Read Online Searching for Celia by Elizabeth Ridley - Free Book Online

Something about the room—the heat, the lights, the smell—brings back too many terrible memories. The technician, a full-figured black woman with kind, round eyes, senses my anxiety and tries to comfort me, but that only makes it worse; her detached compassion, so clinically efficient, bruises my nerves and reopens old wounds.
    I close my eyes and hold my breath. As the X-ray clicks, I feel an invisible stream of energy moving through me. In a moment of clarity, the entire hospital comes into focus and I can sense everything happening within this building, from the suffocating sorrow of the soon-to-be-bereaved to the desolation of the newly dead, who release their heat alone, untended and unconsoled. I have to get out of here. Now.
    When the doctor returns to the exam room he holds a film up to the light and says I have a sprained wrist and a hairline fracture of the fifth metacarpal, the bone that runs between the wrist and the little finger. He shows me the ghostly bone on the X-ray and helpfully traces the line of the fracture with a capped pen. It looks fine to me, but what do I know? When I look at the X-ray, I am primarily surprised that anything inside of me is so small.
    I ask for a fiberglass cast but I’m told that, given the position of the break, the cast must be plaster. The cast is set and the plaster still drying when I hear from the hallway the insistent tap-tap-tap of Edwina’s Docs coming closer. “Edwina? In here,” I call out. A moment later she pulls open the striped curtain and her square shoulders block the light. Her gray eyes widen as she notices the still-damp cast.
    “Oh no—it must be broken.” She strides toward me and slips her arm around my neck, carefully avoiding my left side as she pats my back in stiff circles. Edwina smells of strong soap and sandalwood and the coarse coils of her closely cropped hair graze my cheek as she pulls back, placing her hand firmly atop my shoulder.
    “Hairline fracture,” I explain, nodding toward my immobilized arm. “Tiny, apparently, but broken.”
    “No worries. Bones heal.” She flashes that gap-toothed grin. “It’s not your heart.”
    I look down again at my forearm, now encased in pristine white plaster of paris, with my bruised and swollen fingers poking out at the end like half-wrapped sausages. “I lost most of Celia’s manuscript,” I whisper. “Celia gave it to Dr. Whitaker for safekeeping.” I try not to cry around British people but my eyes burn and tears clog my throat.
    “Never mind. Celia must have another copy. In her flat, perhaps. Or on her computer.” Edwina motions for me to lie back on the exam table as she straightens the paper pillow behind my head and smooths my hair. Fussing over me, she seems more feminine: still a solid presence, but her soft gray eyes are warmer, crinkling when she smiles, and lines of kindness surround her generous mouth. I realize with a stab of envy how lucky Celia was to have been intimate with this stunning woman.
    “Are you going to be all right?” Edwina frowns.
    “What do you mean?”
    “You’re quite pale. And trembling.” She squeezes the fingers on my good hand. “Perhaps you should stay here and let the doctors look after you until you’re feeling better.”
    “No, I’ll be fine. I’ve got to get out of here and figure out what happened to Celia. I’ve already wasted too much time.”
    “What have you learned so far?” She motions for me to slide over, then she sits on the table beside me with her hand cupping my knee.
    “I’m convinced Celia planned to leave London,” I explain. “I think something went wrong with her plan, but I believe she is still alive.”
    Edwina looks down and shakes her head sadly. “I’m certain she’s dead.”
    Her comment startles me. “Why do you say that?”
    “She still loved me, even after the breakup. She wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye. Unless…” Her voice trails away.
    “Unless?” I ask softly.
    “Unless