Chapter 16: Two Hundred Donors

My mother chaired the hospital foundation luncheon every October.

On Wednesday she stood at the podium in the hospital's atrium in a pearl-gray suit, thanking two hundred donors for their generosity.

I walked in through the staff door in my work badge and scrubs.

The security guard at the entrance had been my patient's husband in June, and he waved me past without a word.

My father sat at the head table with the other board members, his napkin tucked in his collar.

Beside my mother's seat stood a place card in calligraphy that read Lorna Standish, Foundation Ambassador.

The chair behind it was empty.

I took the microphone from the stand in the aisle, the one kept for donor questions.

"Mom," I said.

My mother's smile cracked across the middle.

Two hundred heads turned.

"Mireille, sweetheart," she said, bright and thin. "This is not the time."

"I asked you a question on Sunday and you hung up," I said. "I'll answer it for you now."

"Security," my father said, half rising.

"Sit down, Dad. You're on tape too."

The room had gone silent enough that I could hear the coffee urn ticking.

I held up my phone.

"On Sunday I visited Lorna Standish," I said. "She's your goddaughter, Mom. She's the woman who told you I was unstable."

"She is a lovely girl who has been through..."

"Listen," I said, and I pressed play.

The atrium speakers ran off the podium's tablet.

The AV tech against the wall, a boy of about twenty, looked at me in terror and plugged my cable in.

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