Goodnight Tweetheart (15 page)

Chapter Sixteen

I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re not at liberty to divulge that information.”

As the hospital operator’s tinny voice filled her ear, Abby winced. Since returning from the park several hours ago, she’d heard dozens of variations on the same theme and learned far more than she ever wanted to about the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, or as it was known by the medically hip—HIPAA. Designed to protect a patient’s medical information, the act’s stringent privacy rule also made it nearly impossible to determine whether or not the individual in question actually existed or was simply a figment of your imagination.

In the eyes of the United States Department of Health and Human Services, asking a simple question like, “Can you tell me if Mark Baynard is—or was—a patient at your hospital?” was akin to requesting the nuclear codes for a Russian submarine.

“Still no luck?” Margo turned to ask Abby, shrugging her well-muscled shoulders to work the kinks out of them.

Responding to Abby’s frantic distress signal, Margo had appeared on Abby’s doorstep several hours ago, bearing a sack of warm donuts and a cardboard tray of emergency lattes. She’d spent the past several hours hunched over the desk, using Abby’s laptop to Google the name and number of every hospital in the country that specialized in treating non-Hodgkins lymphoma, then narrowing down her finds to those with a reputation for conducting clinical trials. She would fill up a page with her notes, then pass them to where Abby sat curled up in a corner of the leather couch, the cordless phone pressed against her ear like an extra appendage.

A quick shake of Abby’s head told Margo everything she needed to know.

While her friend returned to her search, Abby went down the most recent list Margo had given her, dialing one number after another until both her ear and her index finger went numb.

The very first call she’d made had been to Ole Miss. But Mark’s employer hadn’t been any more willing than the hospitals to reveal his current condition or whereabouts. Not even pretending to be one of his former besotted female students had softened their stony hearts.

Margo turned to hand her another sheet of paper, the worried look in her dark liquid eyes leaving little doubt that she believed Abby’s desperate quest would end in heartbreak.

Abby snatched the paper from her friend’s hand, avoiding those eyes. “Don’t say it, Margo. Just keep Googling. I promise I’ll have you back in Javier’s bed in no time.”

“It’s not Javier. It’s Guillermo,” Margo informed her with a wounded flare of her regal nostrils. “And he has a photo shoot today so I won’t be expecting him until late tonight.”

“What’s he going to be? Mr. October?”

“I’ll have you know he’s a perfectly respectable hand model.”

“From what I saw of him, I never would have guessed his hands were his best feature.”

“That’s because you’ve never spent a night in his bed.”

Smiling in spite of herself, Abby began to dial the next number on her list. The operator who answered sounded younger and kinder than most.

She actually heaved an apologetic sigh before proceeding to crush Abby’s hopes. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but due to HIPAA regulations, we’re not allowed to give out information on any of our patients.”

Abby was about to hit the disconnect button and move on to the next number on the list when she realized exactly what the woman had said. She snatched the receiver back to her ear. “
Your
patients? Are you saying that Mark Baynard actually
is
your patient?”

There was an awkward moment of silence followed by a tentative swallow. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to divulge that information. Even if it was true.”

“Thank you. Thank you so very much,” Abby said softly before lowering the receiver.

She ran her trembling finger down Margo’s elegant scrawl until she found the number she had just dialed. She traced it over to the right-hand column of the page—
New York-Presbyterian Hospital
.

Handling the loose leaf of notebook paper as if it were a scrap of Egyptian parchment in danger of crumbling to dust in her hands, Abby carried it over to the desk and laid it next to the laptop.

She pointed to the entry in question. “Can you pull this one up for me again?”

There must have been something in her voice that stopped Margo from offering either a question or a protest. She simply typed the name of the hospital in the Search box, her bronzed nails flying over the keyboard, then clicked on the first result that came up.

According to its sleek yet user-friendly website, the New York-Presbyterian Hospital on East Sixty-eighth Street was a state-of-the-art medical center. It was also home to the Treatment Center for Lymphoma and Myeloma. Abby leaned over Margo’s shoulder to read the brochure-ready copy on the web page:

The Center pioneered the growth of radiolabeled antibody treatment for lymphoma, and has conducted a significant number of clinical trials in this area. The Center also was among the first to combine chemotherapy with radiolabeled antibodies as part of initial therapy for patients newly diagnosed with lymphoma. Several clinical trials are also underway to evaluate vaccines administered following chemotherapy to delay or prevent recurrence of tumor. The Center’s B cell lymphoma program continues to attract patients from all over the world with its innovative immunological therapies
.

Still gazing blindly at the screen, Abby straightened.

New York-Presbyterian. East Sixty-eighth Street.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All this time Mark had been less than ten short blocks from her apartment. A brisk walk on a sunny afternoon.

Feeling as if she were sleepwalking through a dream, she returned to the phone. Her hands were oddly steady as she dialed the number a second time. A different operator answered this time—one who sounded far more seasoned and far less likely to accidentally reveal confidential information.

Abby chose her words with care. “I know you’re not allowed to give out any information on your patients, but would it be possible for you to page a member of a patient’s family for me?”

“Name please?”

A shaky sigh escaped Abby as she silently prayed Mark’s little sister wasn’t married yet. “Kate Baynard.”

“Please hold.”

Abby swallowed hard, gripping the receiver for dear life. She could feel Margo standing behind her, her own breathing stilted.

The operator returned to the line, her tone as brisk and impersonal as a recording’s. “Just one moment.”

Then there was a click and a woman who sounded both very young and very tired said, “This is Kate. Can I help you?”

“This is Abby, Kate.” As Margo squeezed her shoulder, Abby closed her eyes, finally allowing the tears to flow. “Mark’s Abby.”

Abby strode down a long beige corridor that could have belonged in any hospital anywhere in the country. She hadn’t brought flowers or a musical Hallmark card that played “I Will Survive.” She hadn’t even taken the time to change out of her coffee-stained T-shirt and faded cargo shorts.

The warm hues of the brightly patterned carpet did their best to offset the chilly glow of the overhead fluorescents. Open doors flanked the hallway, but Abby kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, resisting her natural urge to steal a peek into each room as she passed. These patients had already lost so much. They at least deserved their privacy.

A number on the wall informed her that she had arrived at her destination. The door to the room was half ajar. The overhead light had been turned off, leaving the room bathed in the dim glow of a bedside lamp. Several of the other rooms had had canned laughter or muffled voices drifting out into the corridor from the flat-panel TVs mounted on the walls, but the only sound drifting out of this room was the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

Abby lifted her hand, but before she could knock she spotted the young woman curled up in the recliner just inside the door. She had made herself a cozy nest out of a hospital blanket and furnished it with a stack of Harlequin romances, the latest novel by Stieg Larsson, and a battered Dell laptop, which appeared to be in sleep mode just like its owner. The floor around the chair was littered with empty Styrofoam cups and several packages of half-eaten crackers that could have only come from a hospital vending machine.

With her curly brown hair caught back from her face in a banana clip and her freckled face scrubbed clean of makeup, Kate Baynard looked very young. The fact that she had drifted back into a deep doze when she had known Abby was coming revealed the depth of her exhaustion. It was clear she had no intention of leaving her brother’s bedside as long as he might need her.

Abby carefully tucked the blanket around the girl’s shoulders before turning to the bed.

There was no sign of Hillary Clinton, but a hardcover copy of
Time Out of Mind
by Abigail Donovan rested facedown on the bedside table. Shaking her head ruefully, Abby studied the younger and glossier version of herself smiling up at her from the back of the dust jacket. She was surprised to realize she no longer either envied or pitied that woman. Maybe in time she might even grow to like her.

She turned to gaze down at the man in the bed, overwhelmed by a rush of tenderness. They were strangers in so many ways, but not in any ways that mattered.

He opened his eyes and blinked up at her. Then blinked again. His eyes widened with gratifying shock as he realized that live or die, he wasn’t going to do it without her.

“Hello, Dr. Evil,” she said softly. “Surely you didn’t think you could elude me forever.”

He smiled then, and it was a smile she would have known anywhere. It was the smile Sam had given Frodo at the end of
Return of the King
. The smile that said, “I will always be your friend. I will always love you no matter what you’ve done and no matter what you’ll ever do.”

It was
that
smile that lit up his eyes as he reached for her hand and said, “Hello, Tweetheart.”

gallery Readers group guide

Discussion Questions

1. When Mark and Abby first “meet” on Twitter, Mark isn’t entirely truthful about his identity. Do you think it’s common for people to wear “masks” when they first meet someone? To present themselves as the man or woman they believe the other person wants them to be?

2. What do you think about the statement Abby quotes to Mark during their first “date”?: “You’ll never have more in common than you do on your first date.”

3. Have you ever had immediate chemistry with someone you’ve met, either in a friendship or a romantic relationship? Do you believe it’s a physical response or an emotional one?

4. Do you believe in love at first sight? Or love at first tweet?

5. Abby shares her favorite book, Peter S. Beagle’s
A Fine and Private Place
, with Mark. Have you ever found common ground with a stranger by sharing your favorite book, movie, TV show, or piece of music? Is that a mating ritual or just a common way that strangers often bond?

6. If you were to tell someone your favorite book at this precise moment in your life’s journey, what would it be? How does it reflect who you are and/or your belief systems?

7. Abby says the central theme of
A Fine and Private Place
is that death gives life meaning and life gives death meaning. Do you believe this to be true?

8. Does life being finite give us even more reason to celebrate every moment of it? If you could do something special to celebrate your own life, what would it be?

9. How do you feel Abby’s relationships with her parents colored her relationship with Mark?

10. Would you have been able to forgive Mark for his deception? Do you feel like Abby’s response was appropriate? Would you have gone harder on Mark or easier on him if faced with a similar circumstance?

11. Did you notice any hints about Mark’s situation in their exchanges that Abby may have missed?

12. Abby and Mark both mention music in a way that tells you it’s important to their lives. If you could pick out a song to reflect their relationship, what would it be? Have you and a significant other ever shared a special song you considered “yours”?

13. At one point Mark says, “Irving, like Jerry Seinfeld, knows the only way to survive this life is to view it as some sort of absurdist tragic-comedy.” Do you think he was being overly flippant or do you find that humor helps you cope with the challenges of your own life?

14. Do you believe that social media sites like Facebook and Twitter enhance intimacy or make it more difficult to achieve?

15. If you were writing the ending of Mark and Abby’s story, what would it be?