Visiting Hours Read online

  This one marked the end of her day. She had prepared everything for the next day’s classes and even locked her office before arriving here in the conference room. The droning, inconsequential voices of her colleagues were keeping her from going to check on Beth after her second procedure that afternoon.

  Just as Dr. Baker had predicted, a week after being admitted Beth was back in the operating room. Beth texted at lunchtime to say everything had gone well, but the fact that she had been transfused again reminded Alison that this doctor’s dangerous solution had not fixed anything the first time.

  She stared at her clasped hands, chasing one worry after another through her mind and completely ignoring the words floating in the air around her. Her colleagues were all brilliant scholars, but as more time ticked by she couldn’t help hating them for their long-winded intellect. She tuned into the conversation long enough to hear Dr. Alfredson, the department chair, tell a truly awful joke involving a reference librarian and a mathematician. He was a gifted historian, approximately as wide as he was tall and with significantly more hair on his chin than his head. Comedy was not his forte. He started to laugh with a wheezing sort of whine just loud enough to cover the fact that no one else joined him.

  When he finally caught his breath, he sighed and said, “Well, my distinguished ladies and gentlemen, I do believe that concludes our business for today.”

  Alison grabbed her papers and shoved them into her bag.

  “Unless anyone has any concerns they would care to address before we adjourn for the evening?”

  Knowing she would be unable to stop herself from looking daggers at anyone who raised their hand, Alison sat still and stared at the worn clasp on her briefcase.

  “No? Well then, until we meet again.”

  She was on her feet and to the door before anyone else moved. She wrenched the door open and took exactly three steps when she heard her name.

  “Hey Alison!”

  She turned to see one of her teaching assistants making her way down the hall. Jennifer was the doctoral candidate Alison was advising, teaching assistant in nearly all of her classes and, though she hadn’t expected it when they first met, a good friend. One of the things Alison liked best about Jennifer was that she was quick enough to take excellent notes in all their shared classes. It was why Alison insisted she be there, tucked away in the front corner of the classroom, every time Alison taught. Unfortunately, that quickness didn’t seem to translate to her pace outside the classroom. At the moment she was walking so slowly Alison could have screamed.

  “You were sure bookin’ it out of here. Got a date?”

  Alison forced a smile, but kept her body angled toward the staircase. “No. My friend is in the hospital and I need to go see her.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Not Beth again? Is she still having trouble getting pregnant?”

  “She doesn’t have trouble getting pregnant. She has trouble staying pregnant.”

  “Okay. I won’t keep you. I wanted to let you know that Courtney and I are going out for a drink later and we want you to come. It sounds like you could use the distraction, so I’ll just assume your answer is yes. We’ll pick you up at ten.”

  “I’m not sure I can make it.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Dr. Reynolds.” She jumped at the booming voice of her boss. “I am pleased to have caught up with you, Dr. Reynolds.” He squinted in Jennifer’s direction, his jaw hanging slack for a moment. Eventually he realized he had no idea what her name was, so he turned back to Alison. “You appeared less than attentive in our faculty meeting, Dr. Reynolds.”

  Whether it was his extreme age or his normal manner Alison wasn’t sure, but Dr. Alfredson had the habit of continuously repeating her name during their conversations. Several professors pointed out that he did this almost exclusively with the female faculty. They took it as a sign that he didn’t think a woman was capable of remembering her own name. Alison preferred to think of it as a charming eccentricity. Or, more likely, that he wasn’t capable of remembering who he was speaking to for more than a minute.

  “I apologize, Dr. Alfredson. My friend was admitted into the hospital recently. I’m a bit distracted.”

  He smiled and waggled his finger shockingly close to her nose. “Now, now Dr. Reynolds. I doubt you would accept such a flimsy excuse from one of your students if he were to underperform.” He gave a closed mouth smile that pushed his cheeks up over the majority of his eyes. “Indeed, imagine if Henry V had paid such scant attention at Agincourt! What may have befallen his band of brothers then?”

  Jennifer’s voice was just above a whisper. “More importantly, what may have befallen the career of Kenneth Branaugh?”

  “Beg pardon, my dear? I didn’t quite catch that.”

  “She was agreeing with you, sir.” Alison smiled as widely as she could force her mouth. “You’re right. I should do better. I’ll be more attentive at our next meeting.”

  “Well. Yes. See that you are, Dr. Reynolds. Good day to you both.”

  As he turned to walk away, something he said sparked her memory. She reached out and grabbed his meaty arm. “Dr. Alfredson! I have a question for you before you go. If you have time.”

  He looked down his nose at her hand and answered, “I always have time for my staff, Dr. Reynolds.”

  “Thank you, sir. I heard a…I suppose a theory about Henry VIII.”

  “Henry Tudor? Bit outside your time period, is he not?”

  “He is. That’s why I wanted to ask you. I thought you may be familiar with the facts.”

  He tucked his thumb under the strap of his suspenders and preened. All he needed was a thick cigar and he could have been mistaken for Churchill. No doubt that was his intention.

  “Do go on.”

  “I heard he had some sort of blood disorder that prevented his wives from providing him an heir.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve heard something about that.” He paused, staring at the ceiling. Jennifer covered her smile with her hand. “I forget the name, Dr. Reynolds. Something Scottish if I’m not much mistaken. Somewhat ironic. In any case, I have heard the theory. The DNA in his blood or some such thing caused his wives to miscarry after their first child. Unluckily, they had girls and not the son he wanted. Seems rather convenient. For the researchers, mind, not the wives. Rather inconvenient for the wives.”

  “Is that the only evidence? His wives miscarried and so this had to be the cause?”

  “There is apparently some sort of physical change associated with the condition, Dr. Reynolds.” Each time he used her title she twitched, but she had never found a professional way of telling him she disliked it. “I believe the blood syndrome is used to explain his foul temper and rapidly declining health.”

  “His heart gave out around the same time he went crazy.”

  “I dislike the flippancy of your tone. We are discussing one of the greatest kings England has ever known.”

  Dr. Alfredson had an infamous dislike of fidgeting, so Alison contented herself with digging her fingernails into her palm to relieve her annoyance. “But is it a valid theory?”

  He looked down his nose at her again, this time allowing his lip to curl ever so slightly. “Quite the reverse. There is not a shred of evidence to support it, and evidence cannot ever be found, given the limits of science.”

  Perhaps it was the way he said “science” the way most people say “pedophile” that caused Jennifer to throw her shoulders back and remark, “A lack of evidence doesn’t necessarily mean the theory is invalid.”

  He turned to her with simpering dislike. “My dear girl, when you have been in the field of history as long as I, you find that there are as many crackpot theories as there are stars in the night sky. Our field requires, if not empirical evidence, at the very least anecdotal evidence. This fantasy has neither.”

  Rather than allowing one of her favorite students to ruin her career before it started, Alison stepped between the two. “Thank you so much.
I didn’t think much of the idea. It came from an unreliable source. I appreciate your time, Professor.”

  With one last cutting look at Jennifer, he nodded and stalked off.

  “He should be stuffed and mounted in a museum.” Jennifer turned back to Alison. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.” She was about to make for the stairs but stopped. “He’s right, you know. About needing evidence to support our assertions. Keep that in mind when you prepare your dissertation. I’ve seen more than one colleague fall in love with a theory and refuse to give it up even when they couldn’t support it.”

  “Yeah. I know. Just because he’s right doesn’t mean he isn’t a condescending old windbag.”

  Alison checked her watch and swore, heading for the stairs.

  Jennifer called down the hall, “Ten o’clock! Outside your apartment!”

  Chapter Six

  Beth was fast asleep when Alison arrived at her hospital door. She pulled the visitor’s chair a little closer and sat as quietly as she could. Beth’s pencil-thin dreadlocks, which reached to the middle of her back when she stood, spread across her nest of pillows. Alison remembered when Beth started growing them. They were thirteen years old, both sprawled across the hand-sewn quilt that covered Beth’s twin bed. Their heads were bent over their textbooks, studying for a history test, and both of them were constantly tucking their artificially straightened hair behind their ears. Finally, Alison pulled her hair back and twisted it into a sloppy braid and was back at work. Beth made a huffy noise and said that she wished her hair was that easy to manage. She decided on the spot that she was going to twist her hair into dreadlocks. Alison had no idea what that meant, and Beth teased her for being a “sheltered little white girl.”

  They spent years wasting every spare moment they could watching movies, gossiping and gushing over boys and later, for Alison’s benefit, girls. Every moment of that time Beth was twisting her hair to keep her locks tight. When they both aced their SATs, when they had their first drinks, when they had their first heartbreaks. Delicate fingers twisting that hair accompanied every tear and every smile. The movement had become calming to Alison. Her piece of normal. She resisted the urge to shake Beth awake and beg her to twist her dreadlocks.

  If Alison and Beth had cemented a friendship early on, the path their relationship had taken was a twisting one. Alison was outgoing and made lots of friends. At heart, though, she was more of an introvert. She kept all of her friends in the shallow end of her life, letting them in only so far. She had always been that way, keeping everything superficial, but Beth simply wouldn’t have it. She was the first person who ever called Alison out on the veneer of her friendships. Before they were even out of elementary school, she turned on Alison, who was trying to shake her off to go home alone and read, and told her in no uncertain terms that they were going to be best friends and Alison was just going to have to get used to it. Beth ended up going over to her house that day and nearly every day after until they moved in to their shared UR dorm room, and she didn’t have to bully her way to an invitation.

  Alison, for her part, was secretly thrilled that someone worked so hard to be close to her. She was the youngest in a family of five living in a world designed for families of four. Somehow, she was always forgotten or pushed aside. She slept on the rollout cot in hotel rooms. She had to perch on the edge of the seat in the too-small restaurant booth. She got hand-me-down clothes and no one remembered that she liked sausage instead of pepperoni on her pizza. Her parents had only so much time and interest to devote to their children, and her sisters were both loud, opinionated and demanded attention.

  Alison demanded nothing, and so she got nothing. Beth knew. Beth ordered a small sausage pie for them in Pizza Hut. Beth took her to another table to sit when the booth was full and her sisters took all eyes away from her. Beth slept on the floor with her, gossiping all night long. Beth gave her the confidence to expect more. But Beth also gave her space when she needed it. She was, quite simply, the perfect best friend for an awkward adolescent trying to find herself.

  Then Alison nearly fell flat on her face the first day of Spanish class junior year of high school. The new teacher, Ms. Fields, was a young, redheaded hippie with long braids and a thousand necklaces that clinked as she paced the room, quizzing them on conjugations. Alison watched her until her eyes watered and then watched her some more. She heard the woman’s voice ringing in her ears when she lay down to sleep at night. She became oddly vocal about how Spanish was her favorite class. She made grand plans to hitchhike through Andalusia after graduation.

  A month into the semester Beth called her out. They were sitting in her bedroom one afternoon. She was piling on the leather chokers and cheap chains she had bought at the mall.

  Beth looked at her stonily and said, “You know you’re totally gay right?”

  She scoffed and denied it and even got mad at Beth, yelling at her as she never had in all the years they’d known each other. Beth sat quietly and waited for her to stop. Then she said that she thought it was totally cool and she loved Ali to pieces, but that she needed to chill with Ms. Fields because it was totally not cool to crush on a teacher. Alison denied it and yelled more and Beth was sweet and patient and never stopped supporting her.

  When Beth went home Alison sat on her bed and wondered what Ms. Fields was doing right then. She realized, with a blistering clarity, that Beth was right. She was totally gay. The next day she faked sick so she didn’t have to go to school, and Beth showed up around lunchtime with the sickly sweet french vanilla lattes they would drink and pretend to be grownups. She held Alison while she cried and then told her to stop crying because there was nothing at all wrong with being gay.

  Because Beth could convince her of anything in those days, Alison believed her. She believed that it was okay to be gay. She believed it right up until she met Billy Edwards, a pitcher for the St. Christopher’s baseball team who made her completely forget about Ms. Fields. She tossed the cheap necklaces into her new Chicago Cubs trash can and started lecturing Beth on the pristine beauty that was the slider and the quirkiness of the knuckleball. She announced to Beth that she wasn’t gay after all, and Beth smiled and shook her head and then she was yelling at Beth again. Using words about herself like “phase” and “experiment.” Beth sat back, smiled, and told her she would figure it out eventually.

  “Eventually” came sometime between the backseat of Billy’s Jetta and the makeup room with the busty blond captain of the show choir. Neither had exactly made her toes curl, but each had helped her realize that not everything in life is black and white. The smug smile on Beth’s face was infuriating, but Alison had the perspective to see that her friendship was an enigma in the mid-nineties American South.

  She saw the way people reacted to Ellen’s “Yep, I’m gay” announcement, had noted that her local station refused to air the TV episode. She watched news crews descend on Laramie, Wyoming and she shed tears for Matthew Shepard though she was one of few in town who did. Having Beth as her best friend made it so easy to come out. Beth never judged her, and she wouldn’t let Alison hate herself, even when she wanted to. Beth’s friendship was special. She was grateful for it beyond words and it was those moments, even more than the toothless grin of a four-year-old, that made her completely devoted to her best friend.

  Devoted enough to stand between her and knuckle-dragging racists that were dotted throughout their hometown. Devoted enough to convince her, with the same knowing smile through Beth’s own storm of shouting, to go on that date even though the ridiculously cute guy was white. Devoted enough to not just accept but to celebrate her marrying that ridiculously cute white guy. Devoted enough to hold her while she curled up in the fetal position sobbing over another miscarriage. Devoted enough to encourage her to keep trying when she secretly thought Beth and Stephen would never have another baby.

  So here she found herself, rapidly approaching forty, with this one best friend and little else.
She had a rented apartment, a leased car and a non-tenured position at the college. But she had Beth.

  A cart with a bad wheel banged by in the hallway just outside the door and both women jumped. Beth’s forehead furrowed and she blinked lazily. When she finally focused on the face in front of her, her mouth split into a familiar grin.

  “Ali!” She struggled to push herself into a sitting position. “How long have you been sitting there? You should have woken me up.”

  Alison smiled and took the hand Beth offered. “Nah, you need your rest. How did everything go?”

  Beth yawned and the fingers of her free hand went to her scalp, feeling for the base of one of her dreadlocks. Alison’s shoulders relaxed. “I told you it went fine. Jess was able to give him more blood than she planned on.”

  Alison made a face. She’d had time to think over everything, and she had an uneasy feeling about this pregnancy. She worried that not only the baby but also Beth were in danger from this procedure. Fear ate at her all night, every night, and she barely slept. It felt to Alison like this Dr. Baker was just so proud of herself for solving the mystery of the miscarriages that she was prolonging the inevitable. Maybe she wanted to write the case up for a journal. Maybe she wanted to show off to her new boss. Whatever was driving her, Beth would be the one to suffer when it failed. She had been distracted and tired all week and she blamed Dr. Baker for her mood.

  Beth had known her long enough to spot the look. “What?”