discussion.
“How . . . many . . . people . . . live . . . with . . . you?”
Bobby grinned. Does . . . she . . . think . . . you’re . . . deaf . . . or
. . . stupid?
“Of course not,” Helen whispered. “She doesn’t even know me.” She turned back to the woman, enunciating just as carefully. “I . . . live . . . with . . . my . . . husband.”
And twenty-four cats, Bobby added. Don’t they count?
“I don’t count the ones that live outside,” she whispered back. “Do you want her to think I’m crazy?”
The woman swiped across her i-Pad—sold only to those willing to sign up for a monthly plan—and used a stylus to record the information. “So you live with your husband. Would you like me to call him?”
Helen motioned to Bobby. “He’s right here.”
“Oh . . . I see.” But she didn’t bother saying hello, apparently having no real interest in anyone else. “How much is your rent?”
Helen watched, fascinated by the woman’s tapping. “I don’t pay rent. I own my house.”
“Well, okay, your mortgage then. What’s that payment?”
Pushy broad, Bobby growled, clearly miffed that the woman continued to ignore him.
“I paid off the house when my husband died.”
Bobby flashed a smug smile. Glad I could help.
“Maybe we can do something for you. Do you have health insurance?”
“Uh . . . no.”
The woman’s perfect eyebrows contracted. “Oh, that is too bad. Maybe we could do some kind of abbreviated treatment.”
Bobby scowled. That doesn’t sound good.
“Treatment?” Helen asked.
“I can’t say at this point, but the trouble you have dealing with the death of your husband could be a sign of clinical depression. My clinic has had a great deal of success dealing with exactly this problem.”
Helen stepped back. If there was a hell on earth, she knew it could be found in a modern sanitarium. “You want to put me away?”
“Oh, no,” the suit laughed. “We want to improve your quality of life. We could have you adjusted and functioning normally in a matter of months.”
Adjusted? Bobby stared at the woman as if she had suddenly sprouted horns.
Helen drew herself up, mimicking the suit’s sophisticated manner. “Thank you so very much for your consideration, but I manage just fine on my own.”
The woman stared straight back. “When was the last time you took a bath?”
“I beg your pardon?” This uppity middle-class bureaucrat had crossed the line! Only the neighborhood kids dared to comment on her ablutions, or lack thereof.
“You’re displaying symptoms of psychotic depression, Helen, also a lack of attention to appearance and personal hygiene.”
Helen pointed a finger at the woman. “I have never been subjected to such—” She stopped, staring at her hand. Her nails, encrusted with dirt, blended into her skin, black lines crisscrossing across the palms. She spread her fingers, noticing them for the first time in years. When had they gotten so wrinkled and rough looking?
“Why don’t I leave my number?” The doctor held out a business card. “When you feel like talking, call my office and we’ll set up an appointment.”
Feeling like she would rather touch a scorpion, Helen jammed the card into her pocket, hoping the woman would immediately forget their conversation.
The crier took advantage of the momentary silence to grab the suit’s attention. “Where’s my little girl? Where’s my Susie? What’s going to happen to me?”
Officer Maria opened the gate, ushering both the doctor and the crier down the hall.
“I don’t know how she got hurt,” the woman wailed. “When I came home, she was like that. All pale and still. When can I see her? Why is this happening to me? I’m the one who called 9-1-1. I’m the one who took care of her.”
Helen stared at the mountain of soggy tissue. Was this real?
Bobby shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. Let me see if I have this straight. You’ve been thrown in with a baby whore, a drunk driver, and a child killer, and you’re the one left in the cage.
Helen leaned back against the wall, realizing she would never get her truck packed in time. She wanted to moan, but it seemed like such a crier kind of thing.
Chapter Three
The irritating ring of the phone shattered her afternoon siesta, but Pat let it go, not about to ruin her first three-day weekend in over a year. Wyatt and the boys had just left for a hiking trip on Superstition Mountain, and the house felt heavenly in its silence. She rolled over and pulled the pillow tighter around her head. No good. The sound of her own voice filtered through with perfect clarity. Hi, you’ve reached the Henderson residence. Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
A cool and professional female voice responded. “This is the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Officer Fine speaking. I’m calling for Mrs. Henderson.”
Las Vegas Police! Only one person in Las Vegas knew her number, and it had been ten years since their last painful conversation.
“Please return my call at (702) 828-3521, extension 35—”
Pat leaned over, nearly falling off the couch, and snatched up the receiver. “This is Mrs. Henderson. I’m here. I’m awake now.” Great, like that sounded sane.
“Please hold. Helen would like to speak with you.”
“Wait! No, I can’t—”
“Cleo?” Pat cringed. Cleo—their mother had been so desperate for beautiful daughters she had named them after two legendary beauties: Helen of Troy and Cleopatra. Pat had always hated the name, but in deference to her mother’s sensibilities she had waited until she married before officially making the change. No matter, Helen insisted on Cleo.
“It’s us,” Helen continued in a chirpy voice. “Listen, don’t worry about anything. Officer Maria just wanted to be sure someone knew where we were. We have some money and we can take the bus home.”
We! Helen was obviously still keeping Bobby around for company. “I’m glad to hear you’re okay, Helen . . . both of you.” She hated acknowledging Helen’s version of the invisible friend, knowing Bobby would never have put up with such nonsense. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
The answering silence brought back all the frustrations of trying to communicate
