Page 69 of Latte Girl
DeadEnd
Jordan
The usual wolfcalls and requests for high fives that accompany my walk to my office have been replaced with an uneasy silence. People look up as I approach and then bend their heads back over their desks the second they see who I am. I’ve gone from being greeted like Casanova to the Grim Reaper in the space of a singlemorning.
I pull the door of my office closed behind me and rush over to my desk, opening up my computer and doing a search for the Bernstein Centre. Their website describes it as ‘a private recovery centre for patients requiring dedicated, long term care on their journey to rehabilitation.’ I didn’t think I’d ever feel excited to see the term ‘stroke victim’ but when I notice it in the list of illnesses they cater to, I throw a punch up intheair.
I go straight to the contact page and my enthusiasm wavers a bit when I realize they have thirty-four locations across the country. According to the map, there are three within a two hour drive of here alone. The thought that she may not even be at Bernstein Centre at all anymore flashes through my mind, clinging like deadweight to the balloon of hope that’s been rising inside me since I had my epiphanyaboutLudo.
Doing my best to shrug off the doubt, I take out my phone and dial the number for the location that’s just on the edge of the city. I sit through the long recorded message that has about fifteen different options for which button I need to press next. Finally, I get an operator ontheline.
“Hello, Bernstein Centre for Recovery. How can I help youtoday?”
“I was just wondering about a patient you might have. Her name isRosalindKnox.”
“Do you have her patient extensionnumber?”
“Uh, no,” I reply. “I don’t actually know if she’s staying there. She’s at a Bernstein Centre but I’m not surewhichone.”
“Unfortunately, I can’t give that information out. Our patient lists are confidential. I’d suggest you contact someone who knows the patient in question and can give you her extension number. Then we’d be able to put you intouch.”
I tug at a handful of my hair. “I’m not actually trying to speak with her on the phone, per se. I’d just like to know which centre she’s at. I’mherson.”
“As I said before,” the operator responds in a cheerful tone, “our patient lists areconfidential.”
“It’s just that I don’t actuallyhavecontact with anyone who could tell me wheresheis.”
I realize that I sound like some sort of scam artist right now and wrack my brains for a way to come across as morelegitimate.
“What if I came in person and gave you ID?” I add. “Could I seeherthen?”
“If the patient is staying here and you’re on her approved visitors list, then yes, you’d be allowed tovisit.”
“And if I’m not on the list?”Iask.
“Then no, you would not be allowed tovisit.”
I let my head loll over the back of my chair. “So essentially there is no way for me to contact herdirectly.”
“We take our patients’ security very seriously here at the Bernstein Centre for Recovery. Thank you forunderstanding.”
Fighting the urge to throw my cell phone across the room, I say goodbye and end the call. Any thoughts I had about storming into my father’s office and thundering out my resignation have been put on hold. I can’t throw away the chance to see my mom that he’s been dangling in front of me until I know I have another way toreachher.
The fear that I’m doing the wrong thing, that this will only make her situation worse, has beads of sweat collecting on the back of neck. The walls of my office start pressing in on me, and I tug at the collar of my shirt, feeling the hands of frustration circle around mythroat.
I gather my things and throw on my coat. This whole street has always been a pit of quicksand waiting to swallow me up, and struggling here only drags medeeper.
* * *
Thirty-four letters takeup a lot of space. They also cost a hell of a lot of money to send. As someone who won’t have a job after today, I should probably start worrying more about how much things cost. I manoeuvre the contents of my briefcase around to fit all the envelopes inside and realize that despite all that, the four stamp books I got from the post office might be the most worthwhile purchase I’veevermade.
I spent most of the weekend wandering around my apartment, alternating between thinking about Hailey and coming up with ways to reach my mother. I called nearly every Bernstein Centre in the country, using tactics like pretending I’d forgotten the extension number and claiming I had important legal information to deliver, but nothing seemedtowork.
I was starting to get scared I’d gain a nation-wide reputation as ‘That Stalker Guy Who Keeps Calling’ when I managed to trick one operator into admitting there’s a Rosalind Knox on file in the Bernstein Centre network. Even though he realized his mistake in giving out the information and refused to tell me anything else, it was all the confirmation Ineeded.
She’s at one of those centres, and in all likelihood she’s very close by. Even if the letters don’t work, I’ll find a way to reach her. I hold onto that thought like it’s a torch, leading me on through what I’m going to dotoday.
I drop the envelopes off in my building’s mail slot, sliding them in one at a time, and then drive to Knox Security. When I head up the elevator to my father’s office this time, my heart still pounds against my chest so hard it feels like it will burst through my skin, but my head is clear, soothed by the notion that for once I have theupperhand.
