Page 54 of Since She's Been Gone

“Okay,” I say, pulling out my mom’s death certificate and my own driver’s license from my purse. I hand both to him, he makes copies, and I take down his name and phone number to follow up.

I repeat this process three more times at three additional hospitals. As I make my way around the city, I take precautions not to bring any attention to myself by walking in the middle of packed sidewalks, aware that whoever sent me the text on the plane might be following me.

After leaving the fourth hospital on Second Avenue empty-handed, I feel dizzy. And not just because I haven’t eaten anything real in the last couple of days. It’s the desperation that’s setting in.

There’s no plan B. Either I find something here that leads me to my mom, if she’s still alive, or she and I, and possibly Eddie and Sarah, will be in danger because of the Cadells and whoever they have following me.

I feel like I might faint. I spot a diner up the block and race toward it. I duck inside, opting for a booth in the backof the restaurant instead of a fishbowl one near the front window, where I’d be on display for anyone passing by.

A waitress in her sixties, dressed in an old-fashioned pink apron with a name tag written in faded black cursive—Mabel—approaches me.

“What’ll it be?” she asks.

“Coffee, black,” I say.

“That’s it?” she says.

I nod.

She gives me a once-over. “No offense, hon, but you don’t look so good. A little pale. How about a bagel? You could use it.”

The truth is I’ve reached the point where I wonder if I’ll have enough strength to keep going without any food. I don’t feel well at all.

“Okay,” I cave.

When she returns with the bagel, I smear one side with cream cheese. As soon as I take a bite, ED immediately starts making me feel like shit for it.

No wonder your life is so fucked up. You can’t even say no to an itty-bitty bagel. You’re pathetic, weak—

I drop the bagel on the plate and smack down a twenty-dollar bill on the table, Mom’s charm bracelet hitting it.

I stand up, about to walk out, when my phone starts to ring—a New York City number—but it isn’t Paul’s number. Maybe he’s calling me from another line. I pick up.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi, is this Beatrice Bennett?” a woman asks me.

“Yes …”

“This is Ramona Marino,” she says.

Ramona … Marino … My foggy, starved brain can’t place her.

“From Bell Hospital,” she says. “You contacted me yesterday about your late mother’s medical records.”

I now remember that she was the only hospital employee I spoke with who took down my information.

“Hi,” I say.

“It turns out we do have records for your mother,” she lets me know.

“You do?” I say.

“Yes, but the hospital won’t let me release them unless you come in person with her death certificate and your identification. They won’t accept emailed copies. You mentioned you’re in LA, so I’m not sure how that could work—”

“I’m actually in New York now,” I interrupt.

“Oh, great,” she says. “I’m not at the hospital. I’m at the office building next door on the fourth floor.”

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