The Thousand - Kevin Guilfoile [106]
“Thanks, I guess.”
He performed an involuntary half shake, half nod with his head. “But that’s not the most interesting thing I discovered. When I stopped in my office to start a file on you, I got a bit of a shock. Ms. Gold, our office already has a file on you.”
“What do you mean?” Besides her gynecologist in Vegas, Nada hadn’t been to a doctor, or even filled out medical paperwork, since the time she’d lived with her mother.
“Until very recently, we had a neurologist named Marlena Falcone working in our clinic. You might remember—actually, I’m sure you do—that she was the physician who recommended and implanted your neurostimulator.” He tapped his head.
She remembered the name but only glimpses of the doctor herself. Most of their contact had been before the implant. “Why would she still have a file on me?”
“Dr. Falcone kept meticulous tabs on all her patients.” He picked up the folder and peered into it. “It seems Marlena had been trying to contact you. Three letters here over the past year, one sent just recently. From what I can see, you never responded.”
Nada hardly ever opened mail from people she didn’t know. If the sender had been a hospital or clinic, she would have thrown it in the garbage. “Executive Concierge,” she repeated, her spider searching for the name and finding it. “I figured that was junk.”
Russo shook his head. “As you know, the patients with ADHD who had neurostimulators implanted had to have them removed. There was a recall, and yours was supposed to come out years ago, although I can’t figure out from the file why that procedure never took place. I’m sure she was just trying to follow up with you.”
Nada saw mumbling Burning Patrick, all dirty parka and ass crack, dripping paint so precisely on a little six-inch ceramic tile, made crazy and a genius by this tiny misfiring device, the same device as hers. His had come out, but both the crazy and genius remained somehow. Nada still had hers, but she hadn’t painted any masterpieces and it hadn’t made her insane.
Nada said, “Can I speak to Dr. Falcone?”
Russo put a hand to his face. “I’m afraid Dr. Falcone has left us.”
“I know you said that, but if I could just talk to her—”
“I’m sorry. What I meant was that she has recently passed away.”
It felt to Nada like someone was inflating a balloon inside her head. “I’m sorry.” She rubbed her arm near the IV. “I don’t have any insurance.”
“I’ve already talked to Gary. He’s going to cover the cost. After this IV runs out, I’m going to leave you an oral hydration solution. Just dissolve it in water, drink it up. Stay away from caffeine for a couple of days. No fruit juice.”
She looked around at the serious decor of Jameson’s library. It felt weird having a needle in her arm without the alcohol and soap smell of a doctor’s office. It smelled like leather and furniture wax and potpourri. She was drowsy.
“Don’t worry about Blackburn,” Jameson said as he led her upstairs. “Just stay in your room and rest up.”
“I almost forgot,” Nada said. “I have something to tell you. About Burning Patrick.” I think he’s for real.
“You can tell me later,” he said, and as they marched slowly up the Woodward stairs, around and around, she assessed the strange feelings she had for this man. Fatherly. Fatherish. One bad hangover aside, she’d grown very comfortable in Gary Jameson’s old house, with Molly cooking her meals and a maid named Esperanza changing her linens and Hugh anticipating everything else she might need. Since Solomon’s death, she hadn’t had anyone to take care of her—certainly her mother wasn’t up to the role. And maybe that’s why she had been able to hold it together all these years while most everyone else with a spider like hers had gone nuts. Maybe out of necessity she’d just learned to do whatever it took.
Myra and Molly helped her into bed. Molly promised to send up a pitcher of water and comfort food. Nada didn’t say that she couldn’t eat.
She shut