about.
They were still arguing; their voices seemed to be getting louder, and she wanted to tell them to please, please stop. Then somewhere off in the distance she heard bells clanging. She heard running feet. And a pain like the one that had awakened her that morning came rushing back. A tidal wave of pain. She tried to reach out to them: “Tony…Billy…”
As she drew in her last breath, she heard their voices, in unison, urgent, filled with fear, edged with grief: “Mommmmmmmm,” “Josieeeeeeeee.” Then she heard nothing.
23
At quarter of twelve, Fran walked into the lobby of Lasch Hospital. Pushing back the memories of that same place years earlier, memories of stumbling, and of her mother’s arms around her, she forced herself to stop and to look about the space.
The reception/information desk was on the far wall, opposite the entrance. That’s good, she thought. She didn’t want a solicitous volunteer or guard offering to help direct her to a patient. If that were to happen, she had a story ready: she was picking up a friend who was visiting a patient.
Any patient
, she thought.
She studied the area. The furniture-couches and individual chairs-was upholstered in green imitation leather and had plastic arms and legs in a faux maple finish. Less than half the seats were occupied. A corridor to the left of the reception desk had an arrow and a sign that read ELEVATORS. Then Fran found what she was looking for-the sign on the other side of the lobby that read COFFEE SHOP. As she headed for it, she passed the newspaper rack. The weekly community paper was displayed in it, and a picture showing Molly at the prison gate was on page one. Fran fished in her pocket for two quarters.
She deliberately had arrived before the lunch-hour rush began, and she stood at the entrance to the coffee shop for a moment as she looked around, trying to choose the most advantageous seat. There were about twenty tables in the restaurant, as well as a counter with a dozen stools. The two women behind the counter, wearing candy-striped aprons, were hospital volunteers.
There were four people sitting at the counter; about ten others were scattered at tables. Three men in standard white jackets, obviously doctors, were deep in conversation by the window. There was a small empty table next to them. For a moment Fran debated whether or not to ask for that table, as the hostess, also wearing a candy-striped apron, bore down on her.
“I’ll go to the counter,” Fran said quickly. Over coffee she might be able to strike up a conversation with one of the volunteers working there. Both women looked to be in their mid-sixties. Perhaps one or both of them had been volunteers there six years ago, when Gary Lasch was running the hospital.
The woman who served her coffee and a bagel was wearing a smiley-face name tag that read, “Hello, I’m Susan Branagan.” A pleasant-faced woman, with white hair and a bustling manner, she clearly felt that part of her job was to draw people out. “Can you believe that spring is less than two weeks away?” she asked.
It gave Fran the opening she wanted. “I’ve been living in California, so it’s hard to get used to the East Coast weather again.”
“Visiting someone in the hospital?”
“Just waiting for a friend who’s visiting. Have you been a volunteer long?”
Susan Branagan beamed. “Just got my ten-year pin.”
“I think it’s wonderful that you volunteer to help out here,” Fran said sincerely.
“I’d be lost if I didn’t come to the hospital three times a week. I’m a widow, and my kids are married and busy with their own lives. What would I do with myself, I ask you?”
Clearly it was a rhetorical question.
“I guess it must be pretty fulfilling,” Fran said. Trying to appear casual as she did it, she laid the community paper on the counter, placing it so that Susan Branagan could not miss seeing Molly’s picture and the headline above it: WIDOW OF DR. LASCH
They were still arguing; their voices seemed to be getting louder, and she wanted to tell them to please, please stop. Then somewhere off in the distance she heard bells clanging. She heard running feet. And a pain like the one that had awakened her that morning came rushing back. A tidal wave of pain. She tried to reach out to them: “Tony…Billy…”
As she drew in her last breath, she heard their voices, in unison, urgent, filled with fear, edged with grief: “Mommmmmmmm,” “Josieeeeeeeee.” Then she heard nothing.
23
At quarter of twelve, Fran walked into the lobby of Lasch Hospital. Pushing back the memories of that same place years earlier, memories of stumbling, and of her mother’s arms around her, she forced herself to stop and to look about the space.
The reception/information desk was on the far wall, opposite the entrance. That’s good, she thought. She didn’t want a solicitous volunteer or guard offering to help direct her to a patient. If that were to happen, she had a story ready: she was picking up a friend who was visiting a patient.
Any patient
, she thought.
She studied the area. The furniture-couches and individual chairs-was upholstered in green imitation leather and had plastic arms and legs in a faux maple finish. Less than half the seats were occupied. A corridor to the left of the reception desk had an arrow and a sign that read ELEVATORS. Then Fran found what she was looking for-the sign on the other side of the lobby that read COFFEE SHOP. As she headed for it, she passed the newspaper rack. The weekly community paper was displayed in it, and a picture showing Molly at the prison gate was on page one. Fran fished in her pocket for two quarters.
She deliberately had arrived before the lunch-hour rush began, and she stood at the entrance to the coffee shop for a moment as she looked around, trying to choose the most advantageous seat. There were about twenty tables in the restaurant, as well as a counter with a dozen stools. The two women behind the counter, wearing candy-striped aprons, were hospital volunteers.
There were four people sitting at the counter; about ten others were scattered at tables. Three men in standard white jackets, obviously doctors, were deep in conversation by the window. There was a small empty table next to them. For a moment Fran debated whether or not to ask for that table, as the hostess, also wearing a candy-striped apron, bore down on her.
“I’ll go to the counter,” Fran said quickly. Over coffee she might be able to strike up a conversation with one of the volunteers working there. Both women looked to be in their mid-sixties. Perhaps one or both of them had been volunteers there six years ago, when Gary Lasch was running the hospital.
The woman who served her coffee and a bagel was wearing a smiley-face name tag that read, “Hello, I’m Susan Branagan.” A pleasant-faced woman, with white hair and a bustling manner, she clearly felt that part of her job was to draw people out. “Can you believe that spring is less than two weeks away?” she asked.
It gave Fran the opening she wanted. “I’ve been living in California, so it’s hard to get used to the East Coast weather again.”
“Visiting someone in the hospital?”
“Just waiting for a friend who’s visiting. Have you been a volunteer long?”
Susan Branagan beamed. “Just got my ten-year pin.”
“I think it’s wonderful that you volunteer to help out here,” Fran said sincerely.
“I’d be lost if I didn’t come to the hospital three times a week. I’m a widow, and my kids are married and busy with their own lives. What would I do with myself, I ask you?”
Clearly it was a rhetorical question.
“I guess it must be pretty fulfilling,” Fran said. Trying to appear casual as she did it, she laid the community paper on the counter, placing it so that Susan Branagan could not miss seeing Molly’s picture and the headline above it: WIDOW OF DR. LASCH
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