Mercy Street(75)

Phil gave her his scrutinizing look.

“A website,” he repeated, frowning. “Claudia, you’re not making any sense.”

“Wait till you see it.” She pulled up the Hall of Shame and handed Phil her phone.

He scrolled and swiped, literally openmouthed. It was unsettling to see him at a loss for words.

“Wow. This is pretty elaborate,” he said at last. “One guy did all this?”

“I don’t see how. I mean, it’s pretty clear they were taken at different clinics. I counted six different locations, and there could be more. He keeps adding more photos.”

There was more she could have said. The dreams that woke her in the night, the hours—hours—she’d spent staring at the website. The hundreds of times she had refreshed that particular page.

“We know about one guy for sure, because we have him on video. He came back the other day, but the security guard scared him off.”

Phil said, “Have you talked to the police?”

“The police are aware. They’ve seen the video, they know what he looks like. Right now we’re just waiting for him to come back.”

“And then what?”

Claudia had been asking herself the same question.

“Well, that’s kind of the problem. As far as we can tell, he isn’t breaking any laws.” She closed her eyes, suddenly exhausted. “But, you know, it’s not harmless. There’s a reason we’re so careful about our patients’ privacy. People are crazy on this subject.”

The waitress arrived with a tray. Phil, as always, had ordered the special—today, a pastrami sandwich reeking of garlic. Claudia’s omelet looked slightly congealed. The smell of egg was mildly disgusting. She pushed away the plate.

“You’re not eating?” Again the scrutinizing look. “Claudia, are you all right?”

“I wish people would stop asking me that.” Her head felt a little swimmy. The room was suddenly too loud, too hot. “I’m fine. A little tired.”

“You need a break.” Phil took a slice of toast from her plate and buttered it. “A change of scene. Weren’t you supposed to go up to Maine?”

“I went. It was okay. I don’t know what to say. It was—Clayburn,” she said, as though that meant anything to him. In all the years they’d known each other, she had never once taken him there.

He handed her the toast and she took it, chewing obediently.

“Did Stuart go with you?”

“There is no more Stuart. Stuart is gonzo,” she said. Whether he’d stopped calling, or she had simply stopped answering, wasn’t clear and didn’t matter. It was another argument in favor of the e-boyfriend—the most persuasive one, really. There was no need, ever, for a messy breakup. There was simply nothing to break.

Phil frowned. “I’m missing something here. What happened?”

I fucked my weed dealer, she did not say.

“Nothing,” she said quickly. “No hard feelings. I wasn’t that into him, honestly.” Which was true, as far as it went.

She stole a glance at her phone.

“I have to run,” she said, laying cash on the table. “I’m late for an appointment. My fucking mammogram. I’m okay!” she said, fake-exasperated. She had never been a crier. Now, for reasons she couldn’t begin to articulate, she was near tears.

DESPITE THE SNOW, THE T WAS RUNNING ON SCHEDULE. SHE took the Green Line to a busy neighborhood south of the Fenway, blocks and blocks of clinics and hospitals. It was a part of town she avoided studiously, except for this one day each year.

At the reception desk a nurse taped a paper bracelet around her wrist. In the waiting room she flipped through an issue of Damsel. She scanned the masthead for familiar names—her old colleagues, the assistant editors—but there were none she recognized. Twenty years later, everyone had moved on.

A young nurse appeared, dressed in pale blue scrubs. “Claudia B.?”

It was the standard HIPAA protocol they followed on Mercy Street. Claudia had used the same convention, first name plus initial, to sign the made-up letters addressed to “Ask Damsel.” To protect the privacy of the imaginary reader, a woman living with secret agonies: cellulite, combination skin, weak, brittle nails.

She gathered her purse and coat and followed the nurse down the hall.

“Changing rooms are on your left.” The nurse handed her a folded hospital gown and a locker key attached to a bracelet, a pink plastic Slinky to be worn around the wrist.

In the dressing cubicle, Claudia stripped off her sweater and stashed it in a locker. She put on the gown, a hip-length kimono wide as a Hefty bag, and wound the belt twice around her waist. As she shuffled down the hall to Gowned Waiting, she was aware of her purse, hanging ridiculously from her shoulder. The other women in Gowned Waiting looked ridiculous too, and intensely vulnerable—breasts hanging loose under the gaping kimonos, pink Slinky on one wrist, paper bracelet on the other. No one made eye contact. They all wanted to be invisible. They all wanted, simply, to disappear.

“Claudia B.?” the nurse called.

The other women in Gowned Waiting looked up expectantly. Claudia hugged her kimono around her and proceeded down the hall.

Entering the X-ray room was like stepping into a refrigerator. From a college photography class she recognized the smell, the distinctive odor of darkroom chemicals. The technician was an Indian woman in heavy black-framed eyeglasses, too large for her narrow face.