Saturday Morning (20 page)

“Thank you again for taking me in.”

“That’s why they call J House a women’s shelter. We take in women and girls who need a ready hand.” Hope propped her chin on her hands. “Now, how about telling Roger all that you’ve told me, and we can go on from there?”

Clarice told the story again, feeling even more apprehensive. “I haven’t even tried to call his cell phone today. Perhaps he’s been trying to reach me.” She reached down for her purse at her feet.

“Let me get a bit more information, and then I can get on this while you do that.”

“Okay.” She clutched her purse on her lap.

“Your husbands full name.”

“Gregor Lucius Van Dam. That’s capital V and capital D, two words.”

“Do you know his Social Security number?”

She shook her head.

“Place and date of birth?”

“Nineteen fifty-seven in Atlanta. I met him after I moved to Miami. Herbert and I had always dreamed of retiring in Miami, so I went down there to live by my cousin. Bernice came down later, but Nadia stayed in Newark.”
You’re babbling again.

“And you’d been married how long?”

“Just over a year. It’s been about the happiest year of my life since Herbert passed.”

Roger nodded. “Okay, that should do it for now. You try calling his cell phone, and I’ll make some phone calls too. You might try calling the banks that issued your credit cards and ask to speak to a supervisor. Perhaps you’ll get some information there.”

“Yes, I will.” Her hands shook as she drew her cell phone out of her purse. She pushed the key for his number, only to hear, “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and dial again.” She did, dialing the complete number this time rather than depending on the number in her phone list. The same.

She stood to go back to the kitchen, but her knees were so weak, she sat down instead. It seemed like just yesterday he’d kissed her good-bye, not a peck-on-the-cheek kiss either, but one that seared her soles. Such wonderful plans, a new life in San Francisco, an adventure. She leaned her head against the wall and shut her eyes. If only she could go to sleep and wake up to this all gone.

“Mrs. Van Dam?”

Clarice opened her eyes. Hope knelt in front of her. “Call me Clarice.”

“Are you all right?”

“No. His cell phone is no longer in service.”

“I see. Let me get you something. Coffee, tea, iced tea?”

Clarice shook her head. “No thank you.”

“Come on. Let’s see what Roger found out.”

“I’m not sure I can even walk down the hall.”
That would do a lot of good. Fall down and break your neck, and with your luck, you’d end up quadriplegic.

“I’ll get Roger.” Before Clarice could say no, Hope had disappeared through another door.

“I’m still working on this.” Roger’s calm voice lent strength to her soul. With his arm around her, they made it down the hall without a stumble. He pointed to the phone. “Go ahead. Call your banks like I said. Let’s see if we can get to the bottom of this.”

Half an hour later she had her answer. “I’m cleaned out. All but for these rings on my fingers and the fur coat on my bed.”

Roger entered the room. “There is no Gregor Lucius Van Dam. It’s one of several aliases for Lucien Gregson.”

What a way to start the morning, puking your guts in the commode. Hope closed her eyes and wished she could plug her nose. She waited for her insides to stop roiling. They didn’t. She rinsed her mouth out and stared at the black circles under her eyes and the gray look about her mouth.
I’m never sick. What’s the matter with me?
Possibilities popped up like the gopher game at an amusement park. She mentally slammed each one with a bat. Ulcer.
Slam.
Gallbladder.
Slam.
Stress.
Slam. Slam.
Cancer.
Slam. Slam. Slam
again.

“God, please, You know what my calendar looks like for today. There is no time for this.”

She turned on the shower, stepped into the stall, and let the water do its trick.
How can I help anyone if I’m sick? If You want me to do Your bidding, then You have to keep me healthy. With any luck, it’ll just be something minor, and they’ll give me a pill and send me on my way.

Once out of the shower, Hope quickly french-braided her hair, dressed, and meandered into their private kitchenette. Even with the door to their private quarters closed, she could hear the sounds of the shelter, the day-care children playing, someone singing, the phone ringing. All normal.

Then a door banged. Not normal. It not only banged, but was
slammed against a wall with force. Was Celia at the front desk? What was going on?

A whisper came over the intercom. Hope strained to hear Celia’s voice. “Call 911.”

Dear God, keep her safe. Keep them all safe.
Hope’s prayers flew upward as her fingers hit the keys. The moment the dispatcher answered, Hope said, “This is Hope at J House, there’s something going on in the main room and Celia just told me to call you.”

“Anyone down?”

“Not that I’m aware. I’m in our apartment, so I can’t see anything. Is this JuJu?”

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a car right out there. No sirens.” JuJu and Hope had worked hotlines together a few years back.

“Thank you, bless you.” As Hope pushed the End button, she heard a man yelling.

“I want her back, man! She owes me big time.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. We don’t have anyone by the name of Kiss here,” Roger said, his voice calm and controlled, as he’d been taught in Crisis 101.

Hope heard a scuffle, then a thud. It was everything she could do to stay where she was, but she knew better than to interrupt when Roger was in the middle of a crisis situation. She turned toward the window and saw two black-and-whites pull up. Relief no sooner flooded through her than she heard a crash that kept on crashing, then police shouting orders.

And after it all, Roger laughing.

Perplexed, Hope opened the door and started toward what used to be the church sanctuary, now their common room. Celia was standing at the end of the hall, and scattered on the floor in front of her were files, dozens of files, with papers sliding out of them.

Just beyond her were the three men who’d come to the farmers’
market the day before. Hands raised, they stood in a row facing an officer holding a gun while two other officers searched, then cuffed the men.

Roger came from behind the door, his face red with laughter. He gave Hope a slow wink with a slight nod of approbation toward Celia. “They’ll handle things from here,” he said, taking Hope and Celia each by an arm and escorting them back down the hall.

“What’s going on?” Hope asked, when finally they were alone.

“Celia’s the heroine of the hour,” Roger said. “She’s better with those files of hers than I ever was with a gun.”

Celia started to giggle. “I didn’t know what else to do. It looked to me like that one—the big one—was going to start a fight with ya’, so I jes gave those files a shove, and up they flew and down they came … ”

Roger laughed again. “I wish I’d had a camera. We could have won the big prize on
Americas Funniest Home Videos.
D’Angelo was swatting at those file folders like they were bats.”

Hope ate a piece of toast, tossed back some tea, and snagged her purse before heading out the door. Good thing the free clinic was only three blocks away. “Where’s Adolph?”

“Out in his run. He missed all the fun.” Celia wiggled her rear, hands fluttering in the air. “Hey, I’m a poet, didn’t know it.”

“Right.”

“If you see Roger, tell him I had to go out for a little while.” She felt a little guilty not telling anybody about seeing her doctor, but she didn’t want to worry anyone, especially Roger. He had enough to worry about.

Since she’d missed her power walk that morning, striding down the hill felt good. She turned right on Kearney and kept up her downhill pace, arms and hips swinging freely.
I feel great. Look at me. The
picture of health.
She conveniently ignored her posture of supplication at the porcelain throne earlier that morning.

The clinic was open seven days a week, and no appointment was needed. Even if Hope had the money to go elsewhere, she wouldn’t. She loved the women at the clinic.

“Hey, Hope, haven’t seen you for, like forever.” The Hispanic woman behind the counter reached out and shook Hope’s hand.

“That’s because you never come around. You know where I am.”

“Yeah, and who to thank.” Teresa Gonzales had spent several months at J House, gone back to school, and, thanks to Hope’s recommendation, been hired as a receptionist at the clinic. “Did you know I’m taking classes to be a medical tech? I’d go for nursing school if I could, but with two little ones at home yet.

“You know they could come to day care with us.”
If only all of our girls were doing as well as Teresa.

“Day care isn’t the problem. It’s night care I need. As soon as they go to school, I’ll go to school.” She pushed the clipboard across the counter. “You know the drill.”

Indeed she did. She’d brought enough of her girls here and filled out the paperwork for them. She stood at the counter, read over the questionnaire, and put check marks in the appropriate boxes: nausea, fatigue, dizziness, severe heartburn, poor appetite. Under medications, she wrote Tums. She slid the clipboard back across the counter. “What’s the wait time?”

“About five minutes.”

Hope sat down and out of habit checked her watch. In less than five minutes, a woman called her name.

“Doctor will see you now.” The woman smiled and stood back to allow Hope to pass. Hope headed for the scale, set down her purse, took off her shoes, and stepped on it. The woman reached in front of
her and jiggled the weights. “One-twenty-two.” She glanced down at the chart. “Have you been dieting?”

“No. I just haven’t felt like eating a whole lot lately.”

While Mindy—that was the name on her name tag—wrote down her weight, Hope headed toward the examination room.

Mindy followed her in and closed the door. “It looks like it’s been over a year since you were here the last time.”

Hope seemed genuinely surprised. “Has it been that long?”

“I’m sure Doctor will want to do an annual.” She opened the drawer and pulled out a blue cloth gown. “Please take everything off and tie the gown in the back. We’ll also need a urine sample. You’ll find the cups and lids in the bathroom.”

Ten minutes later Hope lay down on the examination table to await the doctor. Mindy had taken her temperature, gotten a blood-pressure reading, poked her finger, and drawn enough blood to do a transfusion. A yawn caught Hope by surprise, and the next thing she knew Dr. Cheong was shaking her shoulder.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” A gentle voice, laced with laughter, brought Hope back to attention. Even in a white lab coat, Dr. Cheong wore elegance as if the coat were made of silk.

Hope yawned and blinked, blowing out a puff of air on her way to awake. “Sorry.”

“So what are all these check marks on your chart?”

“I’m thinking I need to cut down on the amount of coffee I drink.”

“Okay, let’s have a look.” Dr. Cheong palpitated Hope’s abdomen and checked her breasts for any lumps. “Do you do self-exams regularly?”

“Um. How do you define regular?” Hope lifted her right arm over her head.

“Oh, once a month, every other month, that would be acceptable.”

“Somewhere around in there.” Hope flinched slightly.

“Tender?”

“A little.”

“Localized?”

“No, general.”

“So when did all this start?” Dr. Cheong went about the routine of a pelvic as they talked.

“Three or four weeks ago, I think. But this morning when I woke up and had to run to the bathroom to throw up, I figured it was time to find out what was going on.”

Not a minute later, the doctor snapped off her gloves. “You can sit up now. I’ll be right back.”

Hope stared at the closed door but remained lying down. Now she was scared. Why had Dr. Cheong fled the room like that? What was wrong?

Dr. Cheong returned momentarily, smiling as if she’d just invented a cure for hair loss. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but—”