Chapter 10: The Chart

The hospital sent the records on Wednesday, in a PDF with a blue banner and four hundred pages.

Faye printed them at the library.

She brought them home in two stacks and set them on the kitchen table, next to a pot of coffee and the lavender tea.

"I'll read," she said. "You tell me when to stop."

"Why do you get to read?"

"Because half of it is abbreviations, and the other half is a nurse trying to be polite."

She pulled on her reading glasses and licked her thumb.

The first stack was the accident. The ambulance. The scan.

I listened to my own injuries read out in a flat voice, and I held my mug and said "Okay" every few lines.

"Here's the intake," Faye said. "Female, approximately thirty, no identification. Helmet on. Left wrist, three ribs, right knee. Unresponsive."

"That's me."

"It's the whole first day." She turned pages. "Day two. Sunday. Nurse's notes."

She stopped.

"What?"

"Hold on."

She read it twice before she spoke.

"Sunday, five-forty p.m. Police liaison contacted the shop that sold the bicycle. Owner of record: D. Hollander. Phone number obtained."

"Hank said that."

"Sunday, six-ten p.m. Liaison called the number. No answer. Left voicemail identifying the hospital and requesting a callback."

I put my mug down.

"There's a voicemail?"

"There was." Faye went on. "Then it says nine-twelve p.m. Second attempt. Liaison called the same number."

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