Cupid's Christmas (Serendipity #3)(44)

When he failed to rouse anyone at the Gray house, Ray spent two hours driving back and forth to the shops Eleanor frequented. He checked the hair salon, the supermarket, and three different gas stations. According to the clerks he spoke with, Eleanor had not been there for days. He then began knocking on doors. He tried seven of her neighbors, but no one seemed to know anything. Louise Farmer claimed she hadn’t seen Eleanor in several months and was almost certain she’d moved.

When Ray returned home the red light on his answering machine was blinking. He hit play and listened to Eleanor’s message.

She hadn’t said what hospital, so he pressed redial and waited. After several rings the operator answered, “Jefferson University Hospital.”

“I’m trying to reach Eleanor Barrow, she’s a patient.”

“Inbound patient calls are not permitted after ten o’clock,” the voice said.

“I’m her son!”

“I’m sorry, there are no exceptions—”

“Let me speak to the nurse in charge!”

“Very well, sir. What’s the patient’s room number?”

“I don’t know her room number,” he snapped, “can’t you look it up?”

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t have that information. You need to speak to Patient Services. Hold on, I’ll transfer you.”

Ray heard the click and waited. After several minutes, a dial tone sounded.

Three tries later he got Marjorie Elkins, the Third Floor Night Nurse. “I’m trying to get some information about Eleanor Barrow,” he said. “She’s the patient in room 317.”

Marjorie had a blinding headache and a bunion that had throbbed for five days straight. She was counting the minutes until the end of her shift so she could go home and crawl into bed. She could barely tolerate the demanding patients, and had absolutely no tolerance for impatient callers. She glanced down the list of patients spotted the woman’s name, then replied, “She’s stable.” It was an answer she used often, one people generally could accept—it suggested the patient was doing fine and didn’t offer the promise of anything that might not be possible.

Since this was Ray’s fifth telephone call to the hospital, he was also short on patience and long on attitude. “Not enough,” he said sharply. “I want to know what’s wrong with her.”

“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with her doctor.”

“Who is her doctor?”

Marjorie flipped open the chart again. “Doctor Shameer,” she said. “He’s not on duty this evening, but I can transfer you to his voice mail.”

“Can’t you just tell me what’s wrong with her?”

Marjorie’s head was killing her and listening to this arrogant jerk wasn’t helping matters. “No I can’t,” she snapped irritably, “and even if I wanted to, there’s a little thing called the patient privacy law.”

“I’m Ray Barrow, her son!”

“Your name is not on the list of those authorized to receive patient information.”

“Whose name is on the list?”

“I’m not allowed to give you that information.”

“This is going nowhere,” he griped. “Just tell Eleanor Barrow to call her son.”

“Okay.” Marjorie hung up the telephone and started to scribble the message on a sticky note but, before she finished writing, Winifred Willkie’s alarm went off and made it look like she was flat lining. “Good grief,” Marjorie gasped and went scurrying down the hall. As it turned out, the woman had simply disconnected herself from the monitor because she had to go to the bathroom, but her roommate claimed that she indeed was having severe pains in her chest. When Marjorie finally returned to the nursing station, Ray’s message had long since been forgotten.



Traci, who’d been visiting her parents in Hoboken, arrived home shortly after midnight. She walked in and found Ray standing beside the wall phone in their Kitchen. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Waiting for Mom to call,” he answered. “She’s in the hospital and…” He went on to explain how he’d heard the crash and finally learned that she was at Jefferson University Hospital. “The problem,” he said, “is that they won’t give me any information about her condition. For all I know—”

“Why didn’t you just go to the hospital and ask her?”

“It was too late by the time I found out. They wouldn’t even put my call through.” When Ray spoke he no longer had the squint of scorn he’d begun to use when talking about his mother. His eyebrows were pinched together and ridges of worry lined his forehead.

Traci walked over, leaned against his chest and hooked her arms around his neck, “If you’re worried about your mom, why don’t you give John Gray a call? He probably knows—”

“I’ve already tried,” he said. “I even drove over there, but nobody’s home.”

That’s when Traci knew Ray was honestly concerned about his mother. After the Labor Day cookout, he’d sworn he’d never again speak to John Gray or any member of his family. “That includes Mom, if she goes ahead with this marriage,” he’d said. But now he’d not just called, he’d actually gone to John’s house.