Page 43 of The Reluctant Reaper
The inside was nice, too; once they were through the double doors, they could see it was closer to a fancy apartment complex or a high-end hotel than what people thought when they imagined a state-run nursing home.
Gray slowed and stopped at the registration desk, then hurried after Amara when she didn’t. “Don’t we need visitor badges or something?” he stage-whispered.
“When you do that, everyone can hear you.”
“Sorry. My first time.”
“Everyone heard that, too. Lesson the first: Death Lite can get in anywhere.”
“Okay, let’s nip that in the bud right now. That’s not a nickname you want. Try to picture it on a T-shirt. See? Terrible.”
Amara made no reply as she neared the residence rooms, just swerved, seized a small plastic trash can outside the women’s restroom, and dry heaved.
“Oh my God. You never throw up. I’ve neverseenyou throw up. And you chased vermouth with chocolate milk that one time.”
“I’m not throwing up now, either. Hurrrrggggnnn!” Dry heaves: all the unpleasantness and exhaustion of vomiting, none of the release.
“Let’s head back to the car.” Gray displayed his essential fearlessness by putting an arm around her heaving shoulders, ignoring her long, rattling belch. “Give you a minute. Come back, hit the nurse’s station for some ginger ale and crackers?—”
“It’s not a cafeteria, Gray.”
“—and we’ll try again.”
“No point. To anything, really.” Amara tucked the trash can close to her side like a football, shrugged off Gray’s comforting arm, then rapped gently on the door to Room 196. In response to, “Jesus, finally,” they entered.
The room was about the size of a hotel single, with white walls and mint accents. Amara pushed past the discreet curtain, noting where the en suite bathroom was in case her frazzled system wanted to offer up something more substantial than dry heaves. There was a couch at the foot of the bed, but it looked like it had been assembled from cinderblocks, right down to the squares and gray fabric. Amara gave it a wide berth.
There was a mountain in the bed swathed in crisp white sheets: Agatha Lindstrom, DOB 2/14/1975, DOD today. Class III obesity, type 2 diabetes, hypertension. Cause of death: myocardial infarction.
Amara cleared her throat. “Hi, Ms. Lindstrom. You might not remember me, but?—”
“Amara Morrigan. You sang like a cat set on fire.”
“Yes, but when I started in your class, you said I sang like arabidcat on fire. So, improvement?”
“I’ll take my small victories where I can find ’em.” Ms. Lindstrom’s clear gaze shifted to Gray. “Who’s the stud?”
“You can see him? Never mind, he’smystud,” Amara snapped, then recovered herself. “I mean, this is my friend, Graham Gray.”
“Hi! I have no official role here, ma’am.”
“I was... expecting your father. The jumped-up redhead with the crazy eyes.”
Amara spread her hands in the universal gesture for,Yeah, but what can you do?“He’s... indisposed. I’m, um, filling in.”
Ms. Lindstrom let out a wheezy chuckle. “Listen to us and our fuckin’ euphemisms. It’s time, isn’t it? You’re getting me out of this shithole.”
“It seems like a nice enough?—”
“You’re here to kill me.”
Stung, Amara replied, “I think maybe your diet and accompanying lifestyle killed you.”
Lindstrom flapped a chubby hand in Amara’s direction. The fingers were so swollen, the rings had long been cut off. “Don’t you judge me, you rotten brat. I don’t haveta take shit from Death’s still wet-behind-the-ears kid.”
Amara could almost read Gray’s mind:This woman was a teacher?Amara was pretty sure Agatha was like thisbecauseshe’d been a teacher.
“I appreciate you making this easier on me,” Amara deadpanned, and got another chuckle.
