over the railing to touch him lightly on his scraped, bruised hand.
