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was a hypochondriac and
compulsive, non-stop talker. In later years, Jason developed the
rather bizarre theory that his best friend had been switched at
birth. Adrian’s parents—that is, the bogus couple who brought her
home from the maternity ward—couldn’t possibly be biologically
related to this soft-spoken, angelic soul. “My parents hate each
other so they’re getting divorced.” Adrian reached out and grabbed
his hand. They were sitting on a plump sofa watching a Simpsons
rerun. Because of endless pranks at school, Principal Skinner had
Bart sent off to France where he was working in the wine fields as
an indentured servant. “You’re my best friend,” Adrian continued in
a faltering voice.
    Again, Jason didn’t know what to say.
He was nine years old and still struggling with long division. A
few months later, Adrian was gone from their lives, dragged off to
live with the garrulous mother’s extended family. Jack Flanagan
remarried the following year and his new wife, who was really just
a repackaged, jazzed up version of his old wife, got down to
business.
    Bang. Bang. Bang. They had three
children, all daughters, in rapid succession. No one ever talked
about Jack’s first child anymore. Ten years passed. One day Jason’s
sister, Jenna, took him aside. “Saw Adrian Flanagan last
night.”
    “ Where?”
    “ Went to a musical in
Boston.” A couple years older than her brother, Jenna was a
prettier version of the mother with an equally blunt temperament
but less pointy nose. “She was in the Theater District just off
Tremont Street near Park Square working the crowd.”
    Jason’s face clouded over. “I don’t
follow you.”
    “ Adrian was gussied up like
a hooker. A car pulled up and the driver rolled down the passenger
side window. They negotiated a price. Adrian jumped in and they
drove off.”
    Jason felt nauseous, light headed. “Did
you say anything to mom?” His sister shook her head.
    “ Sure it was
Adrian?”
    Jenna nodded once. His favorite
playmate from elementary school still wore her dark hair in a
close-cropped, pixie style. The same squat, compact torso. “She’s
all grown up now,” Jenna said with a sober expression. “Got hips
and breasts.”
    Adrian Flanagan as
streetwalker decked out in a flimsy halter top, neon hot pants and
stiletto heels. Like the missing piece to a
salacious, X-rated puzzle, this latest bit of titillating garbage
fit neatly with the other outlandish fragments of hearsay, idle
gossip and innuendo that filtered back to Jason over the years. A
friend of a friend who knew Adrian’s mother once removed heard that
the young woman—she wasn’t a teenager any more—was a speed freak.
Adrian Flanagan ricocheted in and out of prison, was living on the
streets selling her body for crack cocaine. Another remake of the
saga had her cloistered away in a halfway house for recovering
addicts. She’d found Jesus, Krishna, Buddha or consecrated her
mortal soul to some occult, Christian fundamentalist group. Still
later, Adrian was dead, buried in a potter’s grave. Who the hell
knew?
     
    On Tuesday evening, Jason drove to the
Brentwood Nursing Home and sat in the car with the engine idling
for a good twenty minutes before mustering the nerve to enter the
building. “Adrian Flanagan?”
    “ Over in the west wing.” The
receptionist waved a hand in the direction of a passageway. “Check
with the nurse’s station at the far end of the hall.”
    The Brentwood Nursing Home had a
distinct odor—an odd mix of body wastes, Phisohex, cleaning fluids,
and herbal ointments. Several bedridden women in adjoining rooms
were moaning in a repetitive, sing-song fashion. As Jason passed
the elevator, an emaciated gentleman dressed in a white johnny
tried to rise from his wheelchair setting off a shrill beep. A
nurses aide came running and eased the fellow back down. As soon as
his withered rump made contact with the padded leather seat, the
hidden monitor fell silent.
    At