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THOMAS
‘Mary Rogers’ room?’ a very frazzled and flushed Alice asks the nurse sitting at the reception desk.
The nurse’s eyes flick to me and my black eye before checking her computer.
‘Room four twenty-one.’ The nurse points down the hall. ‘Take the elevators to the fourth floor. The pediatric department will be on the right.’
I was neither required nor even asked to enter the hospital when my driver slowed in front of the main entrance and Alice jumped out before the car came to a complete stop. And yet here I am, keeping pace with her as she speed-walks toward the elevators. Just as I inserted myself into her pasties situation.
I’m still reeling from my actions on the plane.
After cleaning myself free of vomit, I spent the remainder of the flight researching altitude impairment while Alice feigned sleep under her blanket. Apparently, altitude sickness only affects people breathing oxygen-deprived air, not the recycled, fully oxygenated air inside the plane.
And seeing as I was not in Vegas, or under the influence of alcohol or extra-strength Tylenol, I’m left with only one reason for my continued perplexing actions –Alice.
Though silent on the elevator ride up, her hands twist together in front of her, speaking volumes about her state of mind.
As soon as the doors open, she strides down the hallway toward pediatrics and room four twenty-one’s open door.
‘Mary!’ Alice rushes toward a small, dark-haired child with a large bandage on her head who’s sitting quietly in bed, coloring with a woman in scrubs.
The little girl has a second to smile brightly at Alice before being engulfed in a full-body hug.
‘Sweetie, are you okay?’ Alice pulls back as fast as she came in, doing a full body scan before tsking and fretting over the obvious injury near the little’s girl hairline.
‘I’m fine.’ The girl’s smile is still in place, but when her eyes shift to the side at the woman next to her, it turns stiff.
Alice kisses her right cheek hard, then her left forehead gently. ‘I was so worried.’ After one more hug, she calms down, like a balloon deflating, sinking onto the edge of the bed next to the little girl.
Scrub woman does a double take when she sees me follow Alice in.
I turn so my injured eye is out of her line of sight.
Recovering, the woman stands from her chair on the opposite side of the bed. ‘Hello. I’m Rachel Clatch.’ She holds out the hand. ‘I’m a child advocacy team member here at Allenton.’
Alice shakes the offered hand but doesn’t respond, nor does she release Mary from her other arm’s hold.
Miss Clatch nods, as if expecting such a wary reaction. ‘A few hours ago Ms Kayla Rogers came in and admitted Mary—’ she nods at the child ‘—and then left.’
Alice’s fingers twitch in her hold around Mary.
Looking down at the little girl, Miss Clatch’s serious expression morphs into a smile. ‘But Mary here has been such a brave little girl.’ Her words are bright and cheerful, and if you ask me, very fake.
From Mary’s raised eyebrows, I can tell she thinks the same.
Smart girl.
‘She didn’t cry once, not even when the doctor stitched her up,’ Miss Clatch continues, her voice remaining upbeat and yet a wealth of meaning lay behind her words.
Memories of standing straight and appearing unaffected in the face of my father’s caustic attitude toward my broken arm in fourth grade surface.
I push them back down.
As if drinking from the child advocate’s Kool-Aid, Alice’s voice mimics her faux happiness. ‘Is that so?’ She brushes a stray hair from Mary’s face. ‘That’s my girl.’
Mary doesn’t react to the praise, just turns her face up to Alice. ‘I can go home with you, right, Aunt Alice?’ Her eyes widen as if she’s trying to replay an unspoken message, but her expression is too overtly obvious to be close to secretive.
I make note of the Aunt. Alice has no beneficiaries. At least none listed in her personnel file that I just happened to have read earlier this year. Another completely out-of-character decision that’s happened since becoming aware of Alice’s existence.
