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She nodded and shut the door in his face.
“Let me show you where you can wait,” the first woman said. “I’ll update you when I know something, as much as I can.”
Dog let her lead him out of the ER and into the waiting room. He slumped into a chair against a wall and scrubbed his hand over his eyes. They’d gotten her here quick—she was still alive. That had to count for something.
His heart slammed against his chest, like someone had a jackhammer in there. Damn it straight to hell—she was not his mother. She wasn’t going to die.
About half a dozen people sat like zombies in the room, staring into space, waiting for that one life-changing bit of news. Shit, he should have told them he was her husband, but since he didn’t know her name that would have been hard to pull off.
Dog eyed the purse on his lap. Her wallet was bound to be in it. And they’d need her insurance card, if she had one. He didn’t have too many scruples left, but this thought gave him permission to look inside the gigantic bag.
The magnetic clasp gave way with a tug, and he peered in. There was a shitload of stuff in it, most of which he saw when she’d dumped her pocketbook at the Round. But she’d slotted all her crap in different compartments and pockets, like there was a method to the chaos.
He rifled through them. The woman was prepared for anything, like in her trunk, from a case of the hungries—single serving package of almonds—to wild, monkey sex, because there was that foil pouch of Astroglide. He couldn’t believe this classy woman had lube in her purse.
Her wallet, a multicolored trifold with a patchwork quilt design, sat on the top of the pile in one section, along with her phone. Dog pulled the wallet out.
When he opened it, the first thing he saw was her smiling face on her driver’s license. He slipped the card from its slot. Charlene Michelle Abbott from Charlotte. Birthday was in February. A bit of quick math revealed she was thirty-seven. Five feet, four inches, and she was an organ donor. Figured a woman like her would give a damn.
Dog put the license back and slid out a stack of plastic. All manner of high-end department store cards, a couple of Master Cards, and a bank Visa. They went back where they’d been. In another slot he spied the blue cross and shield of an insurance card. He slipped it out, and a well-worn, folded newspaper clipping fell on his leg. He put down the wallet and opened the paper. It was an obituary dated a year ago with the photo of a man who looked like an older, masculine version of the woman.Charlene.
Charles Michael Abbott
Charlotte – Mr. Charles Michael Abbott, 62, of 217 College Street, Charlotte, died Friday, October 17, 2016 at 3:30 p.m. at Carolinas Medical Center in Charlotte.
Mr. Abbott was born in Mecklenburg County on November 14, 1953. He was a resident of Charlotte most of his life, only leaving to attend the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill where he majored in accounting. After he passed his CPA exam, he opened his own accounting firm, Charles Abbott and Associates, where he worked for forty years.
Mr. Abbott was predeceased by his wife, Mary May Abbott, and survived by his daughter, Charlene, whom he affectionately called Charley.
Funeral services will be held on Monday, October 20 at 2 p.m. at Ellington Funeral Home in Charlotte. Mr. Abbott will be laid to rest beside his beloved wife in Elmwood Cemetery directly after the service.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations be made to the Dickson Domestic Violence Shelter in Charlotte.
Dog stared at the last paragraph. Donations to a domestic violence shelter. If his mother had gone to one, his fuckwad of a father might not have killed her.
Folding the obituary, he slipped it into its place inCharley’swallet. It was obvious her parents named her for the old man. An only child, like Dog. And all alone in the world, also like Dog before he found his brothers and his club. To have kept his obituary, she must have loved her father. Not like Dog. He’d hated the son of a bitch.
No wonder she’d asked him so many questions about his tattoo. She’d felt loss, like him.
After giving the nurse Charley’s insurance information, he put her wallet back in her bag, and a wound-up cord caught his eye. He tugged it out and discovered it was a phone charger. A glance down and behind him located an outlet. He plugged it in and attached it to her phone. It had a quiet jingle when the juice hit it, but then texts flooded the screen and it exploded with ringtones.
Dog scrolled through them—Jennifer, Adam, Jennifer, Nadine, Livvie, Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer. Man, this Jennifer bitch didn’t give up. He skimmed the messages. A picture of a screaming kid from Livvie. The rest seemed work related with the wordsdeadlineandIRSrepeated several times. Some man named Mr. James was making a stink that Charley wasn’t in the office.
Hmmm. Charley must be important, maybe even the boss. Classy woman had brains too.
Dog had to admit he was curious. He pressed the home button on the phone, and the screen wiggled and popped up the six-digit passcode screen. Damn. Couldn’t be that easy.
What would her code be? Her birthday? He pulled her wallet back out and checked her license again. February 2, 1981. He reactivated the darkened passcode screen and touched 2-2-1981, the little circles changing from blue to white as he did. The dots jiggled in rejection and turned back blue. He tried 02-1981. Same result. He checked her address. No six-digit numbers there. No way to know her phone number or work address. Shit. The code could be anything.
He dropped the phone in his lap and leaned his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a second before inspiration struck. He slid the obituary out again and scanned the father’s dates, birth and death. Somehow, he didn’t think this woman would want to remember the latter.
Reactivating the phone yet again, he touched 11-14-53, and immediately the screen changed to her apps. Hot damn.
Weather. News. Maps. Clock. Dog didn’t give a damn about those.
Stepz. Runtastic. HeartRate. Maybe Charley was a health nut.
Calendar. He opened it and scrolled into the future. Work meetings mostly, a weekly lunch with a Livvie. He closed the app. He already knew she was probably the boss.
