Chapter 30

 

Sara had forgotten her favorite black pants and hoodie were the clothes she was wearing the day she found the money—until she spotted the sheriff in the hospital corridor. Panic!

She raced down the hall until she came to an empty patient room, ducked inside and went into the bathroom. Her heart pounded and her face in the mirror showed wide eyes in a stark white face. How did he know I was there? I can’t let him recognize me.

She pulled off the hoodie, rolled it up in a ball and stuffed it under her bright pink sweater. At a glance, she might appear pregnant. There wasn’t much she could do about her hair. The short, blonde wisps absolutely marked her. She rummaged madly in her tiny purse—eight dollars in cash, her house key, a pen, small hairbrush, lip gloss and mascara. She debated smearing the latter through her light locks, but there was no way it would fully cover and most likely would just draw more attention. Especially from her mother—she needed to get back to the chemo building right away.

Peering carefully into the hall she saw no activity, so she speed-walked to the intersection where the elevators were. A door showed the way to the stairs. She kept her eyes down and tried to adopt a pregnant-lady walk as she passed some guy pushing a large bin on wheels. The stairs seemed the best option. As quietly as possible she pushed open the heavy door and closed it without a sound. She’d gone two flights down when she heard a door open above her. She pressed herself against the wall and held her breath.

Whoever it was stood there a minute but didn’t come down. When the door closed again, Sara ran the rest of the way to the ground floor, pulling her hoodie out and hugging it to her body as she stepped out into the cold November day. There was frost on the chamisa bushes in shady areas, and she shivered as she made her way to the adjoining building.

Why, oh why had she decided to explore around the hospital? She could have purchased that packet of Twix from several other vending machines without going to the fourth floor.

It’s because you needed to see for yourself.

The receptionist at the front desk smiled at Sara as she passed. She kept moving.

You went there because you know Matt had something to do with that poor woman lying there in the ICU. You had to find out if she’d died.

She paused outside the room where her mother was receiving her chemo infusion, took a deep breath and blew it out. She had to forget the way the sheriff had looked at her. Her mother could read every expression on her face, no matter how sick she was. Mom was already suspicious about her behavior recently. Tears began to well. How long could she keep this secret?

A nurse noticed her. “Oh, honey. It’s hard, I know. But your mom’s treatment is going really well. We always hold on to hope.”

Obviously, people crying in a cancer treatment ward was nothing unusual. Sara nodded and accepted the tissue the nurse held out to her.

“Can I get you a Coke or something?” The nurse wouldn’t stop looking at her.

“I’ll be okay. I’d better—” She gestured vaguely toward the room.

The nurse squeezed her shoulder and let her go inside.

Mom reclined against the back of her chair, her eyes closed. Sara hoped she was napping—it would give her a few more minutes to compose herself. But Mom’s eyelids fluttered and she smiled.

“Hey, there. I wondered where you went.”

“Got a little snack.” Which I dropped somewhere, running from the law. “You doing okay?”

“Just peachy.” Mom smiled and toyed with the edge of the light blanket they’d draped over her lap. “I’m glad it’s a school holiday so you could come with me today.”

Another lie.

“Honey, you want to talk about what’s been upsetting you?”

Damn. So intuitive.

“I don’t want to bother you with anything, Mom. You have to concentrate on getting better.”

I need someone to talk to. Crissy, why aren’t you here for me?

This time the tears wouldn’t stay back. Her vision blurred and she knew they would spill.

“Sara, this place is too much—”

“It’s not that, Mom. I—I have a friend who’s got this problem—”

Mom reached out for her hand and held it.

“What kind of problem is she worried about?”

“Well, if you knew someone who’d done something wrong … like, a crime or something … and if you really think that person’s in over their head and you want to help … but it would probably get them arrested? I mean, if that was the case … what would you do?”

“What kind of a crime is it?”

“Well, like, having something that was stolen.” Don’t talk about the lady who was shot.

Mom rubbed the back of Sara’s hand in the way she used to whenever her daughter had a spat with friends or lost a favorite toy.

“Well, sweetie, I’d sit down with my friend and try to be very, very supportive. I’d suggest she return the item and admit what she did. I’m sure everything will turn out all right.”

She thinks I’m talking about shoplifting a nail polish or something.

“Even if it’s kind of a big, valuable thing?”

“No matter what it is, your friend will be better off to get it off her chest. Really.” Even though everything else about Mom was faded and thin, her eyes still held the same love and compassion as always. “She could come and tell me about it if she wants to.”

Matt going to prison, me being sent into foster care. This is too big a problem to dump on someone who’s dying. Sara’s tears poured over and trailed down her face.