Chapter 6: Ask Her

The bellhop came in through the kitchen door at six, in a hooded sweatshirt, with his phone already out.

He was twenty years old and he kept looking over his shoulder.

My mother had cleared the storeroom behind the diner, and we sat across from each other at the card table between the flour sacks.

"I didn't think anyone would read the comment," he said.

"Everyone read it."

"I know. That's what scares me." He wiped his palms on his jeans. "I have a mother and a car payment. They already took my job."

"Play it for me," I said. "Then tell me what you want."

He set the phone between us and pressed the screen.

The first thing I heard was myself.

It was my voice, thin and far away, saying take me to the hospital, please.

I put my hand flat on the table until it stopped.

Then Dalton's, high and frightened.

Then Whitney's, soft and clear in the little speaker.

I haven't approved you to leave.

I had heard that once, from the floor, through a haze.

Hearing it again from a table in a quiet room, I understood how calm she sounded.

Dalton said, Okay, Whit. I'll wait.

I thought it was over.

The recording kept going.

There was the noise of the lobby, a woman gasping, someone saying call somebody. Then Whitney again, still on the line.

"And Dalton, nobody calls 911. Not at the front doors, not tonight.

"The Governor's people are watching the entrance, and I won't have a van outside my gala."

Dalton said, "Whit, she's really bleeding."

"Ten minutes," Whitney said. "She'll keep."

The recording stopped.

I didn't make a sound.

My mother, standing in the doorway behind me, said very quietly, "Play it again."