The Mystery of Hollow Places(15)
I suppose I don’t know for certain that my mother hasn’t been to Good Shepherd in the past seven years for a broken arm or something, that Sidonie Scott’s file isn’t active and up there in the HIS department with poor, clueless, keyless Mrs. Masciarelli. But if it is, what can I do about it? Breaking into a dusty storage room in the basement is one thing; breaking into the records department of a busy hospital, another. So I set that worry aside for the moment.
I know my mother’s name is Sidonie, more or less admitted by Dad and confirmed by the dedication. I know she gave birth in this hospital in 1998, confirmed by . . . well, my birth. That’s about it. And even so . . .
“I don’t know her maiden name,” I say. “She might have used her maiden name, right? Your mom does. People do that.”
Jessa frowns. “Haven’t you seen your birth certificate or anything? Like when you got your license?”
“No. Dad came with me and handled all that.”
“And you never asked?”
“Of course I asked. Dad’s . . . sensitive about stuff like that.” Asking to hear my bedtime story was one thing. He never minded telling me stories. But pestering Dad for details about Mom, especially in the bad times, was wise only if I wanted to watch him wallow for days in a pit of sadness and empty beer cans and late-night infomercials.
“Okay.” She blows out a breath that stirs years of dust into the air. “So we look for Sidney Something? Like that won’t take forever.”
“Sid-o-nie,” I correct. There can’t be many of them, but the boxes for 1998 fill five shelves, and we definitely don’t have forever. I hop off the stacks I’m straddling, zip open my bag in the corner, and extract A Time to Chill. I turn to the dedication page, as if the information I’m looking for will magically appear in the text. Surprise! It doesn’t. I flip through the whole book quickly. This is the best clue I have. It led me to Good Shepherd Hospital. It led me to the storage room in the basement. Maybe her last name is here somewhere. I turn it over in my hands, read the back cover.
“Find the F’s,” I say. “All of them for 1998.”
Jessa digs right in through the cobwebs, and I’m sort of shocked by her cooperation. I climb back up and between us we zero in on the first box of F’s. There are fewer than the S’s, thank god, and before long I land on a thin file that drains the blood from my head and pounds it right into my heart.
Faye, Sidonie.
SIX
“But we have to go to the Friendly Toast,” Jessa says, examining herself in the mirror in the second-floor bathroom half an hour later.
“Just go without me. I’ll take the train home.”
“Ugh, by yourself? Last time I took it this guy sat down and clipped his fingernails right next to me. He got skin cells in my umbrella.”
“I’ve done it lots of times before.” I’ve always ridden with Dad, but I don’t say so. I wouldn’t mind taking the commuter rail, would love the chance to read my mother’s file while the train winds toward Sugarbrook between so many lakes, you’d think Massachusetts was just a thin film of land over endless, bottomless water. It’s a cold two-mile walk from the train and bus station to my house on Cedar Lane, but that might be better than calling Lindy for a ride.
“But I already told my brother you’re coming. . . .” Jessa smiles, playing her best card. Chad Price hardly cares if I show, much to my perpetual disappointment, and the last thing I’m in the mood for is clumsy flirting over all-day breakfast burritos.
“I’m all dusty and spiderwebby. I look like the Crypt Keeper.”
“You look, like, amazing,” she says while studying her own reflection, which is pretty close to perfect in her awesome yellow jacket, black skinny cords, and tan Bebe heels with gold tips. After a few strokes of a pocket comb, her hair flows across her shoulders in an unrumpled sheet. One coat of Baby Lips pink-tinted lip balm, and it’s easy to see why she’s never needed her own car, or even a license. A girl like Jessa rides in boys’ cars, and they think she’s doing them a favor.
Because my outfit was meant to be functional for thievery and inspire sympathy in Dr. Van Tassel, the overall look is Mission: Pathetic. From black (but really gray) tennis shoes to old black jeans loose in all the wrong places to a shapeless black puffy coat Dad bought me last year (Lindy, mouth twisted in sympathy, offered to return it and buy me something more fashionable, after which I wanted nothing more than to keep it), I’m not dressed for success. I am wearing one of my favorite shirts, at least, a long-sleeve tee with the entire text of Dad’s latest book, A Shriek in the Dark, printed on it in very, very small type. He bought this one at a mystery writers’ conference in New Jersey, and I wore it to school the next day: senior picture day, to Lindy’s dismay. Lindy would prefer I wear blouses instead of Tshirts. I genuinely wish I knew what separates a blouse from a T-shirt. Fancier fabric? Ruffles?
And though I swear my mousy hair was in a neat ponytail this morning—the better not to be mistaken for a rogue mental patient in the halls of Good Shepherd—hours of climbing the stacks in a dirty basement have mussed it every which way. Jessa does what she can with tap water to smooth it back and offers me her mini can of hairspray wordlessly.
I frown into the mirror. “This is useless. Just leave me.”