The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,8

would give a rat’s ass.”

“I’m here.”

“Like I said.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucy. You’re all over the place.”

He wiggled his phone in his hand, screen side up.

“I don’t mean morbidly curious about me, Jesse,” she said. “I mean concerned.”

“You just need some sleep.”

“You have no idea what I need.”

Jesse studied the disheveled girl in front of him. He was good at reading her, usually, but something was different this morning. She was more melancholy than he’d ever seen.

“You couldn’t stop in the bathroom to fix your face?”

Lucy lifted her hand to her cheek, and as she did, he saw the bracelet.

“Nice,” he said, reaching for the dangling charm. “Where’d you get it?”

“Don’t touch it!”

“Damn. Well, at least somebody cares, right?”

“You’re evil.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Don’t forget. We have a deal.”

Lucy couldn’t help but notice that the shadow she cast completely engulfed him. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Loved the snap of Sad Sadie. Already ran it.”

“Then we’re more than even.”

“Did you catch something in that ER?” he ribbed, trying to keep up.

“Yeah, a conscience.” Lucy rummaged through her purse for a cigarette and taxi fare. “Stay away from me, it might be contagious.”

Jesse saw that she came up empty-handed. “Money for a cab?” He pulled a crisp bill from his jacket pocket and dangled a twenty from between his long, thin fingers.

“Don’t tempt me like you do everyone else.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?”

“It’s never too late.” Lucy spun around on her four-inch spikes, dropped her oversize rehab shades over her eyes, putting a proverbial period on the conversation, and walked away, blowing him off as only she could. She didn’t have a penny and he knew it. Every cent she had, or had borrowed, she was wearing. If she were lucky, Lucy thought, the Metrocard she was carrying might have one fare left.

“Check your e-mail when you get home,” Jesse called after her, unconcerned.

She stopped for just a second, pulled down her dress, which she could feel riding up her thigh, and continued down the block. Checking to make sure that no one was watching, she then jaywalked over to a bus stop just across the avenue, praying no one would see her in her outfit from last night. Or worse, at a bus stop. All the walk of shame boxes were checked.

Hair—matted.

Lipstick—smeared.

Eyes—black from running mascara.

Clothes—stained and wrinkled.

Head—hung in shame.

Dignity. Lost.

3 The psychiatric floor of Perpetual Help also happened to be the highest floor. “The Penthouse,” as the ward staffers liked to euphemize it. At that moment, all Agnes could think was that it was a pretty good place to jump from, which might have been what the administrators had in mind when they moved the unit up there. The simplest cost-cutting measure of all.

Agnes was wheeled into the waiting room flat on her back but forced herself upright and into a sitting position after she was “parked,” slowly rotating her torso toward the edge of her gurney until her legs fell over the side. She was dizzy and grabbed the edge of the gurney and squeezed down, which, it turned out, hurt like hell. She hadn’t realized how much the wrist and forearm muscles were used in steadying yourself like that. Agnes lifted her head to check out her surroundings.

It was grim, barred up, quiet, dimly lit, with walls painted in neutral colors and furniture discretely bolted down, not a sharp edge to be found. Dull and drab, with one exception: an ornate stained glass window. Agnes bathed in the splintered moonlight that blazed through it. It was the only color to be found anywhere on the floor and the kaleidoscopic jewel-toned glow was soothing, maybe even a little mesmerizing. On the not-so-bright side, the place smelled like meat loaf, instant mashed potatoes, soggy canned green beans, and disinfectant. Nauseating. Lunchtime for the lunatics, she thought.

The wait seemed endless, but it did give her time to reflect. She was by herself without anyone in her ear. Suddenly, the door opened and a young nurse escorted a little boy into the room and locked him in behind her without saying a word. He was very young, not older than ten. Far too young to be there, surely, and definitely didn’t fit the funny-farm profile she was expecting from the campfire stories her ER nurse was telling downstairs.

Agnes smiled at him, but he wasn’t interested in gestures or even eye contact for that matter.

They were alone.

“What’s your name?” Agnes asked.

The boy sat quietly for an uncomfortably long time. In his own