this case, and we don’t question the doctor.”
“Well, I need more Depakote. I lost mine when my purse was stolen. I take 500 milligrams three times a day. The prescription is 64
ENTR’ACTE
from my doctor in Maine,” Joyce said. “You can call him. He has the history.”
“Hmm. Depakote,” the doctor repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “And what is that for, Joyce?” he asked mildly.
She looked up at him. That was a pretty common drug, even a hospital resident would be familiar with it. But this doctor seemed not to be.
Joyce grew uneasy, and wanted more than anything to get out of this hospital. She decided not to tell them she had a seizure disorder. Instead she started to thank the doctor and nurse for their time, using the bed railings to pull herself upright.
“I have my insurance card and some money here in my wallet.
I’ll just settle the bill with admitting on my way out,” she said.
The doctor and nurse stood on either side of her and gently but firmly pushed Joyce back onto the bed. “You need to stay here,” the doctor said. “We’ll call your family.”
“Call my father in Maine,” Joyce said. “He’ll straighten everything out.” And she gave the nurse the number.
The nurse glanced up at the doctor, who sat on the bed and picked up Joyce’s hand.
“Now what’s wrong?” Joyce said, alarmed.
“You gave us too many numbers, dear,” the doctor said. “Are you confused perhaps?”
“The area code is 207,” she said.
“What is that?” the doctor asked patiently. “You didn’t give us an exchange. For example, this is Murray Hill. Our phone number is MU 5555. A phone number is one number or two letters, followed by four digits.”
Joyce looked at him incredulously. Then she glanced at the clipboard the nurse had slid into a metal tray at the head of her bed. “May 30, 1939,” was entered next to “date.”
“This isn’t 2007?” she asked, stunned.
65
FRANK JULIANO
The doctor patted her hand, reassuringly. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t you worry.”
As he left the ward, Joyce heard the doctor whisper. “Close observation. Possible head injury.”
66
Chapter 12
“I tell you, she vanished right in front of my eyes!”
Doug was sitting in a gunmetal grey chair at the side of a police detective’s desk. The blank missing persons report was on the desk in front of the cop, but instead of filling it out, he was drawing large circles on a scratch pad.
“You say she was chasing someone. Was there any sign of this person when you reached the end of the alley?” The question was asked perfunctorily; the answer didn’t matter.
“No, for the one-millionth time. When I got there, no one was around, and there was no sign of any commotion,” Doug said.
“There were just some parked cars and a guy selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner.
“Joyce and her dog had disappeared, and I wasn’t that far behind her. There wasn’t enough time for her to even reach the corner.”
“Mr. Bryan,” the weary-looking cop said. “I can’t file this report. Technically, your girlfriend is not a missing person. Right now she is an adult who is barely an hour late for an appointment.”
“What about the storm I told you about? I saw it was pitch-67
FRANK JULIANO
pouring in that alley, but when I got to where she had been the sun was out. Could a tornado have blown through?”
The detective was an 38-year veteran named Ryerson who had worked on the Son of Sam murders 30 years ago and was now waiting for his pension.
He smiled with his lips, while his eyes remained steely. “A girl and her dog disappeared in a tornado, in midtown, like Dorothy and Toto. I don’t need this, kid. You’re busting my chops here.”
“Can’t you check the weather reports?”
Ryerson looked at the earnest college student, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Son, she isn’t missing. Trust me. There’s a logical explanation,” he said almost kindly.
“Well, I need more Depakote. I lost mine when my purse was stolen. I take 500 milligrams three times a day. The prescription is 64
ENTR’ACTE
from my doctor in Maine,” Joyce said. “You can call him. He has the history.”
“Hmm. Depakote,” the doctor repeated, rolling the word on his tongue. “And what is that for, Joyce?” he asked mildly.
She looked up at him. That was a pretty common drug, even a hospital resident would be familiar with it. But this doctor seemed not to be.
Joyce grew uneasy, and wanted more than anything to get out of this hospital. She decided not to tell them she had a seizure disorder. Instead she started to thank the doctor and nurse for their time, using the bed railings to pull herself upright.
“I have my insurance card and some money here in my wallet.
I’ll just settle the bill with admitting on my way out,” she said.
The doctor and nurse stood on either side of her and gently but firmly pushed Joyce back onto the bed. “You need to stay here,” the doctor said. “We’ll call your family.”
“Call my father in Maine,” Joyce said. “He’ll straighten everything out.” And she gave the nurse the number.
The nurse glanced up at the doctor, who sat on the bed and picked up Joyce’s hand.
“Now what’s wrong?” Joyce said, alarmed.
“You gave us too many numbers, dear,” the doctor said. “Are you confused perhaps?”
“The area code is 207,” she said.
“What is that?” the doctor asked patiently. “You didn’t give us an exchange. For example, this is Murray Hill. Our phone number is MU 5555. A phone number is one number or two letters, followed by four digits.”
Joyce looked at him incredulously. Then she glanced at the clipboard the nurse had slid into a metal tray at the head of her bed. “May 30, 1939,” was entered next to “date.”
“This isn’t 2007?” she asked, stunned.
65
FRANK JULIANO
The doctor patted her hand, reassuringly. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t you worry.”
As he left the ward, Joyce heard the doctor whisper. “Close observation. Possible head injury.”
66
Chapter 12
“I tell you, she vanished right in front of my eyes!”
Doug was sitting in a gunmetal grey chair at the side of a police detective’s desk. The blank missing persons report was on the desk in front of the cop, but instead of filling it out, he was drawing large circles on a scratch pad.
“You say she was chasing someone. Was there any sign of this person when you reached the end of the alley?” The question was asked perfunctorily; the answer didn’t matter.
“No, for the one-millionth time. When I got there, no one was around, and there was no sign of any commotion,” Doug said.
“There were just some parked cars and a guy selling hot dogs from a stand on the corner.
“Joyce and her dog had disappeared, and I wasn’t that far behind her. There wasn’t enough time for her to even reach the corner.”
“Mr. Bryan,” the weary-looking cop said. “I can’t file this report. Technically, your girlfriend is not a missing person. Right now she is an adult who is barely an hour late for an appointment.”
“What about the storm I told you about? I saw it was pitch-67
FRANK JULIANO
pouring in that alley, but when I got to where she had been the sun was out. Could a tornado have blown through?”
The detective was an 38-year veteran named Ryerson who had worked on the Son of Sam murders 30 years ago and was now waiting for his pension.
He smiled with his lips, while his eyes remained steely. “A girl and her dog disappeared in a tornado, in midtown, like Dorothy and Toto. I don’t need this, kid. You’re busting my chops here.”
“Can’t you check the weather reports?”
Ryerson looked at the earnest college student, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Son, she isn’t missing. Trust me. There’s a logical explanation,” he said almost kindly.
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