Thank You for Listening(68)

He just stared at her.

Unable to hold his gaze, she looked at her shoes. “Go ahead. Say it. I deserve it.”

“How could you . . .” He drifted off and, stomach in her throat, Sewanee glanced up. “Keep all of that going the whole time?” There was a genuine note of reverence in his voice. “I mean . . .” He lowered his gaze at her. “The whole time.”

She opened her mouth to explain further, but he started clapping. “An editor from Texas named Alice. Brilliant!” Then he shrugged. “And, yeah, I get it. Vegas.” He pointed at the bar. “Wanna drink?”

“Are you . . . you’re not upset?”

“Upset? I want to take lessons from you.”

“That’s–that’s it?”

“Well, that and . . .” His eyes roved down her body. “That’s a beautiful dress.” He turned to the bar, pitched his voice. “Mate! Before you pack it all up, could I bother you for–” He turned back to Sewanee with a collusive smile. “Vodka soda, was it?” At her open-mouthed blank stare, he said to the bartender, “Two vodka sodas, please.” He came back to her once again, leaned an elbow on the bar once again. “So how you been?”

“Can we . . . I have a few hundred questions for you, June French’s nephew, that I’d like to–”

“Ah, sure, yes, shoot.”

She began vibrating. A pulsing vibration. Before she could ponder how he had this effect on her, she realized the vibration was real and coming from her ballgown’s right pocket. She dug her phone out to dismiss the call, assuming it was Mark checking in on her, only to see on the screen: SEASONS.

“I-I actually have to–”

“No worries. I’ll be here. Admiring that dress.”

Flustered, still looking at him, she brought the phone to her ear. “Hello? What?” She pivoted away, her attention going fully to the call. “When? I was just there! I’ll be right over. No, I’m coming right now, don’t do anything else.” She dropped the phone from her ear, but instead of moving, she simply stood there, let it dangle at her hip.

Nick straightened. “Everything all right?”

“It’s my grandmother.” Sewanee raised her eye to his. Heard herself say, “She tried to kill herself.” Once the words were said, she jolted into movement. “I have to go. Oh my God.” But she stopped again.

“What can I do?” Nick’s voice helped spur her to movement once more.

“I don’t know. Nothing. I’m sorry, I . . . I have to go.” She went out the main doors, Nick right behind her. There was a taxi parked in a waiting zone. Then Nick was opening the door and she was plunging through it. He jumped in after her, she told the driver where to go, that it was an emergency, and minutes later, Sewanee was jumping out before the car had fully stopped. Nick threw cash at the driver and charged after her.

She was already through the front doors when Nick called out, “I’ll wait in the lobby!”

She heard the words, but made no acknowledgment. She was already navigating the hallways leading to Blah.

SEWANEE ROUNDED THE corner into her grandmother’s room. There were three people huddled around the bed. “Where is she?” Sewanee demanded.

All three turned to her and stepped away, revealing Blah’s frail form slumping upright, nightgown twisted around her thin, veiny thighs. “Blah.” Sewanee went right over to her. “It’s okay, I’m here.” She tried to catch her grandmother’s gaze, but her eyes were unfocused and glassy, wide with residual terror, darting loopily around the room. “What happened?” Sewanee asked, trying to sound steady.

“She’d been–” a young female nurse started, cleared her throat. “She was agitated. Telling people to get away from her, but no one was there. Then she wanted to go see the movie. And that seemed to calm her down. But when it was over–”

“Before it was over,” an older woman chimed in.

The nurse–who, Sewanee glimpsed from her name tag, was Gina–nodded. “Before it was over, she started up conversations with imaginary people–”

“What was she saying?” Sewanee asked.

“Things like, ‘You’re always like this’ and ‘leave me alone.’ So I brought her back to her room, got her into bed, and then I went to talk to Carlos about meds–”

Carlos interjected, professionally, “I suggested her usual dose of Ativan.”

“And?”

“I got the Ativan,” Gina continued, “came back into her room and . . .” She pointed at the window. “She was halfway out.”

“How the hell did–” But Sewanee stopped.

The window had been open.

Because she’d opened it.

And not closed it.

This was her fault.

“I yelled for Carlos. We pulled her back inside and that’s when the screaming started.” Sewanee noticed Gina was holding her right forearm with her left hand. There was gauze underneath her fingers. At Sewanee’s questioning look, Gina said, “She scratched me. Just a little. I’m fine.”

Reeling, Sewanee turned back to Blah. She appeared completely disoriented. Her mouth had gone slack, her hair was standing up as if she’d been in a pillow fight.