Page 33 of Nothing Ever Happens Here

“My poor baby,” I say. “Well, just stay, then. I’m sure Mom won’t care if you crash in the downstairs guest room.”

“Well, we’ll be back at the hospital to get you both first thing,” he says and we say our goodbyes and everything just feels dreamlike and off, and it’s more than just the trauma of it all. I can’t really put my finger on it, but my spine tingles and I don’t know if it’s the ghostly halls of this prehistoric hospital or something else.

I forgot I promised Poppy her Little Mermaid blanket because Christmas is over so she doesn’t want her reindeer one, and how can I say no to that right now?…and her Yoda doll, damn. I need to get home and back here, and I could really use a toothbrush and something that’s not tight jeans to sleep in at the hospital, so I guess I’ll have to call a cab.

Even though I know Poppy is in a deep sleep, I go up and check on her one more time before I run over to the house. Inside the room it breaks my heart to see her hooked up to a heart rate monitor and blood pressure cuff. Of course I’ve been sitting here all night in this environment, but walking in with fresh eyes and seeing my sweet baby surrounded by tubes and plastic and metal and beeping sounds is still jarring.

She’s so warm now, the rise and fall of her chest rhythmic and peaceful.I kiss the damp curls on her forehead and quietly close the door, making a mental list in my head of the things I need to pick up at home and I’m so lost in my thoughts I almost miss it, and then I stop, back up a few steps and peer into room 309.

“Bernie?” I say, tapping my knuckle against the door in a courtesy knock. He’s sitting in a hospital bed, eating a plate of rice and beans and watching an old episode ofMatlock.

“Oh! Hey, Shelby,” he says with a wide smile.

“What the hell?” is all I manage to spit out.

“I’m just fine. Just some palpitations.” And he must register the concerned look on my face because he adds, “Promise.”

“Okay,” I say. “Good.”

“Coleslaw?” he offers, holding out a paper cup covered in a thin plastic cover. I sit in the chair next to him and take it.

“Sure,” I say, unwrapping a plastic fork and eating the waxy slaw.

“I’m glad she’s okay,” he says. “You gave us all a fright.”

“Thanks, Bern,” I say, and he turns down the volume on the TV.

“Did you know Andy Griffith used to get upset on the set of this show because the crew would always steal his apples and peanut butter and it was his favorite food? All the greats are gone. It’s a shame.”

“Yeah,” I agree, and we watch the episode in silence for a few minutes. A scene unfolds—it zooms in on a swimmer in an indoor lap pool with goggles and a swim cap. He is swimming laps alone when the back of a man in a suit appears. We only see the suited man’s back and arms as he catches the swimmer before he can push off the wall to swim back the other way—he holds the swimmer’s head under water forcefully until his body goes limp. Bernie scrambles for the remote and switches it off as quickly as he can. I don’t react.

“So tell me, what do you think about this podcast? I was surprised to see you involved.”

“Me?” he asks.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m not used to getting asked what I think,” he says with a smirk.

“Well, you’re around a lot of strong personalities, I suppose,” I say.

“I suppose I am.” He chuckles. “‘When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw,’” he says and I stare at him.

“Uh-huh,” I say, wondering if he hit his head.

“Nelson Mandela,” he says, and I understand now that it’s a quote.

“I see,” I say, but I don’t really see. I put the coleslaw on his dinner tray and pick at the fork prongs.

“Maybe Florence isn’t an outlaw exactly, but taking the pursuit of justice into our own hands when nobody else is working to do so to protect you…it’s something along those lines. You’re being forced to live in fear. I can’t say we’re cracking the case, but it’s getting people’s attention,” he says. He pats the corners of his mouth with his napkin and sets it down.

“I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing yet,” I say.

“Me either,” he agrees.

“How exactly the hell did it go viral? Who’s listening to this? I mean—these listeners have to be all over, not really local… I thought about it, but it doesn’t really make sense that it could do any good—do anything but stir shit up.”

“Well, as you know, Mort has a podcast,” he says, and I grunt in hesitant agreement, because as it turns out, he really does.

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