Finn by Matthew Olshan Page A

question.
    “Are you a member of her family?”
    “Why? Is there something wrong?”
    “Not really,” he said. “Let me ask you. Were you with her when the water broke?”
    “Is it the baby? I knew I should have brought her here sooner.”
    Dr. Locke had been clicking and unclicking his ballpoint pen. Now he put it to the cleft of his upper lip and started to tap. “You didn’t see her water break,” he said. “Did you.”
    I raised what was left of my eyebrows, as if to ask, “Should I have seen it?”
    “That’s what I was afraid of. You see, the consul’s wife. . . her water hasn’t actually broken, which is worrisome in itself, because she’s overdue, to the point where it might be prudent to operate.” He paused for a moment and looked at his clipboard. “Frankly,” he said, “I’m more concerned with the story she made up. About her water breaking.”
    “The story?”
    “I think she faked it. My guess would be with something lime, judging from the smell.”
    “How bizarre!”
    “Is there a history of—I know this may be delicate, but it’s very important for guiding our next steps. Is there a history of depression or mental illness in the family? I’m not saying that there absolutely has to be something like that. I just need to know.”
    I pretended to think back. “Now that you mention it, I did hear something once.”
    “Yes?”
    “Something mental health related. But I can’t put my finger on it. You know, I think it would be best if we asked the consul’s wife directly, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” he said. “That might be best.” He put his pen away slowly, like someone putting down a racket after losing a tennis match. He stood for a moment with his hand on the door, tapping the metal plate with the side of his thumb. “Know what?” he said. “I could use a consult on this one. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    Then he bowed to me, which was very formal and out of place, and walked away. He was almost through the double doors to the waiting room when he called back over his shoulder, “And I’m going to take a look at that wrist of yours when I get back. A fracture like that could cost you your hand.” I smiled and waved toodleloo, but I didn’t like what he said about my wrist. Not one bit.
    Back in the room, Silvia had the TV on. She was watching the local news.
    “Oh my God, Chica, you have to see this,” she said. “It’s about you and me.”

Chapter Fifteen

    E veryone knows that the news on TV is phony. Try flipping from channel to channel at five thirty or six o’clock. Or eleven. All the different channels show exactly the same news stories, in exactly the same order, night after night. Talk about a conspiracy. Not to mention those hypnotized anchors with their robotic banter.
    If I had any doubts that the so-called “news” was completely made up, the story they told about me and Silvia convinced me. I remember it almost word for word, because it was all so outrageous and false. The black anchorman with the buck teeth—the one my grandfather always called “Mr. Beaver”—read it, in that fumbling anchorman way, like a five year old:
    “In a bizarre twist on a story we brought you several days ago, the alleged kidnapper of local school girl Chloe Wilder has been positively identified as illegal alien Silvia Morales. The suspect was seen by firefighters early this morning fleeing the scene of an explosion at the girl’s foster home. The girl’s grandparents, whose house was rocked by a huge fireball, claim that Ms. Morales is mentally unbalanced, and angry at being forced from the home, where she worked as a domestic until she was recently fired. No one was injured in the blast. The resulting fire was quickly brought under control. Police are asking anyone who has seen either Silvia Morales or Chloe Wilder to please call the number on your screen. Ms. Morales should be considered extremely dangerous. The two were last seen in a stolen white Dodge