A String of Beads (Jane Whitefield, #8)(85)

21



Chelsea stood at the hospital entrance, staring out the glass at the circular driveway, hoping to spot the lights of her taxi as it drove in. It was night again, and she had spent the whole day in the hospital, being examined and medicated and questioned over and over by a steady stream of strangers. Now she was desperate to get away from this place.

She was wearing the same shorts and tank top she’d had on when the ambulance had brought her here in the morning, but a few minutes ago she had gone into the hospital gift shop and bought a blue sweatshirt that said UNIVERSITY AT BUFFALO MEDICAL SCHOOL. She had felt chilled, and also had a psychological urge to bundle herself up. The sweatshirt had been the only piece of clothing for sale that was for adults. It had occurred to her that if they’d sold pajamas to replace the gowns they gave you, the store would have gotten rich.

Today had been one of the worst days of her life. Every-thing said or done to her for the whole day since she had awakened to the sight of doctors had been prying and horrible. Anybody who had walked into her room had felt free to ask her all about the most personal aspects of her life—things that nobody had ever asked her, even her mother. And because she had been delivered to the hospital unconscious and helpless, they all acted as though she had to answer every question. The second policewoman had been the worst, because she kept asking a question and then supplying her own answer to it, so Chelsea had to keep correcting her answers.

Finally, a little while ago, she had pressed her own -question—when am I free to leave? She had asked it so many times in so many ways that she was sure the hospital staff had simply run out of ways of evading her. At last she had made them come in with a set of papers for her to sign in a dozen places. Even then she’d had to wait until an orderly arrived with a wheelchair to wheel her out to the door.

She had gone to the volunteer at the information desk to ask her for help getting a taxi. The volunteer was an older woman with white hair and a blue rinse who kept looking at her in a disapproving way. She had demanded to know why Chelsea didn’t have a family member or a friend to drive her home.

Chelsea said, “Because I don’t. I choose not to.” The woman had reluctantly lifted the telephone receiver and set it on the counter where Chelsea could reach it.

Chelsea dialed the operator and asked for the number of a taxi company. That had triggered a cheerful female machine voice that was more human than the old lady in front of her, reciting a phone number. Chelsea dialed it and said she wanted a cab to take her from the hospital to Avon right away.

The man with a foreign accent sounded as though he was on a speakerphone in the middle of a hurricane. She’d told him what she wanted again, but she wasn’t sure that he had understood her, and now, as time went on, she wasn’t sure whether what he’d said to her was yes.

Chelsea had been waiting for a long time, watching through the glass for a cab to come up into the circular driveway. She was aware that the woman at the information desk was staring at her and feeling delighted that the cab had not come. Chelsea raised her eyes to focus on the reflection of the woman in the glass, and verified that she was staring.

Chelsea pushed open the glass door and stepped out into the night air. It tasted fresh, and it was much warmer than the air-conditioned hospital had been. She wondered whether she had needed the sweatshirt or not, but admitted to herself that part of the reason she had bought it was that she had felt vulnerable and half-undressed in the shorts, tank top, and flip-flops.

She was glad to be outside. She walked out farther from the entrance and along the circular drive to the street. She couldn’t see a taxicab waiting where she might have missed it. She hadn’t had much hope for that anyway. When a cab came to a hospital it must pull up close to the entrance, and not make sick people walk far. She noticed a bus stop on the street only a few yards past the circle, though. That would be her last resort if she couldn’t get a cab, she decided. Then she remembered that she hadn’t seen a bus go by on the street in all the time she’d been waiting. Maybe they didn’t run this late. Maybe she should just call another cab company.

Chelsea turned and started back up the sidewalk toward the hospital entrance. It occurred to her that at this hour the emergency room probably had the most patients. She could go to that entrance and wait. Somebody might show up in a taxi too hurt or intoxicated to drive, or about to give birth. The cab driver would be delighted to get another passenger to take away from here.

There was the sound of tires squealing as a vehicle pulled onto the traffic circle behind her. She turned to look over her shoulder, but the vehicle wasn’t a cab. It was a big red pickup truck, and it skidded to a stop beside her.

“Chelsea!”

She stopped and stared at the truck’s open side window. The driver was Dave Wilkins, one of the men who had worked with Nick, and beside him was another, Ron Gerard.

Wilkins smiled. “Come on. Get in.”

“What are you two doing here?” Chelsea said.

Gerard leaned toward her across Wilkins. “We came to see you.”

Wilkins pushed him back. “Shut up,” he hissed.

Chelsea knew she hadn’t been meant to hear that. “It’s almost midnight. Visiting hours end at nine.”

Wilkins said, “We just heard they’d taken you to the hospital, so we figured you’d be in the emergency room. It took a while to find out you weren’t, and then find out you’d been admitted, and then that you’d just left. You’re lucky we found you. Come on. We’ll give you a ride back.”