What We Saw at Night - By Jacquelyn Mitchard Page 0,53

smile. “I’ve done that.”

She turned and tapped the desk with her pencil. “Good. Tell her she has to see a psychologist. Maybe not even here. But somewhere. Tell her you’ll go with her.” She began to fill a prescription pad. “It’s a small town.”

“It is,” I agreed.

“The Nicola Burns tragedy has been hard for all of us,” Bonnie stated, snapping on her gloves. She told me to complain if anything pinched, then she started the exam.

“Yeah.” My eyes began to sting. “Nicola … She still wanted to hang out when I ignored her for, like, a year. I avoid Daytimers.”

“That’s what you call them?”

“It’s supposed to be contempt. But it’s envy.”

“That makes sense.” Bonnie laid her palm flat on my belly and tapped her finger against her joints. “Everything feels fine here.” The tapping made a hollow woodblock sound. “You’re using two forms of protection?”

“You betcha.”

“Let’s have a little blood.”

“They test me for everything but Ebola.”

She laughed. “You know better than to deny a doctor a little blood.”

For some reason, that set me off. I pictured Blondie, wandering these very halls. I started to cry. I hadn’t done so much crying since I was six.

Without a word, Bonnie folded me into her arms in a way no one except my mom ever has. She held me for two or three minutes, maybe even longer. I leaned against her, breathing in the smell of antiseptic mingled with shampoo and that over-dried hospital laundry scent I’d grown up with. Finally the tears stopped coming. I drew in a deep shaky breath and sat up straight again.

“I’m going to give you my cell phone number,” she said calmly. “Call or text whenever you want. I’m serious. It’s good to have another adult who isn’t related to you in your life. Or just another human being.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’m speaking from experience,” Bonnie said. “I’m having my own issues. I barely know Nicola’s mother. But every mother I know can empathize with how she reacted, even if she wouldn’t do it herself.”

I almost started crying again. Bonnie thought all this was about Nicola. I felt horribly guilty that it wasn’t.

“I do have a mother who says she loves me more than God,” I offered.

“And I believe her,” Bonnie replied, her voice soft. “I’ll let you skip the blood test for now. But not for long.”

I nodded, slipping off the exam table, embarrassed about the crying, embarrassed about telling this stranger that my mother loved me more than God. The office blinds were parted just a crack, and in the harsh glare of the parking lights, a flash of red caught my eye. My heart seized. The Alfa Romeo convertible was pulling up to the clinic entrance. I forced myself not to squint or stare. Instead, I took a slow breath and let it out slowly. If I had a meltdown, I wouldn’t find anything out.

“Hey, look! That is some car,” I said. “Does it belong to Tim Tabor?”

“No. His cousin. You know, the coach?”

My head began to buzz. “The coach?”

“Yes, the ski coach. At school.”

“At school?” I repeated.

“Well, not exactly. The team has kids from all over … you know, the team I can’t afford my younger son, Elliott, to be on.” Bonnie flashed a crooked, apologetic grin. “The one that wins championships all over.”

“The jumpers,” I said. “He coaches freestyle jumpers.”

My new nurse friend’s face brightened. “Exactly. You do know him.”

“Not … exactly.” My brain shut down, mostly out of guilt. Juliet never once mentioned the name of her ski coach. Why would she? I never wanted to talk about skiing. I only wanted her to stop, so she could hang out with Rob and me. And then my wish came true.

“Garrett,” Bonnie said. “That’s his name. When I hear about what those kids do, I think they’re an orthopedic ward waiting to happen. So it’s a mixed blessing Elliott is missing out.”

“You should see the things I do at night,” I forced myself to say. “I think I saw Dr. Andrew’s son driving that car, the one who has the white highlight in his hair?”

Bonnie laughed. “No, it was Garrett. Tim, the doctor, has a streak too. But he drives a little Toyota.”

I stared at her. “He has a blond streak? The doctor?”

“It’s not a fashion thing. It’s a birthmark, a place where there’s no pigment. It’s called poliosis. It’s as common as eye color. From the Greek word for ‘gray.’ That woman who hosts that show about bad clothes, I can’t think