At 8:10, Daniel stood beside the Buick at the
end of the driveway, filling the tank while I checked the hospital bag against my list. The receipt from the grocery store was still tucked under the magnet on the refrigerator inside, the total visible through the kitchen window.
“Three shirts,” I said. “Two blankets. Toiletries.”
Daniel looked toward me.
“Car seats?”
“Still in the garage.”
“Good.”
My phone lit up in my hand.
Karen.
I opened the message.
I will be there if you need me.
I read it twice.
Daniel capped the gas nozzle.
“What did she say?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the message and gave it back.
“She knows where to wait,” he said.
I looked at him.
“How do you know that?”
He did not answer.
I put the phone into my coat pocket.
“Karen, what exactly did your mother ask you to do?”
Daniel looked toward the house.
“Call her.”
“I will.”
My phone was already in my hand when another message appeared.
Karen: She told me to wait.
I called her.
She answered before the second ring.
“Hi.”
“Where are you supposed to wait?”
“The hospital parking garage.”
“Which level?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Vivian give you a time?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you who you were waiting for?”
Karen hesitated.
Then she folded the parking receipt into a square.
“She told me to wait.”
Karen tucked the square of paper into her coat pocket and looked toward the hospital entrance.
“Did she tell you why she wanted you here?”
Karen shook her head. “No. She said she needed me close by.”
“Close by for what?”
She opened her mouth, then stopped when a hospital employee pushed through the garage door with a cart of folded blankets. Karen stepped aside. The employee nodded and kept going.
“She said we would talk
