WEBCAM (18 page)

Tom nodded. “I know.”

“You swore to me.”

Tom nodded. “I know.”

“And now you’re in the hospital.”

“Just for observation.”

Tom had gotten six stitches in the arm from the bite. Not too serious. But who knew what diseases that poor guy had? Tom’s doctor decided to screen Tom for pretty much everything, from tetanus to rabies to herpes to AIDS to Rocky Mountain spotted fever.

Joan sat next to his bed, gave one of her Hollywood dramatic sighs. “Dammit, Tom.”

“I’m sorry, Joan. I didn’t want to wind up like this. Trust me. I had different plans.”

“
We
had plans, Tom. Me and you. And
we
have rules about working when we’re visiting each other. And
you
threw those rules out the window.”

Tom thought about the engagement ring in his jacket.

Probably wasn’t the right time.

Joan rubbed her temples—always a bad sign—and then turned to stare out the fourth floor window.

“I really don’t want to be a bitch—”

“You’re not. This is my fault.”

“—but that’s what I’m feeling like right now. Like the high-maintenance, always unhappy girlfriend. I don’t like feeling this way, Tom.”

“Joan, you’re not high-maintenance. We have ground rules. I’m the one who broke them. You’re a saint to put up with me.”

“What if I did what you did?”

“What? Went to work when I was visiting?”

When Joan looked at him again, her eyes were glassy. “What if I went into some psychopath’s house and got chewed on?”

Oh, man. This was worse than Tom had thought.

“Joan…”

“I’m serious. You love me, right?”

“Of course.”

“What if I kept putting myself in dangerous situations? What if I chased killers? What if, every time the phone rang, you knew there was a chance it would be my boss, calling to tell you I was dead?”

What do you say to that? “I’m sorry, Joan.”

Joan stood up. “Bullshit, Tom. I make movies for a living. The stuff I produce is as fake as the people I produce it with. The worst thing that can happen in my career is being attached to a flop. You?
You’re in the hospital because a crazy man tried to bite your arm off
.”

Tom knew exactly what this was. It was the well-worn
what if you don’t come home
argument. Every spouse of every cop came to that same conclusion, sooner or later. Tom had co-workers who’d gone through it. In many cases, it preceded a break-up, a separation, or a divorce. Tom had never dealt with it before, because he’d never been as close with anyone as he was with Joan.

The problem was, she was right. There was no way to win this argument. If a significant other couldn’t accept it, the only recourse was splitting up.

They’d had a less extreme version of this fight before, and Tom had promised to quit the force. But he hadn’t. And Joan hadn’t pushed him. Now it was years later, and he was still on the street, chasing scumbags. Tom had thought his girlfriend’s lack of complaints meant she was okay with his chosen profession.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“I’ll quit,” he said.

“You’ve said that before.”

“I mean it this time.”

Joan dug out her cell phone and tossed it on the bed. “Okay. Do it. Call your Captain right now. Tell him today was your last day.”

Tom stared at the phone.

“What are you waiting for?” Joan demanded.

“I can’t just stop working, Joan. I’m a civil servant. I have to give proper notice. I could lose my pension.”

“To hell with your pension. I make enough money.”

“I can’t just quit, Joan.”

“Bullshit, Tom. It’s not that you
can’t
. It’s that you
won’t
. And it isn’t because you’re worried about your pension. It’s this nutjob you’re chasing. The Snipper. You can’t quit until you catch him. Admit it.”

Tom didn’t answer. She’d nailed the truth, and any defense would be a lie.

Joan put her hands on her hips. “You aren’t answering because you know I’m right.”

“Okay. I’ll quit as soon as I catch him.”

Joan turned to the window again. Neither of them said anything for almost a minute.

“Chasing bad people… Joan, that’s part of who I am. It’s one of the reasons you fell in love with me. If you want me to change, I’ll try. For you, I’ll try. But it isn’t going to happen overnight.”

She continued to stare into the street below. “It’s never going to happen, Tom. You said it yourself. It’s who you are. But I don’t think I can handle it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t want to feel this way, Tom.”

“Joan?”

She shook her head.

“Joan, please look at me.”

Her shoulders shook. She was crying.

Tom reached over to the dresser next to the bed, and opened the drawer. He fished out his jacket, digging into the pocket for the ring. Then he swung his legs out of bed and walked to her. His IV stopped him before he could reach her, the needle pulling at the vein in his arm.

“Joan, I need to ask you something.”

Joan turned.

Looked at his hand.

Saw the ring.

And then made the saddest face Tom had ever seen.

“No. You’re not doing this right now.”

“Joan…”

“This isn’t fair, Tom.”

Tom got down on one knee, the IV ripping free, causing a machine next to his bed to start pinging.

“Joan DeVilliers, will you—”

“Stop! Just stop!”

“Joan, I’ve never wanted anything more than this.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Joan put her hands on her hips. “Then walk away from your job. Right now. Walk away, let someone else catch this maniac. You do that, I’ll marry you.”

Tom didn’t say anything.

The silence was horrible.

“Well, then,” said Joan. “Apparently there is something you want more than me.”

She walked past him, past his outstretched hand, and toward the door.

“Marry me,” he said. “Please.”

She stopped in the doorway. “You know my terms. When you’ve made your decision, you can call me.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she said.

Then she left.

Tom got up off his one knee. Got back into bed. Stared at the blood dribbling down his arm. Stared at the engagement ring. Tried to think of a worse moment in his life, and couldn’t.

A nurse eventually came in, chiding him while replacing his IV. “This has antibiotics in it, Mr. Mankowski. You need to leave it in. We’ve diagnosed the man who bit you and…” His voice trailed off.

“And what?”

“There’s a specialist coming in. He’ll explain it.”

That was a cryptic thing to say, and under normal circumstances Tom wouldn’t have let the man leave until the nurse explained himself.

But at that very moment, Tom just didn’t give a shit.

CHAPTER 31

It was twelve-hundred eighty-six steps to the Carpenter Clinic, and Kendal was four minutes late for her appointment. She waited outside until it became five minutes, because 5 was a better number, and then pulled at the front door.

The door was locked.

Kendal tried to push. That didn’t work, either. She checked the hinges on the door, and pulling was correct, so she tried it again and the door opened.

Standing there was a tall woman wearing an expression somewhere between irritated and bored. She wore pink scrubs, white Keds, and her nametag read
Nurse Demeter
.

“Good morning, dear,” the nurse said in the fake-sounding way people talked when they didn’t care about you in the slightest.

She turned on her heels and Kendal followed her down a linoleum-tiled hallway, with many of the tiles torn up, as if the place were being remodeled. It took eighteen steps to get to the waiting room. The nurse took a seat behind the counter and focused all her attention on her cell phone screen. Kendal looked around the room. Empty chairs, an end table littered with magazines, a potted silk floor plant in need of dusting, an old coffee machine, the carafe empty.

Kendal counted chairs, picked the third one from the door, and went to sit down.

“Take a clipboard and completely fill out the information,” the nurse said without looking at her.

Her nerves already shattered from last night, Kendal flinched at the order. She eyed the chair, and was compelled to continue toward it, touching the armrest three times before turning and taking five steps to the counter, taking the clipboard, returning five steps to the chair, and then tapping the armrest three more times before sitting.

She glanced nervously at the nurse, but the woman didn’t notice Kendal’s compulsive behavior. Or she simply didn’t care.

Kendal pulled the provided pencil out of the clipboard spring and began to go through the health history questionnaire.

No anemia, arthritis, cataracts, diabetes, emphysema, gout, heart attack, high blood pressure, kidney stones, migraines, stroke, thyroid condition, or ulcer.

So far, so good.

No surgeries, no blood transfusions, not pregnant, no tobacco use, moderate alcohol use, drugs…

Kendal didn’t see how smoking grass every once and a while was anyone’s business, so she checked no.

Medication?
Nothing in years. So not worth mentioning.

Family history.
She had an involuntary image of her father flash into her mind, and checked off alcohol abuse.

Sexual history…

It didn’t have any qualifiers for
consensual
, and Kendal didn’t want to get into any of that, so she just checked
no
for everything.

Mental history…

Kendal looked over the checklist.

Bipolar disorder. Depression. Post-traumatic stress. Anxiety. Anger. Suicide. Violence.

This wasn’t so much a questionnaire as a greatest hits of Kendal’s psychiatric history. Yes to everything. Thank you, Father. You’ve given me so much.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

She checked it off. Three times.

Schizophrenia.

Schizophrenia. That’s the question, isn’t it? Is this internal monologue I’m having with myself normal, or abnormal?

And what does any of this have to do with a goddamn mammogram?

Kendal left it blank, filled in her insurance information, and took the five steps back to Nurse Demeter, setting down the clipboard.

The nurse didn’t so much as glance at her, or at the information Kendal had just filled out. She scowled at her smart phone, put it in her pocket, and said, “Follow me.”

Kendal hurried to keep up as the larger woman took giant strides back down the hallway.

“You can change in here,” she said, pointing to a doorway. “Take your sweater and bra off, there are gowns hanging up, behind you.”

Kendal went inside the changing room and stood there, waiting for the nurse to leave.

The nurse didn’t leave.

“The gowns are hanging up behind you,” Nurse Demeter repeated, sterner this time.

Kendal turned and saw two drab, pale blue hospital gowns. She reached for one, took it off the hanger, and then glanced back at Nurse Demeter.

The nurse folded her arms across her ample chest. Apparently she wasn’t going anywhere.

Kendal hesitantly removed her jacket, laying it on the bench, hating herself for having to touch it three times.

“Come on, now. Chop chop.”

Kendal wasn’t sure that
chop chop
was an appropriate thing to say to a woman when she’d come in for a breast exam, but she figured Nurse Demeter was one of those naturally rude people who was oblivious to her effect on others. And a pervert, too. Did she want to watch Kendal get undressed? She sort of looked a bit mannish. Something about her posture. Or her big hands.

If Linda were there, she would have made a joke about it. Linda was tough. A lot tougher than Kendal. She’d almost asked Linda to come with, but her roommate was still sleeping in her bed, and looked so peaceful Kendal hadn’t woken her up.

Linda wouldn’t be embarrassed. Or nervous. She’d take off her top, and stare the creepy nurse right in the eyes.

So that’s what Kendal did.

And the creepy nurse smiled.

“Boobies that big, and you’ve never had a mammogram before?” Nurse Demeter asked.

Kendal felt her ears turn red, but she held the stare. “I’m only nineteen.”

“Genetics don’t care about age. Have you heard of Kallmann Syndrome? Some people never hit puberty, naturally. They have to take hormone supplements their entire lives. Obviously, that’s not something you have to worry about. Now, the bra.”

This had to be one of the most unprofessional nurses in the history of campus health care. Kendal considered walking out.

Nurse Demeter smiled that fake smile. “You seem nervous. No need to be. I’ve been getting regular mammograms since I was sixteen.”

The nurse straightened her shoulders, jutting out her chest. “Believe it or not, I can thank my father’s side of the family for these. Strange to think you got your boobies from your daddy, isn’t it? Little girls worry they’ll inherit traits like alcoholism.” The nurse’s smile faltered. “Or mental illness. Nature versus nurture. Genetic markers versus environmental factors. The parents are to blame, either way, aren’t they? But it’s the child who gets teased from fourth grade on, all because their pituitary gland is on a different clock than other children their age.”

And then Nurse Demeter’s face broke, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Kendal’s distaste for the woman was superseded by pity.

“I’ll wait in the hall,” the nurse said. “Put the gown on backwards, so it opens in front. I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.”

Nurse Demeter left.

Kendal felt extremely alone.

She closed her eyes. An assortment of thoughts fought with one another for space in her head.

Strange nurse.

I’m too young to need a mammogram.

Why did she mention mental illness?

Has anything that has happened to me lately been real?

Is this even real?