“Taylor, when a patient’s account is restricted, you are not authorized to access it unless the patient is under your direct care. This is a hospital policy. We take patient confidentiality very seriously.”
“I understand. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.” She hangs her head. Her cream cashmere socks peek out from above her Crocs.They’re Vivian’s socks. It was the one item Taylor lifted from the apartment. Vivian has an entire drawer full of them; Taylor doubts one pair will be missed.
“Okay, I’ll call IT and get it lifted. They may need you to take a refresher course on patient confidentiality; I’m not sure. They’ll let you know.”
“Okay, thank you,” Taylor says as she exits.
Normally she intensely dislikes working the night shift, which means her sleep cycle will be thrown off for the rest of the week, but she’s glad she’s there tonight, since it seems like the only way she’ll get any updates on Vivian is if she physically visits her in the ICU. Taylor will go later, once the ER quiets down, when the nurse managers like Jan and Aunt Gigi leave for the day, so that she can return the keyfor real.
It’s one o’clock in the morning by the time Taylor steals away to the ICU. Her feet ache; she’s been nonstop for hours. People were partying hard tonight in Boston; there was a slew of alcohol poisonings and broken bones from bar fights and drunken brawls—and even more drug overdoses than usual. It seems to be on the uptick.
The ICU floor is quiet, much quieter than the ER. Taylor walks past the nursing station, nods hello to a nurse she recognizes, then sweeps by, heading to room 603. From the hallway, she notices the lights are dimmed. For a moment, the room looks empty. Taylor rubs her eyes, letting them adjust. She doesn’t want to disturb Vivian by turning on the light. But there’s an odd silence. No gasps of the ventilator, no rhythmic whooshes of the IV pump.
Taylor steps in, flicks on the light. The roomisempty; the mattress with just a tight white bedsheet, the IV pole barren. It’s empty and it’s cleaned, awaiting the next unfortunate patient.
Wow, she’s tired. She clearly has the wrong room. Taylor doubles back, checks the number printed alongside the wall: 603.
It’s the right room; Vivian is gone.
Vivian
Unknown Time
It feels like she’s fallen asleep without washing her face; there’s that uncomfortable early-morning grimy sensation. She is so, so tired; it’s a smothering kind of exhaustion. She couldn’t get up even if she wished to. But she doesn’t wish to. She doesn’t wish to do anything at all. When thoughts arrive, they intensify the ferocious pounding in her head, and so she wills them away. Wills herself to nothingness.
Sleep overcomes her, or rather it settles, like the way one leans back on a sofa, because truthfully it could already be there. Shecouldbe asleep.
And indeed, she is: She dreams a terrible dream. She is walking through her mother’s nursing home room, past the empty unmade bed, slowly opening the bathroom door. But instead of finding her mom poised in front of the mirror, a dab of La Mer facial cream on her finger, Vivian sees herself instead.
She’sthe one dead. She just hasn’t realized it yet.
Vivian
Early February
Why had Xavier warned Vivian tobe careful? Was it because he saw Peter over her shoulder? Or did he simply mean to be careful of the Knox? And why was he here, anyway?
But Xavier’s gone, so Vivian can’t ask him. When she glances at the spot he was standing in, the hall is empty. He’s vanished, on par with the other shady characters that seem to inhabit the place tonight.
Meanwhile, Peter stands there, as still as a statue, his arm extending toward her. In his hands is her martini, perfectly filled to the rim. Of course it is.
Peterfeelslike an architect. There is a certain way he holds himself, and objects, that appears structural in nature. He must think about dimension and space in a different way than most people do.
“Thanks,” Vivian says, taking the martini glass from him. When their fingers brush together, a current pulses through her. On top of the olives, at the end of the toothpick, is a piece of what she thinks is candied fruit, but then she realizes it’s a tiny gummy,shaped like a mask. “This is a marvelous drink.” She slides the gummy into her mouth. Too late, she considers it could be more than just a simple piece of candy.
“You might be the only fortysomething-year-old woman who uses the word ‘marvelous.’ ”
“Thanks, I guess?” She hasn’t told him she’s in her forties, and she can’t say she loves him referencing her age.
“I mean it in a good way,” he says. And then he adds, “What are you doing out here?”
She shrugs. “Is there a bathroom?” Meanwhile, she’s still thinking about Xavier. She must have misheard the slurring of his words; the parlor music is probably still echoing through her.
Vivian is surprised that Xavier would be at a party, period. And at the Knox, no less. He’s probably here with a new boyfriend and was carrying that wine for him. Or maybe it wasn’t wine that Xavier was holding. It could have been a soda. It’s shadowy in these corridors.
It saddens Vivian, how little she knows about Xavier these days.
Peter takes a step closer, studying her. “You’re not really supposed to be here, in this part of the house.”
