“So what do you think of Mom’s new apartment?” I ask. “Her street looks a lot like this one, right?”
Patrick gives me a look.
I slide down in my seat. “Never mind.”
“Kandy’s been shoplifting again,” Patrick says, gripping the steering wheel. “I searched the house for you, and I found a bag of new clothes and makeup. So much for her medication working. Between the two of you I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
A bag of stolen makeup. I think of that bag of lipstick and eye shadow I found in my room, and suddenly I know that Kandy was busted for shoplifting. Question number twenty-one: Have you ever been convicted of, or pled guilty to, a crime other than a traffic offense? That’s why she marked “yes” on her application to design school.
“The clothes weren’t cheap, either,” Patrick says. “I don’t know how she managed to get them through the detectors.”
Deviant and clever. That’s a dangerous combo. That’s the stuff of sociopaths: high IQ, criminal tendencies.
Finally, we turn into the hospital parking lot. Patrick parks and then hurries around the Jeep to my side and opens the door for me.
“How chivalrous,” I say.
“I’m not being polite,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “I’m making sure you don’t disappear again. Come on.”
He practically yanks me across the parking lot and through an entrance labeled EMERGENCY ROOM. It’s quiet, other than a young mother with a baby pressed to her breast.
At the front desk, a woman in scrubs eats the last of a doughnut. “Sign in.” She taps a fingernail to a sheet of pink paper on a clipboard. Powdered sugar cascades across the sheet. “I’ll need your driver’s license and insurance card.”
I wipe the paper clean and sign Ruby Wright. All I have is a student ID with my old California address, which is tucked into the pocket of a wallet I took from Universe Three. So it’s not even my ID, technically. And does Walnut Creek exist here, in this universe? Does it have a different name? Maybe the western edge of the state has cracked off and fallen into the Pacific. In another universe, there could have been a massive earthquake.
Patrick presses his cell phone to his ear. “Come on, Mom,” he breathes. “Pick up.” He shakes his head and tucks the phone in his back pocket.
“Look,” he says to the woman. “Let me cut to the chase. We’re both minors. She’s fifteen and I’m seventeen. Our dad’s on his honeymoon and our mom’s phone is probably buried at the bottom of her purse. Can someone help us?”
The woman sweeps her long hair over her shoulder, revealing a name tag. Amanda. She looks unfazed. “No one gets turned away,” she says, taking the pink sheet of paper away and replacing it with a blue one. “We prefer to get parental consent before we administer treatment. Fill in your address, your parents’ addresses and phone numbers, your parents’ employers, insurance carriers, if you know them. Sign at the bottom. It’s slow at the moment. It’ll only be a minute before Maria calls you back.”
I take the clipboard and sit down. Patrick sits next to me. I blink at the questions I can’t answer. This is what it must feel like to take a test you haven’t studied for. Not sure of my address here in Ó Direáin, no idea where either parent works, couldn’t even tell you the area code or zip code.
I hand the clipboard to Patrick. “You’re right. I don’t feel so hot. Could you fill this out for me and I’ll just sign it?” I put the back of my hand to my forehead.
Patrick gives me a look. Worried? Annoyed? “Sure,” he says.
I sneak sideways glances as he pens in the information. Patrick writes 548 Corrán Tuathail Avenue as the home address, and journalist as Dad’s profession. He works for the Ó Direáin Chronicle. Mom is a high school math teacher. I’m painfully reminded of all the times I’ve written deceased next to mother’s name.
“Ruby Wright,” a woman in scrubs calls into the waiting room. She’s propping open the door to the emergency patient rooms.
“Me,” I say, standing up. Patrick jumps to his feet like he’s spring-loaded.
“Right this way.” We follow Maria into room four. She motions to a stretcher. “Have a seat.” She takes my blood pressure, pulse, listens to my heart, and sticks a thermometer in my ear. Patrick keeps sitting down, then standing up. “Any allergies or preexisting medical conditions?” Maria asks.
I shake my head.
“Are you currently on any medications?”
“No.”
Maria keys my information into a computer. “And what are your concerns today?”
“She might have a head injury,” Patrick says.
I roll my eyes. “I have a nasty gash on my right leg. That’s all.”
“Blood loss,” Patrick says with this eureka! look on his face. “Maybe that’s why she’s acting strange.”
“Are you up to date on all your immunizations, including tetanus?” Maria asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I think so.”
Maria nods and gives me a warm smile. “Doctor Leonard will be with you shortly.” She gently closes the door behind her.
A wall clock ticks audibly as I sit in silence. I watch the second hand sweep. After five long minutes of Patrick pacing and peppering me with questions I can’t answer, there’s a knock, then the door opens.
“I’m Doctor Leonard.” He extends a hand. His ash-white beard hides a young face underneath.
“Ruby Wright,” I say.
“I’m her brother, Patrick.” He grabs the doctor’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “She’s not doing well,” Patrick says, pointing at me. “Head injury, amnesia, something.”
Dr. Leonard pries himself from Patrick’s grip and reads the information on the computer screen. “Let’s take a look at the laceration on your leg, okay, Ruby?”
“She’s just not herself. She’s acting really weird.” Patrick’s talking a mile a minute. “First off, she disappeared. Poof.” He snaps his fingers. “Gone. I was about to call the police, but then I found her walking around downtown. I hardly recognized her in those glasses.” He waves his hand toward my face. “She doesn’t need glasses! She’s had LASIK surgery. She’s not dressing like she normally does, and she whacked off her hair.”
When Patrick finally comes up for air he must sense that he’s operating in hysterical rapid-fire mode. He visibly regroups, straightening his posture and making eye contact with Dr. Leonard. He even drops his voice to a deep, authoritative tone. “Look, Doctor Leonard. The thing is, our parents don’t exactly have their heads in the game these days. I’m the one in charge.”
The doctor gives Patrick a curt nod, then looks at me with concern. “What did you do to your leg?”
I roll up my jeans to my knee and peel the bandages off. “Ran into a coffee table.”
“How long ago?” Dr. Leonard asks.
“Yesterday,” I say.
The door opens a crack, and Amanda peeks in. “Sorry to interrupt. I spoke with Sally Wright, Ruby’s mother, and she gave verbal consent over the phone.” She looks at Patrick and me. “Your mom was shopping in Cleveland. She’s on her way.” Amanda retreats and the door clicks shut.
“You should have come in sooner,” Dr. Leonard says to me. He snaps on rubber gloves and pinches the wound together. “Sorry. I know that hurts. It’s too late to stitch it. It will heal by secondary intention, which means you’ll have a nice scar. You can take Motrin for pain.”