certainly sounds to me like you did, missy.”
“I wanted to let you know that I'm in Emerg with Mrs. Parnell, and I may not make the family dinner tonight because…”
“What? You really are incredible, Camilla. You miss out on so many family events. You know how important this day is to Daddy.”
I took a deep, soothing breath. “Daddy will understand. I have to stay here until we find out if she's all right.”
Edwina sniffed. “Alexa has worked very hard to make this special dinner. She's livid.”
I said, “Alexa doesn't get livid. You're the one who's always livid. Alexa does the guilt trips. Never mind. Put Daddy on the line. He really likes Mrs. Parnell. I'll explain.”
“This is a very emotional day for him. You'll manage to upset him about this. I'll make up a plausible story.”
“What do you mean make up a story? Just tell him the truth.”
“Leave it with me. I'm sure you'll show up eventually.”
Oh, what the hell.
* * *
“I'm a bit tense, try not to make it any worse,” I said to Alvin. We both knew this waiting room too well. We had now been hanging around in useless mode for what seemed like hours, breathing in air heavy with body odour and disinfectant. Our backsides were numb from too long in the molded plastic chairs. Hours earlier, Mrs. P. had vanished into some examination room along with a pack of highly-focussed medical personnel. At least they had behaved as though sudden headache and collapse in a woman in her eighties was worth taking action.
Alvin said, “Me? You're the one who always makes things worse.”
“Who used the word ‘crazy’?”
“You don't really think that made her…?”
All right, I didn't. He just gets me going, and I was worried. Maybe Alvin had been right. Maybe I should have tried harder to talk her out of marching. At the very least, I could have stayed in touch with her more in the preceding week. A good solid Catholic upbringing equips you to wallow in guilt over many issues. I was wallowing big time.
In the few years since we'd met her, Mrs. P. had begun to dote on Alvin, who didn't get much of that from other sources. She'd also saved my bacon more than once. She'd ended up in the ICU as a direct result of some of our investigations. In a pinch, she was game to spend the night guarding a client who was in danger. At the moment your life was flashing before your eyes, you could count on her to pop into the picture brandishing her Benson & Hedges and the appropriate military motto. She'd provide you with a tumbler of Bristol Cream to help you get over whatever trauma you'd be facing. I couldn't imagine life without her.
Alvin reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and produced a brightly-coloured notebook. Unless I missed my guess, it had repeating images of Margaret Trudeau on it. Very Andy Warhol. He clicked a hot pink gel pen, bent his head and began to write.
“What's that?” I said.
“It's my journal. Do you like the cover? I designed it myself.”
“It's very interesting, and I'm not surprised you designed it yourself, but since when do you keep a journal?”
“I just started. I'm using it as an ongoing process of self-discovery. Not that it's any of your business.”
“Everything is my business, Alvin,” I said, for no particular reason. Sometimes you just have to pick on the closest person. I'm trying to cut down on that sort of thing, but Alvin makes such a fine target.
Alvin said, without lifting his head, “I was going to write about all the wonderful things Violet has done for me, like dropping everything and driving to Nova Scotia when my brother, Jimmy, was missing, but now I'm making a note that although you were supposed to try to be nicer to people, you have failed miserably. I hope that will be a lesson to me not to be half-assed about my own personal objectives.”
“I can see you're going to enjoy your voyage, Alvin,” I said nicely.
He snapped the book shut. “I'm scared, Camilla. What's wrong with her?”
I refused to say the awful words that reverberated in my mind. Aneurysm. Alzheimer's. Dementia. Brain tumour. Stroke. Cardiac arrest.
Alvin poked me in the ribs. “I need a bit of reassurance. Is that too much to ask?”
What could I say that wouldn't make things even worse? Mrs. Parnell smokes a package of cigarettes a day and consumes sherry by the vat. She doesn't believe in waiting until the sun is over the yardarm to do either. She is eighty-three years old, she never sleeps, she drives too fast, and wholesome living is not in her dictionary.
Alvin chewed his nails. “Do you think it could be a heart attack?”
“Wait for the doctor. No point in jumping to conclusions.”
I was saved from a further volley of Alvin's questions by a familiar and darkly handsome Emergency Room physician who attempted to slip past us without making eye contact.
I shot out of the molded plastic seat and sprinted after him. I caught up and grabbed him by the arm. “Not so fast, Doctor. We're waiting to hear if Mrs. Violet Parnell is going to be all right.”
He stopped and frowned. “I know you,” he said in the Newfoundland accent I was expecting.
“Well yes, we have met, Dr. Hasheem. It's not about me this time.”
“You're in Emerg a lot.”
“Not really. Just when something happens.”
He closed his eyes. “If I recall: concussion, concussion, smoke inhalation, shock, hypothermia. Am I missing anything? Another concussion perhaps? Oh, yes. Broken arm.”
“I'm fine today. This is not about me.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but you have a tendency to encounter dangerous people, places and things. That right?”
“At the moment, I'm avoiding danger in all its forms.”
“You look like you've lost weight.”
People kept commenting on that, and it was beginning to get on my nerves.
“I dropped a size maybe. I was quite dizzy and nauseated after the concussions.”
“She forgot to eat,” Alvin said, sneaking up behind me. “In all the confusion of being evicted twice.”
“Thank you, Alvin. I'll handle this conversation.”
Dr. Hasheem's handsome forehead furrowed. “After what you've been through, you really must avoid all this stress. There can be lingering problems after concussion.”
“It's been two and a half months. I'm all right.” This was true enough, except for a tendency to wake up screaming in the night.
“It's not very long in recovery terms,”
