Chapter 45

Over the years, Maggie had pretended to be a lot of things. Confident. Ladylike. Self-possessed. She had even posed as a newspaper intern. This would be her first stint impersonating a physician.

She considered and dismissed a variety of aliases, most robbed from the starlets of classic film, before finally settling on Dr. Ada Duffy—a moniker mash-up of her friend’s name and her mother’s maiden name. She mentally donned a lab coat, blocked Constantine’s cell phone number (figuring his phone was more reliable) and dialed the office of Larry Cohen, M.D, pediatrician. A woman with an after-hours timbre answered.

“Dr. Cohen’s office,” she purred. “This is Lola. How may I help?”

Maggie tried to deepen her own voice and promptly choked on her uvula. After the coughing passed and she stopped seeing hypoxia-induced spots, she swallowed hard and tried again. “Sorry. Recovering from bronchitis.”

“Mmmm.” Meant to express sympathy. Coming from Lola it sounded like a commercial for an adults-only phone line.

“This is Dr. Ada Duffy over at Hollow Pine Medical Center,” Maggie said with as much authority as she could muster. “I’m calling about a patient. I’m curious about some past lab work and some blanks in her medical history. I was hoping that Dr. Cohen could answer some questions.”

“Certainly, Doctor.” More purrs then a pause. “Dr. Cohen is with a patient right now. May I have him call you?”

Maggie gave Lola a temporary phone number she had just purchased online. For those seeking anonymity, burner numbers were the new black. Then she ended the call and looked at Constantine. “Now we wait.”

“And research?”

“Always.”

Research meant more Dr. Pepper, salty snack foods and quality time with Mary, digitally speaking.

They returned to her blog and scoured each post and its replies with the thoroughness of a colonoscopy, trailing Mary through the labyrinth of her own posts and into the hinterland of other mommy blogs where she guest-wrote and shucked and jived her way into the hearts—and wallets—of sympathetic readers.

Maggie moved from the desk and returned to the corduroy folds of the beanbag chair. She steepled her fingers. “Nothing earth-shattering. Not so much as a tremor, unless you count the fact that Mary is a gifted writer.”

“Or that Riley has been in and out of hospitals since the day she was born.”

“All of which can look like a series of unfortunate events.”

Constantine turned back to the monitor and performed a visual drive-by. “Of course there’s the endless game of musical pediatricians. They change doctors like Aunt Polly changes hair color. Translation: a lot.”

“A worried mother battling the heartless medical system and incompetent doctors,” she said. “It’s a great headline. Unfortunately no one’s reading the fine print.”

“Maybe the good doctor was and that’s why he ordered the sweat test.”

De Niro blared from Maggie’s pocket, rocketing Maggie’s pulse skyward. She pulled it free and checked the screen. Ada. Probably about Miles. She considered answering it, but she was expecting a call from Dr. Cohen. She’d talk to Ada later.

Maggie silenced the phone. Moments later, Constantine’s phone chimed. They exchanged a glance. Good timing.

Maggie checked the screen. Blocked number. She looked at Constantine. “Speak of the devil.” She swiped to answer. “This is Dr. Duffy.”

“Dr. Duffy, Larry Cohen here.” Booming. Affable. No titular assignation to function as verbal ego wall. Just “Larry.” Maggie liked him already.

“Thank you so much for calling me back,” Maggie replied.

“Ms. Cooper said that you had a question about a patient.” Ms. instead of Lola or—as men of a certain generation sometimes said—“my girl.” Another tick in the good guy column. Larry chuckled. “It’s nice to get a phone call instead of an email. Makes things so much more collegial. Now what can I do for you?”

“I have a new patient. A sixteen-year-old girl with a history of chronic illness.” She paused. “I read through her medical history and saw that you treated her several years ago. I was hoping you could offer some impressions.”

“Impressions, huh.” The sound of rustling papers came crackling over the line. “Now you’ve got me curious. Who’s the patient?”

“Riley Whitley.”

Maggie heard a slow release of air. A bicycle tire losing pressure. “I’ve been waiting for this call for five years.”