“Absolutely. If you aren’t in need of our care, I will bring youout myself. We don’t have the room here for people who don’t need us.”
“And my bag?” I look at the nurse, who stands there with the travel bag in her hand. Her expression is unreadable. She looks... bored. As if she doesn’t care that everything of value to me—other than the chain around my neck—is in that bag.
“If you will not be staying with us, your bag will be returned to you,” the woman says.
“Why can’t I keep it with me now?”
“Those are our rules, I’m afraid. Now then. I’m Mrs. Crockett. I am the matron here. Shall we go inside and have that chat?”
I follow the two women up the steps. The man Mrs. Crockett called Norman is following close behind me. Pale blue dots hover at the back of my eyes at the sound of his footsteps. We step into the building and enter a lobby. A nurse at a reception desk looks up casually when we walk in and then immediately drops her gaze to the papers she is working on.
Mrs. Crockett turns to her left and opens a door, and the rest of us follow her down a hallway with offices on either side. At the end of the hall is a set of double doors, one of which is open. Mrs. Crockett knocks once on it and then proceeds to enter.
“Dr. Townsend, Rosanne Maras is here,” she says.
This room is nicer than the reception area. There are shelves lined with books, and certificates and paintings hang on the wall. Behind the large wooden desk sits a man in a white coat. His hair is slicked back, and his hairline, just beginning to recede, is salted with tiny flecks of gray. On his desk are files and papers, a crystal paperweight of a running horse, and a photo of him with people who must be his family. Everyone in the photo is smiling.
“Miss Maras, please.” The doctor motions to one of two armchairs in front of his desk. Mrs. Crockett takes the other chair. As I sit down, I look over my shoulder to see that the nurse, with my travel bag on her lap, has taken a straight-backed chair by thedoor. Norman stands on the other side of the door with his arms crossed loosely in front of his chest.
“I’m Dr. Townsend,” the doctor says in a friendly but authoritative voice. “And may I call you Rosanne? Or...” He picks up a piece of paper in front of him. “Rosie? Is that the name you prefer to go by?”
“Rosie is fine,” I say, wishing with all my might I could see what else is on that paper he is looking at.
“Rosie here believes a mistake has been made.” Mrs. Crockett’s words are tinged ever so slightly with false sympathy.
“Is that so?”
“I’m not sick,” I say. “I’m not infirm. I’m not any of the things on your sign.”
“But you are with child, unmarried, without a home or employment, and only seventeen?” the doctor asks.
“Being with child doesn’t mean you’re sick.”
“True, true,” Dr. Townsend says, nodding. “But not every illness is characterized by a cough or a fever. There are all kinds of reasons to need the care of doctors and nurses. Let’s see if you need our help, shall we? First, can you tell me who the father of your child is?”
He doesn’t say it in a threatening way. His pen is poised over the piece of paper to supply the name as if it means nothing, is of no consequence. Just a name on a line on a hospital form.
“It doesn’t matter who the father is. It was a mistake. I’d had wine for the first time and I wasn’t... I didn’t... it was a mistake.”
“But you do know who the father is?”
I see pulsing brown obelisks cast by the doctor’s voice. But there is another voice from before echoing in my mind, too. “You’re going to need the money, Rosie,” this other voice is saying. “You know you will. I can take care of that. But you need to do this one thing...” I can feel the key resting against my breastbone.
“Rosie?” Dr. Townsend says.
“Maybe. Yes. No! I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.”
“So it wasn’t just one person, then? You’ve been with several men?”
My face heats with blazing shame. “I’m saying it doesn’t matter who it is! He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him. It was just a mistake.”
The doctor stares at me as though he does not believe me. He doesn’t believe that I’ve been with only one man and only once. What lies has Celine told Mrs. Grissom about me? What has Mrs. Grissom told Dr. Townsend? I need to get out of here.
“I would like to go now,” I say.
“We’ve a few more things to discuss.” Dr. Townsend looks at the piece of paper again. “I’d like to talk to you about these visions of yours.”
My heart seems to thud to a stop in my chest. “What?”
