Where Do I Go? by Neta Jackson

medical supplies had been stacked on the closest table. A fifty-something African-American woman wearing a food worker’s hairnet sat at the end of the table, knitting something blue and bulky from a bag of yarn at her feet, her elbow resting on a clipboard.
    The pacing woman was making me nervous. They needed some activities going on while people waited. Something to entertain the kids . . . a “learn to knit” group . . . a nail salon . . . a book club . . .
    A woman wearing typical blue hospital scrubs came out from behind the screen, pulling on a fresh pair of latex gloves. “Who is next, Estelle?” The nurse had dark, wavy hair and a round, pleasant face. A motherly look about her.
    The knitting lady peered at the clipboard. “Aida Menéndez . . . Aida? You here?”
    A young girl—she looked eighteen at the most—got up and let herself be trundled behind the screen by the nurse. The two began talking a rapid stream of Spanish.
    â€œHey! Miz Delores! You said I was next!” The loner in the corner waved her nail file.
    â€œPipe down, Hannah. She said no such thing.” The woman named Estelle thumped the clipboard with a knitting needle. “I got your form right here . . . three more ahead of you.”
    The bored young woman shrugged and went back to doing her nails.
    â€œYa gotta fill out a form if you wanna see the nurse,” a growly voice said in my ear. I jumped and turned. Rheumy blue eyes met mine.
    â€œLucy!” I couldn’t help grinning. “Where’d you come from?”
    â€œQuestion is”—the old woman squinted at me suspiciously—“where’d you come from? Seems like you poppin’ up all over the place.” She turned her head, hacking a few jagged coughs into a faded red bandanna.
    I decided to make light of it. “Came to ask if you wanted to go out for coffee. Couldn’t find you under the bush in the park, so I decided to try the next best place.”
    She darted a look sideways at me, bandanna still over her mouth, and a sudden pang clamped my mouth shut. What if she thought I was making fun of her? But before I could say anything, Estelle called out, “Lucy Tucker? Lucy! Get over here, darlin’.”
    Lucy shuffled off, muttering into her bandanna.
    â€œBe sure to use the cream on that rash,” the nurse was saying to the young girl as she left the makeshift examining room. Then her attention turned to Lucy. “About time you got yourself in here, Lucy. Still got that cough, don’t you?” She shook her head and rolled her eyes behind Lucy’s back. “Obstinada.”
    They disappeared behind the screen—but Lucy was anything but quiet. “All right, all right, don’t rush me! . . . Get that thing outta my mouth, I’m gonna choke . . . whatchu mean, hold my breath? A person’s gotta breathe, don’t ya know . . .”
    Estelle hollered over her shoulder, “Don’t make me come in there, Lucy! You want lunch or don’tcha?” Several of the women waiting for a turn snickered.
    After a while, Delores Enriquez came out alone, bent down, and talked in a low undertone to Estelle. Estelle frowned and scanned the room. “Anyone know where Miz Mabel is?”
    â€œShe’s out,” someone said. “Saw her leave a while ago.”
    I made my way over to the table. “Is something wrong? Can I help?” And just how do you think you can help, Gabby Fairbanks?
    The nurse straightened up. “And you are . . . ?”
    I held out my hand. “Gabrielle Fairbanks. I’m, uh, a friend of Lucy’s.”
    â€œNo she ain’t!” a raspy voice hollered from behind the screen.
    Estelle looked at me with a smile of recognition. “Oh, that’s right! Precious told me about you.” She turned to Delores. “This is the lady who found Lucy out in the rain, sent her here last week.”
    â€œShe cut her foot