Chapter 21
Once the bus has been returned to the garage, barely an hour after we collected it, I get a lift to the hospital.
“How is she?” I hurry to Pamela’s side.
“They’ve stitched up her jaw,” she replies, looking queasy. “We’re just waiting for her X-ray results, for her ribs.”
I nod. “And how is she in herself?”
“They’ve given her something to help her sleep so she’s a bit out of it. Obviously she can’t speak anyway because her face is all bandaged up.” Pamela’s brow crumples.
I put my arm around her.
“It really is best you go home and get some rest,” the doctor advises. “We’ll take good care of her and you can come back in the morning when she’s feeling brighter.”
“I can’t leave her!” Pamela protests. “I need to be here.”
But Ravenna is starting to shiver, her bony bare arms showing goose bumps.
“I don’t mind staying but can we at least go back to the hotel and get some warmer clothes?”
Pamela sighs, conflicted. “I suppose we could get a few of her things too. In case she has to be here a while.”
“Good idea,” I confirm. “I’ll wait here.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
“Okay, thank you. We won’t be long.”
“That’s fine. I’m not going anywhere.”
None of us are.
The second Pamela and Ravenna are out of sight, the doctor returns.
“Ms. Davis?”
“Yes?”
“She would like a word with you.”
“Gracie?”
He nods.
“With me? I thought she was sleeping?”
“Not yet. She’s resisting the medication—issuing commands to us via pen and paper.”
I feel my face light up. She’s still here! Feisty Gracie is in the house!
• • •
Gingerly I push open the door. She is expecting me—eagerly beckoning me to her side, keen to communicate before she goes under.
She taps at her notepad, having already prepared her first instruction: You MUST continue on this trip!
Now she is pointing to her handbag, which I duly hand to her. I watch her rummage inside, pull out a small address book with a Monet print on the cover and then reach for her pen.
Charles Porter.
She taps the paper.
I say his name out loud to assure her I can read the words.
She mimes jiggling a steering wheel.
“Driving? He’s a driver?”
She nods vigorously.
“Is he in England?”
She shakes her head and writes Boston. And then begins copying out his phone number.
“Boston . . .” I remind myself of the distance via the map function on my phone. “That’s actually not too far from here. Not even two hours. So who is he?”
Silence.
“Gracie?” I look up and find her head lolling to the left, sound asleep. I give her a little jiggle. “Gracie?”
Nothing.
My shoulders slump. What now? Am I supposed to call him tonight? Is it really possible this man would drop everything and come to our rescue? Would he have any idea of what he’s letting himself in for? Would we?
“Gracie?” I try her again—if she could give me one last burst . . .
“She really needs to sleep now.” A nurse pops her head around the door.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” I retract my hand, feeling guilty for trying to stir her.
Then, as I reach for the piece of paper, I notice that Gracie has added a message beneath the phone number.
My stomach flips as I read these three little words:
He’s the one.