Wonders Never Cease (13 page)

She glanced up ahead in the carpool line and spotted Matt Callahan standing with his class. When he turned and looked in her direction she quickly looked down at the floorboards, hoping to avoid eye contact. Ordinarily she didn't mind seeing Leah's teacher—none of the moms did. If you had to be stuck in a carpool line for thirty minutes there were worse things to look at than Matt Callahan—you almost didn't mind waiting. But things felt different to Natalie after their parent-teacher meeting; now all she wanted to do was grab her daughter and get out of there.

She heard a sudden rap on her window that startled her. She looked up to find Matt Callahan's face smiling down at her. She just stared up at him until he made a little rolling motion with his index finger. She took the hint and lowered her window.

“Hi, Natalie. I saw your car.”

“Hi, Mr. Callahan.”

Matt frowned. “Are you still mad at me?”

“I'm just here to pick up Leah.”

“About that,” he said. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For the way our meeting ended the other day.”

“You were just doing your job. We can't have kids like Leah climbing up in some bell tower with a sniper rifle.”

“Now I know you're mad,” Matt said. “I never said anything like that. All I said was—”

“I need to pull up.” Natalie pointed to the empty space in front of her and eased the car forward.

Matt walked along beside her car. “I think Leah is a great kid—I told you that before and I want you to hear it again. Like you said, I was only doing my job. It's nothing personal.”

“Leah is my daughter. It's always personal.” She started to raise the window again, but Matt reached out and put his hand on the edge.

“You can roll the window up if you want to,” he said, “but I'm just going to stand here and stare at you if you do. You'll look pretty stupid in front of all these parents.”

“So will you.”

“I'm a teacher. I always look stupid to parents—but look who I'm telling.”

Natalie didn't respond.

“Of course, you can always pull out of the carpool line and drive away if you want to—that's one way to get rid of me. But then you'd just have to turn around and come back for Leah. Wouldn't it be easier to just listen to me for a minute while you're here?”

Natalie rolled her eyes and lowered the window again.

“I wanted to apologize for something else,” he said.

“What?”

“I read the report from your meeting with the school counselor. Mr. Armantrout forwarded me a copy. How did you think it went?”

“Terrific,” Natalie said. “He thinks Leah had a ‘psychotic episode'—those were his exact words. He wants Leah to see a psychiatrist; he wants her to have an MRI. An MRI, Matt—he thinks something could be wrong with her brain.”

Matt looked at her sympathetically. “I know. I read his recommendations. I think he was overreacting—Armantrout has a tendency to do that.”

Natalie pulled forward again without giving him notice.

Matt stepped up to the window again. “I was only doing my job,” he said. “I'm required to pass on any emotional or psychological concerns to the school counselor, and he's required to report back to me. You don't have to take his suggestions, Natalie. I don't think Leah needs to see a psychiatrist.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“But I do want to keep an eye on her. I don't know what Leah saw the other day; hopefully, it was just a onetime occurrence. But if I have any other concerns about Leah I want to be able to talk to you about it. Can I do that?”

“You're the teacher. You can do anything you want.”

“But will you listen?”

Natalie took the number from the dashboard and held it up to the window. “Number two-twelve—would you send her over, please? I have to get to work.”

Matt stepped back from the window. “I'm not the bad guy here, Natalie. Believe it or not, I'm on your side.” He looked over the top of the car at the crowd of children. “Two-twelve! Leah Pelton, your ride's here!”

As Leah opened the rear door and slung her backpack onto the seat, Matt leaned down to the driver's window once more. “I think I'll go around behind you,” he said to Natalie. “I'm not sure it's safe to walk in front of your car right now.”

Natalie raised her window and drove off with no reply.

“So how was school?” Natalie called to the backseat.

Leah shrugged.

Natalie glanced in the rearview mirror. “How do you like Mr. Callahan?”

“He's cool.”

Cool
, Natalie thought.
That's a rave review coming from
her
. “What makes Mr. Callahan cool?”

“He just is.”

Natalie let a few minutes pass before she said, “Sweetheart, do you mind if I ask you something?”

Another shrug.

“Do you ever miss your dad?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe yes, or maybe no?”

“Just maybe.”

She paused. “When you're at home—where we live now—do you feel safe?”

“I guess so.”

“Would you tell me if you didn't? Because I would want to know—I always want you to feel safe. If anyone ever tries to hurt you, I want you to promise you'll tell me—okay?”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“
Okay
, Mom.”

Natalie decided to leave it at that. “Can I ask another question?”

Leah let out a beleaguered sigh. “What?”

“The other day—when you saw that angel—how did it make you feel?”

“Feel?”

“I mean, did you feel funny in any way? Dizzy? Lightheaded?”

“I just saw an angel, that's all. I didn't feel anything.”

“No headache, or anything like that?”

“No.”

“So it was just like looking at anything else?”

“It was just an angel,” she said.

Just an angel
, Natalie thought.
Just your run-of-the-mill
psychotic episode
.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

When Natalie opened the door she found Kemp seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the Orange County edition of the
Los Angeles Times
. His thick black hair was disheveled and he had a five o'clock shadow.

“Hey,” he said without looking up.

Natalie stepped aside to let Leah pass. “Go and get your things together,” she told her. “Dinner's in half an hour. Don't forget your clothes for tomorrow.”

When Leah left the room she turned to Kemp. “You were out late.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I had some things to do.”

“It's not like you to give up sleep. Mind if I ask where you were?”

“I told you—I had things to do. Do I need to file a flight plan?”

“It would be nice if you called,” she said, “just so I don't worry.”

“Did you worry?”

“I . . . wondered.”

“I figured you'd probably be asleep—no sense disturbing you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “How thoughtful of you.”

He looked up from his paper. “While we're on the subject, I might as well tell you I'm going to be late the next few days too.”

“More ‘things to do'?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Natalie glared at him. “I don't suppose it's occurred to you, Kemp, but we've got a few ‘things to do' around here, and you're not helping out. We need to find a replacement for Mrs. Rodriguez as soon as possible, and I don't have time to do it. Why can't you help? I haven't had a minute lately. I've had all these teacher's meetings—what's your excuse? I'm having to drag Leah over to UCLA every night. The poor thing has to sleep in the nurses' room. She shouldn't have to do that.”

“What's the big deal? She's right there where you can keep an eye on her.”

“I don't want to ‘keep an eye on her.' I want her to be able to sleep in her own bed, and I want you to help make that happen.”

“Not this week. I'm busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“That's none of your business.”

“It is too my business. These ‘things to do'—are they more important than Leah? More important than me?”

“They're important to me,” he said. “They're important to all of us.”

“Why?”

“Sorry,” Kemp said. “You'll just have to trust me. Now can we have dinner? If you don't mind, I have to get to work.”

15

H
ow you doing in here?” Emmet asked.

“Okay,” Leah said.

“You get lonely sometimes?”

She shook her head. “I don't mind being alone.”

“Me neither,” Emmet said. “Gives a soul time to think. People today, it's like they can't stand quiet—always got to have something plugged in their ears or shoved up against their heads.”

“Some of the nurses stop and visit me,” Leah said.

“Well, who wouldn't want to? I had to stand in line just to see you myself.”

Leah grinned.

“Brought you something from the cafeteria,” Emmet said. “Here you go.” He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her a Little Debbie chocolate cupcake wrapped in clear plastic. “You know what that is, don't you?”

“A cupcake.”

“It only looks like a cupcake. Truth is, it's medicine. Doctors here hand out all kinds of nasty pills, but that'll cure most anything that ails you. It's a proven fact—give it a try.”

“I'm not sick,” she said.

“And if you eat those you never will be.”

Leah tore the plastic with her teeth and took out the cupcake. “Some people think I'm sick.”

“Now why in the world would they think that?”

“Because I see angels.” She took a bite and looked up at him. “Do you think I'm sick?”

Emmet shook his head. “I think there are people who see things other people can't see, that's all. I call that a gift.”

“Do you see angels?”

“I see what's in front of me—some people don't.” He watched her for a moment. “How's that cupcake?”

“Really good.”

“You feel better now, don't you?”

She nodded.

“What'd I tell you? Cures most everything.” He patted her on the leg and stood up. “I best get back to work now. I'll tell your next visitor they can come in.” He walked to the door and looked back. “What about Mr. Kemp? Has he been by to see you this evening?”

“He's busy,” Leah said. “Mom says he has a movie star.”

“I'm sure he'll stop by when he can. After all, lots of people know movie stars; how many people know a girl who sees angels?”

Kemp checked the BIS monitor again; in less than thirty minutes the digital display had inched its way up from 60 to 78. In another few minutes Liv Hayden would reach a semiconscious state, and he needed to be ready when she did.

He opened the door a crack and peeked into the hallway; it was empty. That was the benefit of being a movie star like Liv Hayden: Celebrity status got you a private room at the end of a hallway where none of the other hospital staff were likely to drop by unannounced—especially at this hour of the night. He should have at least an hour alone with her, and that was all he needed.

He slipped on a white lab coat and buttoned it all the way to the collar, then rolled an examination lamp up to the bed and swiveled the arm so that the light would be positioned just above and behind his head. He flipped the switch and flooded the bed in brilliant white light, then positioned his face directly in front of the light, creating a near-total eclipse. He imagined what the scene would look like to Hayden: his handsome face shrouded in mysterious shadow, surrounded by a majestic nimbus of light. The effect should be impressive; he found himself wishing he could see it himself.

The monitor now read 82, and Kemp could detect a slight flutter beginning in Hayden's eyelids. He quickly adjusted the infusion pump to stabilize the propofol drip; the last thing he wanted was his patient regaining full consciousness and sitting upright in bed. She was just about there—in a semiconscious, trancelike state—and in another few seconds she would open her eyes and meet her celestial guide . . .

Hayden suddenly opened her eyes, then just as suddenly squeezed them shut against the blinding light. When she eased them open again they were only narrow slits, staring up at the mysterious figure hovering over her.

Kemp bent down and studied her eyes . . . her pupils were constricting in response to the light exactly as they should. He waved his hand in front of her face and detected a slight flinch.
Kemp, you genius, you
. He had reduced her dosage of propofol almost perfectly—Olivia Hayden was now in a semiconscious state.

Uh-oh
.

When it suddenly dawned on him that the curtain was up and Hayden's mental camera was rolling, Kemp straightened so abruptly that he almost banged his head against the examination light. In his preoccupation with the technical details he had forgotten to think of anything to say. It was like a childhood nightmare: He was the star of the show, it was opening night, but he had forgotten his lines.