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Opening her hand, Micki proffers a damp ball of paper nestling on her palm. When I smooth it out, there are the numbers and an unfamiliar name, slightly blurred from her tears.
“Call, please. It’s the hospital in Vancouver.” Then she curls up in the chair like a wounded animal.
Fumbling my phone case open, I use one finger to hit each number. The rings seem interminable, reinforcing the idea Maman is just fine. My finger hovers over the end button but just as I go to swipe, a voice answers. “ Vancouver General Hospital. How may I direct your call?”
Connected to the doctor who just spoke with Micki, he quickly fills me in. Maman has congestive heart failure, but not a heart attack. The doctor put her on diuretics, and they are keeping her under observation for a few days. It’s well after midnight. I tell him I won’t be able to leave until later today. He assures me that will be acceptable. She is stable and they won’t send her home before I arrive. She will need someone with her for a while after she’s released.
I cast a questioning look in Micki’s direction. “I’ll have to stay there for a while and try to convince her to move to Chicago.”
Once she gets over her surprise, Micki accepts what I now see as inevitable. “You should get in touch with immigration, so you understand the options before you propose she move.”
“Do you think it will be difficult?” I know Micki doesn’t specialize in immigration law, but she may have some idea.
“You’re an American citizen, so she can probably come as an immediate family member. At her age, it won’t matter that she can’t work, and I don’t think there will be any financial requirements. I have a friend who does health law who can look into the insurance implications.” She leans back with a sigh. “She already hates me. How will she feel when you uproot her?”
“That’s on me, not you.”
“People are not always rational, and she could feel I’m pushing you to bring her here.”
“Do you want to go with me? I hate to be away for some indefinite amount of time. My heart is already feeling the loss.”
“No. I think you need to be there without me.”
Each word is a little laceration. She’s my shelter and I want to pack her in my bag. My guys will protect her, but I feel anxious Sam will find some way to get to her. Resolutely, I put aside visions of Vengeful Sam. Sam the Sniper. Sam the Bomber. Sam the Stealthy Stalker lying in wait. Instead, I retrieve my phone and call the GSU twenty-four-hour logistics line.
ChapterTwenty-Four
Always deal with the honesty, the truth of what something is, and then you’ve got all kinds of choices.—Michael J. Fox
JL
I leaveChicago in the sunshine at 7:30 a.m., after dropping Micki off at her condo, where Case waits to take over. My heart is a slow leak of pain.
Vancouver is damp. No rain right now, but puddles are everywhere. Yannick meets me at arrivals, and we weave through early morning traffic to the hospital.
“Have you spoken to the doctor?”
“A few hours ago. I expect an update when we arrive.”
Yannick fidgets with the radio, switching from station to station.
Tired, irritable, and missing Micki, I snap, “Just pick something.”
He frowns and settles on an oldies station playing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” “Did she have a heart attack?”
“No, congestive heart failure. She’ll be on pills forever, but at least she doesn’t need surgery. Now anyway.”
Pointedly, I stare out the side window of Yannick’s black RAV4, crooning to “It Never Rains in Southern California.” I’m done talking about Maman’s health. I’ll need to follow up on Uncle François’ situation, too. After I speak with the doctor, I’ll call the rehab center. And maybe social services to see whether they will get him back to Montreal. Then I’ll tackle the big job—convincing Maman to move to Chicago.
The hospital is a ten-story modern brick and metal building with clean lines and immense windows fronting the street. Yannick parks in the garage across the way and we make our way to reception. Inside its institutional, just like any other hospital. The floors are tile, the counters wood and plexiglass.
Pinned to the bright yellow sweater of the woman at a window marked information is an identification plaque that says “Volunteer.” Her bobbed white hair has rainbow highlights.
I’d hold out my hand, but it would barely fit through the aperture, so I tap instead. She’s so absorbed in typing that she starts at the sound, a small pile of files fluttering to the floor. “Excuse me.” Then she bends down to retrieve the papers. Carefully placing them next to the keyboard, she turns to me. “May I help you?”
“My name is Jean-Louis Martin, and my mother is a patient.”
“What is her name?”
