The Promise - By Danielle Steel Page 0,24
Someone called me and said that the apartment would be vacant. That Miss McAllister was … had …” He saw the tears still wet on Michael's face and was afraid to go on. “You know. Well, they told me, and they said the apartment would be empty by the end of the week. Two nurses came and took a few things, and then the Goodwill truck came the next morning.”
“Nurses? What nurses?” Michael's mind was a blank. And Goodwill? Who had called them?
“I don't know who they were. They looked like nurses though—they were wearing white. They didn't take much. Just that little bag, and her paintings. Goodwill got the rest. I didn't take nothing. Honest. I wouldn't do that. Not to a nice girl like…” But Michael wasn't listening to him. He was already wandering up the stairs to the street, dazed, as the old man watched him, shaking his head. Poor guy. He had probably just heard. “Hey … hey.” Michael turned around, and the old man lowered his voice. “I'm sorry.” Michael only nodded and went out to the street. How did the nurses know? How could they have done it? They'd probably taken the little jewelry she had, a few trinkets, and the paintings. Maybe someone had said something to them at the hospital. Vultures, picking over what was left. God, if he'd seen them, he'd … His hands clenched at his sides, and then his arm shot out to hail a cab. At least … maybe … it was worth a try. He slid into the cab, ignoring the ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. “Where's the nearest Goodwill?”
“Goodwill what?” The driver was chewing a soggy cigar and was not particularly interested in Goodwill of any kind.
“Goodwill store. You know, used clothes, old furniture.”
“Oh yeah. Okay.” The kid didn't look like one of their customers, but a fare was a fare. It was a five-minute drive from Nancy's apartment, and the fresh air on his face helped revive Michael from the shock of the emptiness he had found. It was like looking for your pulse and finding that your heart had stopped beating. “Okay, this is it.”
Michael thanked him, absentmindedly paid twice the fare, and got out. He wasn't even sure he wanted to go inside. He had wanted to see her things in her apartment, where they belonged. Not in some stinking, musty old store, with price tags on them. And what would he do? Buy it all? And then what? He walked into the store feeling lonely and tired and confused. No one offered to help him, and he began to wander aimlessly up one aisle and down another, finding nothing he knew, seeing nothing familiar, and suddenly aching, not for the “things” that had seemed so important to him that morning, but for the girl who had owned them. She was gone, and nothing he found or didn't find would ever make any difference. The tears began to stream down his face as he walked slowly back out to the street.
This time he didn't hail a cab. He just walked. Blindly and alone, in a direction his feet seemed to know, but his head didn't. His head didn't know anything anymore. It felt like mush. His whole body felt like mush, but his heart was a stone. Suddenly, in that stinking old store, his life had come to an end He understood now what it all meant, and as he stood at a red light, waiting for it to change, not giving a damn if it did, he passed out.
He woke up a few moments later, with a crowd around him as he lay on a small patch of grass where someone had carried him. There was a policeman standing over him, looking sharply into his eyes.
“You okay, son?” He was certain the kid was neither drunk nor stoned, but he looked a terrible gray color. More likely he was sick. Or maybe just hungry or something. Looked like he had money though, couldn't have been a case of starvation.
“Yeah. I'm okay. I got out of the hospital this morning, and I guess I overdid it.” He smiled ruefully, but the faces around him did cartwheels when he tried to get up. The cop saw what was happening and urged the crowd to disperse. Then he looked back at Michael.
“I'll get a patrol car to give you a lift home.”
“No, really, I'm okay.”
“Never mind that. Would