Cohen walks out into the hallway and feels that sober sense of cautious hope that seems to wander hospital hallways early in the morning, when those who are still alive breathe easier. The sun will rise again soon. He wants to put his arm around the boy and say, “We have all survived another night.” Instead he asks him a question.
“Everything okay, Thatcher?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think so.”
“Is your mom around?”
Thatcher shakes his head. “No, she still hasn’t come back.”
“What’s she afraid of?”
As if on cue, the banging sound of a dropped food tray comes from Thatcher’s grandfather’s room, followed by a string of profanity.
“Dad’s still mad.”
Cohen nods. “Want me to talk to him?”
“No way!” he says, incredulous. “No. I wanted to see if you might help me look around for my mom. I think she’s here, in the hospital.”
“What makes you think that?”
Thatcher looks over his shoulder. “Pretty sure I saw her leaving Grandpa’s room when I was coming up the hall.”
“Did you go after her?”
“I wasn’t sure if it was her. And she was far away, and she walked through that door really quick. I don’t want my dad to find her.”
“Yeah. Sure. I’d be happy to help you look. Can we start in the cafeteria? I need a coffee.”
The boy smiles, and Cohen is surprised at how happy he can look. He has a nice smile with straight, white teeth and shallow dimples.
“You drink coffee?” Cohen asks.
“Sure.”
They go down the elevator to the main level and walk to the cafeteria. It’s quiet, and nurses walk by in soft shoes and doctors wander the halls staring at clipboards, their eyes ringed by dark circles. The kitchen in the cafeteria is not open yet, but there are canisters of coffee and one lone girl standing at a register. Beyond that, the cafeteria is empty except for one person: Ava.
“Morning, mister.” The girl at the register punches a button, yawning.
“Hi there. Two coffees.”
She tells him the total and takes his money, gives him change.
“How long has that woman been here?” he asks.
“Oh, her? She came in maybe five minutes ago. You know her?” The girl sounds suspicious.
“She’s a friend. That’s all.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t look convinced. “Well, enjoy your coffee.”
Cohen leads Thatcher back toward the small round table where Ava is sitting. She stares out the window, distracted, and her coffee sends up smoke signals.
“Good morning,” he says, reluctant to bring her out of her reverie.
She turns, and for a moment he isn’t sure she recognizes him. “Oh, Cohen! I’m sorry. I was . . . very far away.” She laughs and pats the table. “Join me?”
“Sure, I was grabbing a cup of coffee when I saw you.”
“And is this your nephew?” she asks.
“No, no. This is my friend Thatcher. His grandfather is in the room next to my dad.”
“Oh,” she says, concern slowing down her voice. “I’m sorry. Is he okay?”
“No, ma’am,” Thatcher mumbles.
“I’m very sorry.”
They sit down, Cohen beside Ava and Thatcher on the other side of him. They sit quietly while the cafeteria wakes up around them. Three employees walk past, all the way to the entrance to the kitchen. One of them comes back out to take up a post at the other register. The shutter at the tray drop-off rises. Soon Cohen can smell bacon.
“So, you two met in the hallway?” Ava asks with a gentle smile.
Cohen returns her smile. “Something like that.”
“How do you know each other?” Thatcher asks.
Cohen looks at Ava and motions for her to answer.
“Well, let’s see,” she replies. “Cohen and I went to school together for many years. We went to the same church for a short while. We played baseball together.”
“Really?” Thatcher asks.
“Yes, girls play baseball,” Ava says sarcastically.
“I know that,” Thatcher protests.
“I’m just giving you a hard time.”
“She was very, very good. Best player on the team,” Cohen says, looking at Ava.
She laughs. He likes the way she laughs. It’s the same laugh she had when she was a girl, the same smile she gave him from her spot at first base, the same grin she had when they sat on the sidewalk outside the funeral home, and it takes his mind off of everything.
“Well, maybe. I don’t know about that. But I did love it.”
“Now she’s a detective,” Cohen says. “So watch yourself.”
“Seriously?” Thatcher asks, eyes wide.
Ava nods, taking another sip from her coffee. “That’s right.”
“Maybe she can help us,” Thatcher says to Cohen in a quiet voice.
Cohen shrugs.
“With what?” Ava asks.
“My mom is missing.”
“Your mom is missing?”
“Yeah.”
“For how long?” Her voice becomes more businesslike with each question.
“Maybe a day or two.”
“Dad doesn’t want to. Says she’ll be back when she’s good and ready.”
Ava’s eyes go wide and she stares at Cohen as if to corroborate the story.
Cohen grimaces and nods. “I know it doesn’t sound good, but it’s true.”
“Are you serious? Why haven’t you reported this?”
“He’s seen her around,” Cohen says, raising his hands defensively. “Or at least he thinks he did.”
“You did?” she asks Thatcher.
“I don’t know. I think so,” he says nervously. “I actually think she might be hiding in the hospital. I hope that won’t get her into any trouble. Maybe forget I told you that.”
“What’s she hiding from?”
Cohen sighs. “Okay, here’s the deal. Thatcher’s grandpa is dying. Thatcher’s dad is a rather violent man—sorry, Thatcher—who will take it out on anyone who’s within striking distance, and the doctor basically killed his grandfather by giving him the wrong medication. I think Thatcher’s mom still wants to sit with and take care of her father-in-law, so she’s holed up somewhere here in the hospital and comes out at night when her angry husband isn’t around. That’s my theory. But I’m no detective. Sound right?” He looks at Thatcher.
“I’d say so.” Thatcher shrugs.
“What do you want my help for?” Ava asks.
“Maybe keep your eyes out for her?” Thatcher says. “I just want to know she’s okay.”
“After we drink our coffee,” Ava suggests, “maybe we can take a wander around the hospital?”
“I’ll check in on my dad, and if everything’s okay I can join the search party. Speaking of my dad,” Cohen says, turning toward Ava, “they want Kaye and me to give them the okay to take him off life support.”
“Oh, Cohen.” She stares into her coffee, then back up at him with sad eyes. “I’m sorry.” She pauses, glancing at Thatcher. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this with you, but I think you’re in the clear. There’s no evidence suggesting foul play or suicide. I’m pretty sure it’s going to go down as an accident. That’s all I’m saying. And you didn’t hear it from me.”
Cohen nods. “Thanks.” He stands up, pushing his chair away from the table. He stops, stares at the windows, then looks back at Ava. “Thanks.”