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“We’re giving her a supervised course of intravenous antihypertensive meds.” His arms are folded and his foot taps in no particular rhythm.
“You’re going to forbid her traveling?”
“No. If she’s agreed to go, doing it quickly to avoid more anxiety is the best course. If you can arrange for transportation two days from now, I will make sure she’s well enough to go.”
I want to hug him, but I shake his hand. “Thank you so much.”
“I just hope I’m not making a mistake.” He turns on his heel and leaves. Then stops and calls over his shoulder. “You can see her now, but try not to get her excited. And there is a low-sodium version of the crackers—Triscuits with a hint of salt. Not totally healthy, but better than the normal type. Just don’t let her eat too many at one time.”
When I walk in, Maman is flat in the bed with a new IV. “Maman. I’m so sorry to have caused this.”
She opens her eyes slightly. With a raspy whisper she says, “Not your fault. Make the arrangements.” Then she closes her eyes. I am dismissed.
I kiss her cheek and hustle back to the lounge, surprised Dr. Fitzroy has returned.
“Well? What is the verdict?”
“She’s agreed to go. I’ll have the plane here the day after tomorrow.”
“She’ll be ready,” he assures me.
I have a lot to do, and a ticking time bomb may go off in Chicago at any moment. I take off for the hospital café—coffee and list making.
When Micki calls, I’m just finishing up.
“JL, I …” Sobbing comes through, and anger rises in me.
“What did he do now?”
Her voice is tiny as she tells me what happened outside the coffee shop. I want to run out of the building, grab a ride to the airport, and fly out immediately. Not going to happen. I can’t be with both Micki and Maman yet.
All I can give her are soothing platitudes as acid eats at my insides.
ChapterTwenty-Eight
Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.—Zelda Fitzgerald
Micki
Calling JL helps,but not as much as I’d hoped. He won’t be back for two days. Two days of Sam being out there somewhere. Carrying a gun, a knife. Ready to ambush me.
The phone on the side table next to my chair suddenly starts to rock and roll. I peek at the screen. Unknown Caller. Once it goes to voice mail, I block the number. Clinking sounds come from the kitchen, then Cress comes in with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of iced tea.
Carefully sliding the tray onto the low table in front of the couch, she looks up at me. “What’s wrong?” The alarm in her voice alerts me I must look as shocked as I feel.
“Unknown caller.”
“Shit. You think it’s Sam?”
“Who else? I added Kath to my contacts.” My neck has a mind of its own and my head bobs up and down, up and down, like a demonically possessed puppet. Bobblehead Micki. “Now that he’s emerged from his hole, he probably wants me to keep reliving the attack until he strikes again.” My face feels damp, and I rub an arm across my forehead. “But how did he get this number?” I whisper.
“How many people have it?”
My forehead wrinkles as I try to count up the contacts. “JL, GSU, you, Mom and Dad, Kath Brandon.”
“That’s it?”
“I think so.” Something niggles the edge of my thoughts. “Maybe, uh, not someone I gave it to, but I had to call the firm and…”
