Visiting Hours Page 7

  “You mean when they barge in on someone sleeping and scare them half to death?”

  Alison relieved the tension in her jaw enough to stick her tongue out at Beth, but she did moderate her tone. “I mean when someone is new to an area and they refuse to adapt to the local culture.”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume this is about Jess?”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because you clearly dislike her for no reason.”

  “I have a reason! My reason is that she was just ridiculously rude to an older doctor. He was being a perfect Southern gentleman and she just went after him. And she did it right in front of a nurse.”

  Beth sat up straighter, her movement dislodging one of the many pillows behind her. Alison huffed as she stood to retrieve it. She was less than gentle when she shoved it back into place.

  “And why, exactly, do you need such a ridiculous number of pillows?”

  Beth crossed her hands in her lap and looked at Alison. She was silent, her face frustratingly neutral, while Alison stewed. Alison shifted and huffed again, but still Beth remained silent. She smacked the armrest of her chair with an open palm and looked around the room, determined to wait her friend out.

  “Are you finished?”

  “No!”

  But she was. Beth had perfected that trick. Waiting patiently for the other person’s mood to change. It angered stubborn witnesses and flustered opposing attorneys. Worse still, it had the most unearthly calming effect on Alison’s rages.

  Beth saw the change in the set of her chin and smiled. “Now, my insistence upon comfort notwithstanding, it was probably a little unprofessional of Jess to call out another doctor in front of a nurse, but why do you care so much?”

  “I don’t…know. It was just rude. She could learn to use a little Southern charm herself.”

  “Southern charm isn’t about being nice to people. It’s about smiling and simpering while being completely insincere. People use it as a reason to be outright rude with a smile. You throw an ‘I declare’ or a ‘y’all’ in front of it, and then you can just say any old thing you want.”

  “Not all Southerners are like that.”

  “No they aren’t, but I prefer honesty. People said horrible things when we were in Boston, but at least I knew where they stood. I like my villains to own it, not dress up as decent people.” She allowed herself a little grin. “The point is, not everyone handles that sort of fakeness very well. It doesn’t surprise me in the least to find out that Jess is one of those people.”

  “I suppose you’re implying that it shouldn’t surprise me either?”

  She grinned, showing white teeth like a wolf who scented blood. “You know, you’ve brought up my doctor a couple of times now. You haven’t been this interested in any of them before. What’s she done to get under your skin, Ali?”

  The echo of Jess obliquely calling her beautiful flashed in her mind, but she wasn’t ready to examine that memory. “She hasn’t gotten under my skin. I just don’t like her. We’re like oil and water.”

  Beth squinted at her, but seemed content to let it rest. As she started in on discussing other things, nervousness crept into Alison. Beth wasn’t the type to let something go so easily. She feared this short reprieve was only a courtroom tactic that would lead to a more intense interrogation to come.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Alison hit her seventh red light on Broad Street she regretted driving to the hospital. It was as if the moment the sun went down all the traffic lights in the city conspired against her. She was lucky to make it more than a block or two without stopping and waiting for nonexistent opposing traffic. Around Third Street she started picturing the glass of wine she would pour herself. By the time she turned on Harrison and stopped in the middle of the road for a pack of laughing undergrads to jaywalk as slowly as humanly possible, she was contemplating skipping the glass entirely and drinking straight from the bottle.

  Park Avenue, the loftily named but quiet street right off campus where Alison lived, was crowded as usual. She circled her building five times looking for a parking spot. There was nothing within a reasonable distance to her apartment. Eventually she gave up and settled on a spot several streets over, dooming herself to a considerable walk. Windows glowed orange and inviting in each house she passed. Her shoulders pinched uncomfortably at the base of her neck no matter how she adjusted her bags. Her feet screamed to be set free from their constricting shoes. At long last, she arrived at the front door of her building.

  The Fan was an old neighborhood and one that Alison spent her entire youth yearning to live in. Her building had entered life as a stately row house sometime around the turn of the twentieth century. Not long before the twenty-first century the savvy owner had split it into three spacious apartments. He was an ill-mannered little troll of a man, but he’d done a fantastic job with the renovations and was always quick to respond whenever she had a concern. Rent was astronomically high, but the five-minute walk to work and the air of elegant old Richmond soaked into the bones of the place justified the expense.

  Her footsteps thudded on the worn hardwood of the stairs. Each step felt like the trudge up a mountain. Not for the first time, she wished for an elevator. Her apartment was on the third floor, at the top of a creaky wooden staircase that got taller every day.

  “Alison, darling, I thought that was you.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Crenshaw. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  Through the half-open door Alison could see the interior of her downstairs neighbor’s apartment. Nearly every flat surface and even some not so flat ones were covered in crocheted swatches in varying shades of purple. Afghans, doilies, placemats, any and everything that could be fashioned out of yarn, Mrs. Crenshaw had made at least two. Her husband died thirty years ago, and she showed no inclination to replace him. She spent her time cooking the sort of odd things most people’s grandmothers found appealing and watching game shows at increasingly eardrum-shattering volumes.

  “Not at all. I was just about to sit down to an episode of Hollywood Squares. Care to join me?”

  “Sounds tempting, but I’m afraid I have too much work tonight.”

  In six years Alison had never taken Mrs. Crenshaw up on an invitation, but that never seemed to bother her.

  “Well, then at least take a plate of cookies with you. They’ve just come out of the oven.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Crenshaw, you don’t have to…”

  Alison didn’t bother to finish the refusal, since her elderly neighbor was already back in the apartment, clanging about. She looked longingly up the stairs toward the sanctuary of her own front door. She wondered briefly about the likelihood of Mrs. Crenshaw following her upstairs if she bolted. Her ceramic hip wasn’t likely to make the journey, but it would break her heart to be abandoned, so Alison waited.

  “Here you are dear.” She handed Alison a garishly decorated plate with a trio of sugared hockey pucks under plastic wrap. “Mincemeat.”

  A minute later, Alison dropped the plate with a clatter on her coffee table next to her keys. The light of a single table lamp was all she needed to move through the familiar confines of her apartment. Peeling her clothes off was a relief as she let each piece drop to the floor. There would be plenty of time to retrieve them in the morning. Right now, she wanted nothing more than the feel of her silk robe against her naked skin.

  The bottle of wine on her kitchen counter still smelled reasonably fresh. After pouring out a glass, she saw that there was only a little more left in the bottle and it was tempting to empty the rest into her glass, but she decided against it. Tonight should be an early night. There were weeks’ worth of sleep to catch up on.

  She took a long sip of wine, then flopped down on the couch. Soft pillows enveloped her body. Her eyes stung, so she closed them. She nuzzled into the warm fabric, enjoying the feel of the slightly chill air on her bare legs. The knot at the base of her neck loosened ever
so slightly.

  If only she had someone to massage her shoulders or her feet. She had dated a massage therapist several years ago. A woman with wonderfully powerful hands but little else to recommend her. She’d kept the relationship alive for far longer than was wise just for the opportunity of an occasional foot rub. What she wouldn’t give now for someone with hands like that. Confident and sure, but with a personality to match. Someone who was intriguing without being too complicated. Funny, smart and sexy.

  Unbidden, the image of Jess floated into her mind. Smiling across from her at the little wrought iron table on the back patio at Babe’s. Alison sat up abruptly and reached for her wine. That was not a direction she was interested in heading. Dr. Baker was stubborn and rude. Alison had seen plain example of that today. She’d acted cocky, irreverent and childish. Not at all the kind of person Alison could or should fall for.

  She swept back to the kitchen to refill her glass. The clang of the empty bottle hitting the bottom of the recycle bin made her jump. All she had in the refrigerator were a half-empty bottle of sparkling water and a stick of butter. She threw away the box of stale saltines from her pantry after only eating three. At least the wine rack wasn’t empty. She rinsed her glass and dropped an ice cube into a rather too large glass of chardonnay.

  Back on the couch, she found the image of Jess’s half smile still firmly planted in her mind. As much as Alison hated to admit it, there was something compelling about her. All she wanted to do was lie here in the dark, drink her wine and relax, but this woman kept intruding. Alison decided it was the curve of her shoulders. They were really nice shoulders, actually. Square and strong in the way of an athlete, but still feminine. A biker or a soccer player maybe. A sport that valued toned muscles over bulging ones. The sort of physique one had to work for, but not too hard. Maybe Alison had been single too long. Maybe Beth was right about Jess getting into her head.

  Beth. A bucket of ice water dropped over Alison. Her friend was hurting and here she was sitting here on her couch obsessing over an obnoxious doctor’s shoulders. Meanwhile, Beth was stuck in an uncomfortable hospital bed, barely allowed to move and suffering through these draconian procedures alone. She didn’t even understand why Beth was confined to a bed. How could that possibly help? How could any of this help?

  “Damn!”

  Digging in her purse for her phone, a dollop of wine sloshed out of her glass. Her refrigerator now would contain only butter, as the sparkling water was put to the task of cleaning her rug. She dabbed at the slowly drying spot with a dishtowel, thanking whatever luck she had remaining that she had finished the red wine before making a mess.

  She took both her phone and the bottle of wine to the desk tucked into the corner of her spacious bedroom. Her computer, despite being less than a year old and the most expensive model, took an age to start up. She tapped her fingertips on the desk while she waited.

  It didn’t take much time scrolling through her text messages to find the one from Jess. It was the only one from an unknown number. Her thumb hovered over the hyperlink that would make her a new contact. There was little to no chance they would see each other again more than in passing. Why should she keep the number? It would only confuse her on some distant day when she scrolled through, looking for someone she actually knew. Her computer chimed its readiness. Alison touched the link and added Dr. Baker’s information before she could talk herself out of it. What the hell? She had nice shoulders.

  She scanned the first website for all of a minute before moving to the second. She stayed there long enough for the vein in her temple to start throbbing. Words blurred together. The tone was condescendingly gentle. Like a self-help book rather than something that might impart real information. She had to type the third address twice, misspelling it the first time when her fingers shook. Checking the address again, Alison saw Jess editorialized after entering the link.

  This one is a little academic, but it’s still worth reading—from a doc I studied under—one of the foremost experts in the field.

  Alison snorted in disgust. Why was she shocked that a woman with more ink on her skin than in a textbook used the term “academic” as a negative? She started to read in earnest. The language was certainly more refined than the mom’s blog she’d just left. After a sentence or two she opened a new browser page, clicked on the tab of her favorite websites and opened a dictionary.

  She probably didn’t need the dictionary. It actually wasn’t that academic at all. Blood types, it explained, were based on the antigen-antibody complex. The author compared it to viruses. Like when you get the flu. The flu virus has antigens. Your body makes antibodies to fight those antigens. Once they make enough antibodies to outnumber the virus, they overwhelm and kill it.

  The muffled, tinny cheering pressing up through the floor from Mrs. Crenshaw’s television cut out abruptly while Alison read. Traffic noise filtering in through her bedroom windows diminished considerably. She dropped the second bottle of wine in the recycle bin and brought the plate of cookies back to her desk. The flour was stale and tasted vaguely of old yarn and dust. She chewed methodically, not bothering to work out what exactly mincemeat was. The vein in her forehead stopped throbbing.

  The human body only makes antibodies if it encounters an antigen it doesn’t recognize. Since Beth didn’t have Kell antigens, but her son did, her antibodies were trying to kill the Kell antigens in the baby. Jess had described it before, but it made more sense now that Alison thought of the whole thing like the flu.

  Apparently, Kell antibodies are very strong and particularly dangerous for pregnancies. What the author didn’t spell out but Alison understood was that Beth’s baby was the flu. She was, after all her miscarriages in the last two years, very good at fighting this particular type of flu. Her body would not stop until all of the invaders were gone. It was determined to kill her baby, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Alison finished the article and went back to the mom’s blog. To her amazement, the information was accurate, if colloquially expressed. She brought her knees up to her chest, absentmindedly pressing the heel of her hand hard into one foot and then the other. She went back to the first page when she finished with the blog. It was somewhere between the other two, an article for a popular magazine from many years ago.

  The world went silent and still while she read. When she threw herself into bed well past midnight, Alison was calm enough, or drunk enough, to fall immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Hold the elevator!”

  Alison ran through the hospital lobby to make the elevator before the doors closed. She wasn’t wearing her usual sandals today, but the heeled ankle boots she had paired with her slacks weren’t intended for running across waxed tile. Just when she thought she didn’t have a prayer of making it in time, a hand appeared between the closing doors and they lurched to a stop.

  “Ms. Reynolds.”

  The open doors revealed Jess. Alison stepped in and they stood awkwardly side by side. She pointedly averted her eyes from Jess’s shoulders and drew her bag close as the car started to move. Jess fidgeted beside her. In the week she had been visiting this place, Alison never knew the elevators to move quite so agonizingly slowly.

  Alison finally said, “You left so quickly the other night you didn’t give me a chance to thank you for the drink.”

  “Oh, yeah. You’re welcome.”

  “Were your friends mad at you for abandoning them?”

  “Not exactly.” There was a distinctly bitter edge to Jess’s voice when she continued. “I’m not sure they knew I was gone. It turns out that the ex-girlfriend Adrienne was trying to hook up with was also Connie’s ex-girlfriend. I missed the worst of it, but let’s just say it’s going to be an awkward few days down in the pharmacy.”

  “They aren’t together? Your friends?”

  “Oh, no. Both butches. Both very butch butches. I’m actually kind of surprised they don’t have m
ore old flames in common, but then we’ve only hung out a few times. Maybe the fireworks are normal and I just haven’t been around to see them.”

  “They probably do have a lot of exes in common. If you’ve been to Babe’s twice then you’ve met every lesbian in Richmond. We keep a tight pack.”

  “I kinda picked up on that.” She tapped a fingernail against the railing behind her. “Do you run into a lot of exes there?”

  “Not many. The ladies don’t like my kind remember?”

  Jess scratched behind her ear. “You said that. I thought it was your subtle way of telling me to leave you alone.”

  Alison smiled, thinking about Jennifer’s recent assessment of her. “I’m told I’m not overly subtle.”

  Jess gave her a quizzical look, but shifted quickly to the pleasant neutral of her doctor demeanor. “Did you have a chance to look at those articles I sent you?”

  “I did.” Despite the pounding headache she woke up with, her reading last night had actually made Alison feel better. The more she understood Beth’s situation, the more comfortable she felt with the process. “I meant to thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m just glad they helped.”

  “Not as much as a few beers and some dancing.” She looked at her toes as the interminable elevator ride finally ground to a halt. “But it’s nice to understand a little better.”

  “I’m happy to provide both beer and knowledge, but it’s a good thing you found another source for the dancing.”

  Jess held the door, but Alison waited to walk beside her. “You don’t dance?”

  “I have a few strengths, but rhythm is not one of them.”

  “Anyone can dance. All you have to do is move with the music.”

  “You say that like it’s so easy.”

  “It is. You just let go and follow your body.”

  “My body hasn’t made wise decisions on the dance floor in the past.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t had the right partner.”