heroine hunts people with a bow and arrow. Maeve isn’t doing that either.”
“Then why won’t she tell me what she was thinking about? There’s something going on. I know it. Listen, could you pick her up after school tomorrow and take her shopping and get her to tell you—?”
“No,” Briddey said. “I’m in meetings the next two days. I could do it sometime next week—”
“Next week may be too late. The onset of mental illness can be really rapid, and if it’s not diagnosed immediately—”
“Maeve is
not
mentally ill. Or deaf or anorexic or planning to cut off her hair and sell it to get money so her father can come home.”
“Cut off her
hair
?” Mary Clare cried. “Why would she—?”
“It’s in
Little Women,
” Briddey said. “Which you insisted that Maeve read, as I recall. They’re only books, Mary Clare. And you should be grateful she’s reading instead of spray-painting graffiti on her school or setting fires or being recruited by terrorists on the internet.”
“Terrorists?”
“She’s not being recruited by terrorists,” Briddey said. “I only said that to show you how ridiculous you’re being. Maeve is
fine.
Look, I really have to go.”
“Wait,” Mary Clare said. “You’re not still planning to have that EED done, are you? Because I read this thing on the internet that said they don’t last, and you have to have them redone every three months—”
“Tell me later. What?” Briddey said, as if speaking to somebody else. “Yes. Right away. Sorry, Mary Clare. Gotta go.” She hung up.
Her phone promptly pinged. She checked to make sure the text wasn’t from Trent—it wasn’t; it was from Kathleen—and then shut off her phone, got her overnight bag out of the trunk, took the elevator up to the Marriott’s lobby, and caught a taxi to the hospital, directing the driver to let her off at the side entrance so there was less chance of someone seeing her.
She might as well have walked in the front door. Once inside, she was told she had to go to Patient Admissions, which was right in the middle of the lobby. She filled out the admission forms as quickly as she could and then waited impatiently as they scanned her insurance card, looking anxiously around.
An aide finally came for her, calling her name out loudly, and Briddey hurried after her, eager to be out of sight. The aide took her upstairs and into an examining room where a large, cheerful nurse fastened a plastic ID bracelet on her. “My, what beautiful red hair you have!” she said admiringly. “The EED is a very routine procedure, and you’re in excellent hands with Dr. Verrick, so there’s no need to be nervous.”
Are you kidding?
Briddey thought.
This is the first time today I haven’t been.
“You were very lucky to get him as your surgeon,” the nurse went on. “He’s very much in demand.” She handed Briddey a hospital gown and left her to change into it.
Briddey did and then turned on her phone to see if Trent had texted her. He had. So had Kathleen, with the names of three more psychics, and C.B., with links to articles about the unintended consequences of fen-phen, thalidomide, and the Industrial Revolution, and a picture of Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine.
Maeve had texted her, too, in all caps, “WHAT DID YOU TELL MOM?,” the words almost quivering with outrage, which could only mean Mary Clare had latched on to the terrorist thing with both hands.
I am so sorry, Maeve,
Briddey thought, and read Trent’s text. It read, “On my way. See you after surgery.”
She was about to text him back when the nurse reappeared, plucked the phone from her hands, and said, “We’ll put this and your clothes and purse in a locker for you.”
The nurse took her vitals and gave her a waiver to sign, which released Dr. Verrick and the hospital from all responsibility if the EED failed to work and/or the connection proved to be only temporary, and an informed consent form listing
“Then why won’t she tell me what she was thinking about? There’s something going on. I know it. Listen, could you pick her up after school tomorrow and take her shopping and get her to tell you—?”
“No,” Briddey said. “I’m in meetings the next two days. I could do it sometime next week—”
“Next week may be too late. The onset of mental illness can be really rapid, and if it’s not diagnosed immediately—”
“Maeve is
not
mentally ill. Or deaf or anorexic or planning to cut off her hair and sell it to get money so her father can come home.”
“Cut off her
hair
?” Mary Clare cried. “Why would she—?”
“It’s in
Little Women,
” Briddey said. “Which you insisted that Maeve read, as I recall. They’re only books, Mary Clare. And you should be grateful she’s reading instead of spray-painting graffiti on her school or setting fires or being recruited by terrorists on the internet.”
“Terrorists?”
“She’s not being recruited by terrorists,” Briddey said. “I only said that to show you how ridiculous you’re being. Maeve is
fine.
Look, I really have to go.”
“Wait,” Mary Clare said. “You’re not still planning to have that EED done, are you? Because I read this thing on the internet that said they don’t last, and you have to have them redone every three months—”
“Tell me later. What?” Briddey said, as if speaking to somebody else. “Yes. Right away. Sorry, Mary Clare. Gotta go.” She hung up.
Her phone promptly pinged. She checked to make sure the text wasn’t from Trent—it wasn’t; it was from Kathleen—and then shut off her phone, got her overnight bag out of the trunk, took the elevator up to the Marriott’s lobby, and caught a taxi to the hospital, directing the driver to let her off at the side entrance so there was less chance of someone seeing her.
She might as well have walked in the front door. Once inside, she was told she had to go to Patient Admissions, which was right in the middle of the lobby. She filled out the admission forms as quickly as she could and then waited impatiently as they scanned her insurance card, looking anxiously around.
An aide finally came for her, calling her name out loudly, and Briddey hurried after her, eager to be out of sight. The aide took her upstairs and into an examining room where a large, cheerful nurse fastened a plastic ID bracelet on her. “My, what beautiful red hair you have!” she said admiringly. “The EED is a very routine procedure, and you’re in excellent hands with Dr. Verrick, so there’s no need to be nervous.”
Are you kidding?
Briddey thought.
This is the first time today I haven’t been.
“You were very lucky to get him as your surgeon,” the nurse went on. “He’s very much in demand.” She handed Briddey a hospital gown and left her to change into it.
Briddey did and then turned on her phone to see if Trent had texted her. He had. So had Kathleen, with the names of three more psychics, and C.B., with links to articles about the unintended consequences of fen-phen, thalidomide, and the Industrial Revolution, and a picture of Marie Antoinette being led to the guillotine.
Maeve had texted her, too, in all caps, “WHAT DID YOU TELL MOM?,” the words almost quivering with outrage, which could only mean Mary Clare had latched on to the terrorist thing with both hands.
I am so sorry, Maeve,
Briddey thought, and read Trent’s text. It read, “On my way. See you after surgery.”
She was about to text him back when the nurse reappeared, plucked the phone from her hands, and said, “We’ll put this and your clothes and purse in a locker for you.”
The nurse took her vitals and gave her a waiver to sign, which released Dr. Verrick and the hospital from all responsibility if the EED failed to work and/or the connection proved to be only temporary, and an informed consent form listing
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