Page 76 of Someone Knows

The woman smiles sadly. “I’m very sorry foryour loss. Theresa was more than a patient to me. We both belong to Saint Matthew’s. She was such a lovely person.”

“Oh, thank you.” My eyes drop to her name badge, and I dig deep for what I hope will come off as doting daughter. Lord knows, it doesn’t come naturally. “Oh, you’re Margaret! My mother talked about you. She was so nervous when she was admitted. She told me you brought her comfort.” I shake my head and look down at my feet. “I was devastated that I wasn’t here with her on her final days. I teach college up in New York and went back after her last hospital stay thinking . . . Well, I guess I misjudged how much time she had left.”

The nurse reaches out, touches my hand. “She wasn’t alone at the end. I was right there with her. I hope that brings you some peace.”

Peace is the last thing I’m feeling these days, but her comment does give me the perfect opening. “Thank you. It’s comforting to know she had good people around her. Noah Sawyer, for example, came and visited her a few times.”

The nurse nods. “I was here when he visited. Lovely young man, from such a wonderful family.”

It’s hard to keep the facade up after that comment, but somehow I manage a pleasant smile. “Yes. A friend of mine is a PA here. He was on duty the first time Noah came to visit. Sadly, Mom wasn’t awake. But he thinks she got to talk to him the next morning when he came back.”

“I’m sure that made her happy.”

“Did you . . . happen to see Noah when he visited the morning my mother died?”

“Yes, I was here.”

“And Mom was awake?”

She nods again. “It’s actually common that very sick patients get a burst of energy and feel more alert in the hours before they pass.”

“So Mom did get totalk to Noah then?”

“I believe so. I work seven to seven, and I remember he was here toward the beginning of my shift. Mrs. Davis was awake when breakfast was served. She ate a little that morning.”

“Did you . . . happen to hear what they spoke about?”

Nurse Chatty pauses. I must look too anxious to hear her answer, because she clams up. She smiles, but it’s gratuitous now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t.” She points down the hall to the elevator bank. “Your mom’s personal belongings would’ve been sent down to the admissions office. They have a place where they lock things up until the family comes to collect them. It’s down on the ground level.”

“Oh. Okay.”

She picks up a file, hugs it to her chest, and waits, subtly letting me know our conversation is over. I lift my hand in a halfhearted wave and head back to pick up Mom’s belongings—more stuff to go through and add to the donate or garbage piles.

Downstairs, the clerk gives me a clear plastic bag, makes me sign for the contents. I’ve never been in prison, yet I walk out of the hospital feeling like a person who just got sprung carrying everything she owns.

In the car, I toss the bag on the passenger seat. Mom’s purse catches my eye, and I slip it from the plastic. The smell of stale smoke wafts from the tattered leather satchel. Inside are three different inhalers, a string of rosary beads, and a pack of Marlboros.Great combo, Mom.There are crumpled tissues and a few singles, coins, and loose tobacco confetti the bottom of the lining. Her wallet is the only thing of interest. It has eleven dollars, a few credit cards that are likely maxed out or cut off because of delinquent payments, and her Louisiana driver’s license. I’m not sure what I was looking for, but whatever it was is not here, so I stuff everything back inside. As I do, I notice there’s a zippered interior compartment. So I unzip and dig around, coming up with a business card. My heart stutters as I read the wordsprinted.

NOAH SAWYER

Columnist

Louisiana Post

The bottom left side has an address a few towns over. The right has a telephone number and email. I run my finger over the lettering, thinking. What the hell did these two have going on? What reason could she possibly have to call him, request that he come visit her in the hospital while she was on her deathbed? She didn’t even callme—her only child—during her last days. Yet Noah came to visit her twice that I’m aware of, and she’s carrying around his business card.

My mind races all over the place, but the car grows too hot, the Louisiana heat forcing me to make a move, start the car. I could go home and search for more clues left behind by a dead person, or . . . I look down at the business card in my hand and nibble on my bottom lip. Or I could learn more about Noah Sawyer firsthand. Apparently, there’s a lot he hasn’t shared with me.

My stomach growls. I should’ve had more than just coffee at the diner with Lucas this morning. But my appetite has been nonexistent lately. Plus, I thought I was headed home soon. Who knew my one-hour errand would turn into lunch with Lucas, a visit to the hospital, and a three-hour stakeout at the corporate headquarters of theLouisiana Post? And who knew so many people would be here on a Sunday afternoon? Though I suppose the news never stops, never takes a break.

I rifle through my purse for a protein bar. There’s usually always one in there, but of course there isn’t when I need it. When I look up, I gasp. Noah is walking to his truck. Instinctively, I slink down in the seat as much as possible, while still being able to watch him. He’s swinging his keys, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m parked four rowsaway, partially blocked by a light post. Noah doesn’t seem to notice anything unusual as he gets into his truck. I’ve been sitting here for more than three hours, mulling a million things around in my head, yet for some stupid reason, I never considered what I was going to do when he finally came out. But when his pickup pulls out of its parking spot, it only seems logical to follow.

I trail a safe distance behind, so safe that I almost lose track of him on more than one occasion. Noah drives fast, twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. So the forty-minute drive back to Minton Parish takes only thirty. It’s uneventful, predictable even. Noah turns left at the second light off the highway, then right, and when the two cars between us go in different directions, it’s too obvious for me to follow anymore. I pull to the side of the road and let him go the rest of the way home alone. After ten minutes, I figure he should be inside by now, so I do a drive-by to make sure that’s where he went. Sure enough, the red truck is parked out front.

I pass, blowing out two disappointed cheeks full of air.What a waste of an afternoon.I could sit around, wait and see if he goes anywhere else tonight, but I suddenly don’t have the energy. So I keep driving until I pull into my mom’s driveway. Noah’s business card still lies on the passenger seat on top of Mom’s things. I leave the car running and pull out my phone, typeNoah Sawyerinto the Google search bar. I have no idea what took me so long to do it, but a bunch of stuff pops up. I scroll through the garbage—Whitepages, Classmates, LinkedIn, Facebook—a bunch of articles with high school baseball statistics. Apparently, Noah was a pitcher. At the bottom of the first page, I click on something interesting—Publishers Marketplace, an announcement about the sale of a book.

Debut author Noah Sawyer’sThe Secret, in which a decades-old secret leads a struggling reporter to realize he never really knew his family, to Rena Kline atUmbrella Books.

My heart pounds. Family secret? A reporter who never knew his family? Is this what he’s writing? My story?Ourstory? Is it the chapters I’ve been reading? Is that what he’s planning onpublishing? My entire body is shaking.

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