This story, my entry into the 2015 Winter Holidays Contest, owes much to my friend and editor,
AlwaysHungry.
Any remaining mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy the tale, and vote.
Chapter 1 - Hospital Blues
Her mother barely squeezed Simone's fingers, then whispered, "I need to tell you something, Mona..." Her mother then exhaled, a belabored rasp, until her breathing became more regular. She was asleep.
The emergency room had emptied out over the course of the evening, the traffic slowing down about 11 pm, as if the city conspired that 11 pm was some sort of civilized closing curtain time for accidents. The chair Simone Rosen sat in, next to her mother's bed, had become unbearably hard. The book she invariably carried in her satchel had lost its appeal over an hour earlier. She had caught up with all her emails and had given up on the idea of work. She had consumed her quota of coffee for the day hours ago and had switched to tea. Lipton's in small foam cups was all she could get, but at least the water hadn't been percolated through a coffee machine, picking up coffee taste along the way. Small things to be grateful for.
Simone had held her mother's hand, feeling for the small squeezes now and then. Her mother's hand lay in her own, the skin dry and cool, the joints gnarled with arthritis. It was the third time in a month her mother had ended up here, and some of the nursing staff had begun to recognize both of them. Especially her mom.
The night nurse in charge of her mother stepped in, pushing the curtain aside. The ER beds were separated by heavy curtains on three sides and, despite the hospital's privacy concerns, she knew the conditions that had brought each of her mother's neighbors into the ER. If you weren't talking, it was impossible not to listen. Although with the passing hours, the beeps of the various monitors and the electronic hums of the instruments drowned out all the human voices.
"We are still waiting for a room. How is she doing?"
"Sleeping peacefully now," she answered.
"Finally."
"Ms. Rosen, the doctor's looked over your mother's results and he's ordered more tests to be done tomorrow. We need to keep her overnight for observation. I encourage you to go and get some rest yourself. I have no idea when a room will open up - we are so crowded tonight. When it does, we'll move her very carefully - she won't wake up, and she'll get better rest in the room then here, without all this noise. There really isn't anything you can do for her tonight."
"OK. I will then. You have my cell phone, no?"
"Yes, we'll be sure to call you if we find out anything. I hope you get some sleep. Good night."
The nurse checked over the monitors one last time, took the sleeping patient's pulse, and left after nodding over her shoulder.
Simone placed her hand on her mother's cheek and a light kiss on her forehead. She didn't feel right leaving without assuring her mother she'd be back, but she wasn't going to wake her. She could leave a note, but what use would that be? Her mother would be unlikely to find it, and wouldn't be able to read it anyway. Her vision had gotten so bad she had even stopped wearing her glasses, the fixtures she'd had perched on her face for over 70 years.
Simone adjusted the blanket over her mother's diminished frame, threw another look at the monitors beeping and sighing out their data, and left. The halls were uncharacteristically quiet for a Thursday night, or any night for that matter. She knew because she'd been here on every night of the week, one time or another.
The lobby was empty, the lighting dimmed, and the carpet absorbed all noise except the low ding of the elevators. The convenience store that sold snacks and candy and flowers was dark, and the whole place seemed eerily quiet without people, though she could see a uniformed guard pacing near the outside doors. All of a sudden, she realized she was hungry. She hadn't eaten since she'd arrived at the hospital many hours earlier. Even if open, the hospital cafeteria seemed too dreary. She was close to the Information counter, and thought they might have some maps of the neighborhood, or flyers from local food joints, so she veered around to it, eyes cast to the stacks of advertisements lining the counter.
"May I help you?"
The man had been bent over the desk, hidden by the tall counter. When he rose to his full height and spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin, hand on her chest. Then, embarrassed at her dramatic response to his innocuous question, she was speechless for a few seconds.
"I'm very sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I know it's pretty dead here at this hour."
His voice soothed her - not exactly deep nor reedy but friendly. His gray hair was cropped close to his scalp and she caught herself thinking it would look better if it had been just a little less severely trimmed. He was still looking at her, calmly, no trace of impatience.
"Crazy there's anyone still here at this hour. Night shift?"
"Well, they try to keep the desk staffed as much possible. It's pretty much all volunteers here. I was about to head out myself, just cleaning up a few loose threads. But how can I help you?"
"Oh, nothing, really. I mean, I don't need anything. I was just looking for a place to eat that was still open."
"No problem. I know the area pretty well. Any preference for type of food?"
"Just a snack, really. Haven't had dinner, but it's too late for that. I'd prefer walking distance."
"There's a number of places still open — the advantage of a teaching hospital associated with a university. There's a Panera just across the way and to the right if you go out this exit, serves soups and quiches and sandwiches and things of that sort. It's OK. Beyond it there's a neighborhood pub, Squeak's. Better food, in my opinion - burgers, chili, that sort of fare. And they've got blues and jazz bands many nights. Locals, mostly."
Her shoulders slumped.
"No music for me tonight. Too tired for that. Maybe next time. Thank you."
She hadn't meant to be rude, but she was too tired to be diplomatic.
He looked at her, eyes penetrating.
"There's always the Starbucks at the corner. And across the street, the locals' coffee hangout that predated the Starbucks. They may be closer to what you're looking for tonight."
"Thanks much, you've been very helpful," and she turned away.
As she walked towards the exit, she noticed, in an unobtrusive niche in one of the walls, an electric menorah, with two "candles" lit, one in the middle and the other on the right side. Their family was not religious, but they had celebrated Hanukkah when she'd been young. It had been her job, once she'd been old enough, to light the candles, one each day for eight days, celebrating the miraculous bit of oil in the Maccabean cave that had outlasted all expectations and burned for eight days instead of one. Damn, where had the year gone? Hanukkah already... soon, Christmas would be looming.
***
He followed her with his eyes, noting her slow walk and still-slumped shoulders. Not young, but younger than himself. Visiting a parent? A child? A friend? She hadn't cried recently - clear eyes, clear nose, he'd learned to read the obvious signs after his year or so on the volunteer desk - so luckily no one had died. Yet. Unfortunately that happened more often than not, in his experience, with patients who'd come here. Nothing wrong with hospitals, but they were not the happiest of places. And he was pretty sure she wasn't here for her child - unlikely she would have left the building. Maybe a parent or a friend.
Something about her had piqued his interest, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Perhaps her eyes? She'd looked straight at him with intense, brown eyes. He shook his head slightly, as if to shake her out of his mind - he needed to get home, so he concentrated on gathering his stuff and making sure everything was organized for the morning crew. He knew how frustrating it was to come on the desk and find everything in chaos.
He wasn't ready for the clear tone of her voice ringing across the lobby.
"Thanks for that pub recommendation. Perhaps I'll try it tomorrow night."
When he lifted his head and looked at her, he caught only her coat as it cleared the revolving door.
***
She didn't know Los Angeles that well. She'd been there a few times before to visit friends, but the visits had been separated by several years and she'd never quite gotten the feel of the place. Her mother had moved there when Fred, Simone's stepfather, had wanted to be closer to his children and grandchildren from his first marriage. The year-round warm weather attracted both of them over the bone-chilling winters of Syracuse.
Simone hadn't wanted her mother to leave, but had no good reason to induce her to stay: no grandkids as bait. Her mother liked Pete, Simone's significant other, but everyone understood that grandkids were special. Her mother and Fred had decided seeing them more often was important. Simone had helped arrange everything on the eastern end of the trip and the western end had been taken care of by Fred's son. Not long after, she and Pete had moved to Tucson to take up jobs at the University of Arizona, and LA no longer felt a world away.
She was grateful to the kind-eyed gentleman at the Information desk for his help. His response had given her time to recollect herself. And now that she thought of it, some live music, or even canned blues in a pub, quite attracted her. But not tonight.
She passed on the brightly lit Panera, where the employees, UCLA students most likely, were cleaning up for the night. Students looked younger and younger to her since she'd turned 40. She opened the door to the eatery next door, which had a much more homey feel to it, ordered a bowl of soup and tea, and took her number to a table by a window. Somehow, looking out at the world passing by might relieve her of her grim thoughts. Except, even in the heart of Westwood, college neighborhood and all, the world passing by was pretty thin at this hour of night. And grim thoughts had a way of intruding whether she wanted them to or not.
She and Pete were drifting apart. She didn't have the heart to tell her mom those news. Hell, she didn't even want to admit it to herself. And how did she feel about that, really?
Years ago they'd decided they liked their freedom and didn't want to hem themselves in with kids. They were of a mind, mostly. Pete especially was weary - kids just seemed like one more anchor to tie them down. He liked to travel at the drop of a hat, liked going out when he felt like it, couldn't sit still. Dogs were about the limit of responsibility for him. He loved her, she knew that. But she didn't want to shove a kid down his throat - what if he didn't like their kid? Could she raise the child by herself? Could she take his reproaches, if they came? Her friends with kids, even men, had told her not to worry about that - that faced with the fait accompli, Pete would fall in love with his flesh and blood. All men did. Mostly. But... she wasn't sure.
