THIRTY-FIVE
The emergency room—everything about the hospital, in fact—was fluorescent and bewildering.
Jennifer had called an ambulance (luckily, 911 was still the number to call for such things) and then followed it to Fairview, less than two miles away. She’d been terrified the entire drive; her hands still ached from her white-knuckled grip on the wheel. What if I get pulled over? What if the hospital needs to see my ID? What if I get arrested? Or Mom gets in trouble for lending a car to her dead, license-less daughter? Will they let me call her? What if Lars dies? “Great to see you again, sorry I ruined your life and let you rot in prison for a crime I committed, and wow, I did not see the heart attack coming! My sad.” That’s what the kids said, right? My sad?*
The attendants had hustled Lars right through the ER and several nurses and doctors had descended upon his gurney. She’d been politely shunted off to the side and began a small season in purgatory (so to speak) waiting for news in a small side room filled with chairs, a watercooler,
(oh good they still have those whew!)
and several low tables with stacks of magazines.
At first she drank cup after cup of water. Then she paced, but when she realized she was irritating some of the others, she sat and flipped through magazines. Apparently, “apps” were very, very important. So were Kardashians. And Oprah’s TV show had been so popular, she had her own magazine now. Tylenol was still in business and Elizabeth Taylor was still selling perfume. Maybelline was still making makeup, though Jennifer didn’t recognize any of the models. Pale blue eye shadow was either back in style or had never gone out of style.
She’d whipped the magazine at the wall before she realized she was going to do such a thing. You are not in Hell, moron! This behavior will be noticed and perhaps even commented on. Stop it!
All the magazines did was emphasize that she wasn’t a teenager and never would be again. She had no ID, no driver’s license, no high school diploma. When asked, she’d identified herself as a friend of the family, then bit her tongue to keep the hysterical laughter from spilling out.
She had ruined her chances. Did they still play Monopoly in the twenty-first century? Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars, just go straight back to Hell.
“That’s okay,” a stout older woman with reddish gray hair told her, getting up and picking up the issue. “All those ads make me nuts, too. What’s happened to journalism? D’you mind if I read this?”
Jennifer shook her head and that was when the nurse came to fetch her.
* * *
So now she was sitting beside a hospital bed, Lars in a drugged sleep beside her, his belly making a great white mound in the middle of the bed. Good health insurance ensured a private room, and the nurse had told her she could stay until the top of the hour but would then have to leave.
And go where, exactly?
She was mechanically flipping through channels with the remote, something small and sleek that she first thought was an incredibly advanced electric shaver. She was looking at the television without really seeing it, and wondering how the end would come.
Would Betsy just pop into being? Appear from nowhere and grab Jennifer’s hand and haul her back to Hell? Would she let Jennifer call her mother first? “Sorry, Mom. I failed. I loved seeing you today and I won’t ever see you again, because you aren’t going where I’m going.”
Then a thought so horrible struck her that for a long moment she was paralyzed with horror: what if her mother did something terrible to end up in Hell, so they would never again be apart?
No. No. Focus on what you can control. She could do nothing for Lars beyond what she already had: called an ambulance, stayed with him in the hospital. Her only option now was to wait, and so she would.
She clicked through more channels and wondered when she’d be hearing from the new devil. Then she realized what she was looking at—for the first time she really paid attention to the screen—and realized Betsy had her hands full and wasn’t coming for anyone anytime soon.
The picture was of the mansion in flames, with a publicity still of Betsy in the corner of the screen while red words streamed across the bottom.
BREAKING NEWS: Mysterious explosion at so-called vampire mansion.
“Oh shit,” she managed, and groped for her mom’s car keys.