Page 28 of The Last Letter of Rachel Ellsworth

Chapter Twenty-Three

She couldn’t take an Uber because it was connected to her now-canceled credit card.

The credit card Mariah had given her the other day was probably around here somewhere, but it felt weird to go riffling through her boss’s things, even if that boss was a very lost twenty-five-year-old.

She did look on the dresser and nightstand, scuffling the papers and receipts aside, but found nothing.

Damn, damn, damn. She didn’t have any way to reach Henry, which seemed an oversight, but she couldn’t fix it now. Could she bill a cab to the hotel? She called down to the desk. “I can’t bill a taxi,” the young woman said. “But I can call a car for you. Will that do?”

“Yes. Thank you. It’s kind of urgent.”

“I’ll call you when it arrives.”

When the car came, she climbed in with a gigantic sense of impostor syndrome, wishing she’d taken a little time to change her clothes to be more presentable.

But the driver was calm and professional, and the drive was not terribly long. She watched the city pass by with a sense of anxiety. What had happened?

She hurried inside the doors of the hospital.

A waiting room was sparsely populated with people.

It was very quiet. She went to the desk to ask about Mariah.

Another woman came from the bowels of the hospital and took her down a long hallway where more people waited, looking resigned.

One woman had a tear-stained face and a crumpled tissue in her hand. Veronica looked away.

They went through a set of double doors, and the quiet exploded in a swarm of noise.

Banks of beds divided by walls and curtains lined both sides of the room, with a nurse’s station in the middle.

A wail came from somewhere near the back, a child, and everywhere people were moving here and there, calls going out.

Mariah was in a bed near the far end. She looked pale, her hair tangled. Veronica hurried over and took her hand. “Hey,” she said. “How’re you doing?”

She shook her head, squeezing her hand back. “So not good.”

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“They say not?”

A nurse entered, brisk and kind. “She’s going to be fine, Mum. A right solid panic attack.”

“I’m not her mom,” Veronica said at the same time Mariah said, “She’s not my mom. I told you she’s dead.”

“Not me, you didn’t, but never mind.” She checked Mariah’s pulse. “Better. You can take her home.”

“Wait!” Mariah cried. “I’m not ready to go! I think I might need more drugs.”

“You’ve had plenty, and you’ve had a lot to drink. We wouldn’t want to kill you, would we?” The nurse said evenly, pulling out the IV in Mariah’s hand. “Drink plenty of water and have a good sleep, and you’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Veronica said. “What should we do if the panic comes back?”

“You’ll need to see her doctor when you get back home.”

“I have stuff,” Mariah slurred, waving a hand. “Xanax and shit.”

Veronica frowned, not reassured. What brought the panic on this time? “Let’s get you back to the hotel, and you can get some sleep.”

Mariah didn’t move as the woman bustled out. “I think we should call Henry.”

Veronica looked at her watch. “It’s nearly one a.m. Let’s take a cab.”

“But I need him.” Her voice was hushed. “His car is safe.”

Veronica paused, considering the angles.

Mariah was very high, whether by self-ingested or hospital-administrated means.

Her panic had been severe enough she’d been brought to the emergency room.

There would be little point in reasoning with her, and, honestly, what did she know about the depth of their relationship?

Maybe he’d want to be informed. “I need his number.”

Mariah listlessly handed over her phone, swiped open to the contacts. Veronica typed the number into her own phone. “I need it anyway.” On the other end, the phone rang several times, and she felt bad about waking him. He answered on the fifth ring. “Is this Veronica?”

“Yeah, sorry to wake you.”

“You didn’t. Is everything okay?”

“Not really. Mariah is physically fine, but I’m at Chelsea Hospital with her. She was brought here by paramedics with a panic attack. I was going to take her home in a taxi, but she said she would feel safer with your car.”

“I’ll be there in about a half hour. A&E entrance.”

“Thank you.”

Mariah was groggy but able to walk. They managed to get her loaded into the back seat without much trouble, and she fell asleep almost instantly as they drove.

“Thanks for coming,” Veronica said.

“Not a problem. You can call anytime.”

“I didn’t actually have your number until I got to the hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“Panic attack, evidently. They brought her by ambulance.”

Henry looked in the mirror at the back seat. Quietly, he said, “I worry that she’s not really grappled with everything.”

“How could you, though, really?”

He gave her a look. “True.”

“Let’s keep an eye on her.”

The streets were quiet at such a late hour. Soft jazz played on the radio, interspersed with a woman’s smoky, educated voice. Tension flowed out of Veronica’s shoulders. Henry looked a bit rumpled, his wild hair barely finger-combed, his shirttail out. “You were sleeping, weren’t you?”

He glanced over, lifted a shoulder. “Reading.”

“In bed, all cozy,” Veronica said, smiling.

“It’s all good.” In the small space, the resonance of his voice was particularly noticeable.

“Did you do television or radio as a reporter?”

“No, photographer only. Not even video.”

“Kind of a waste of a voice,” she said.

“Thank you.” He adjusted the heat, glanced her way. “All the men in my family have this same voice. My dad sang bass in the church choir and for a barbershop quartet.”

“No way. Like four-part harmony?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you sing?”

“I sing a mean Springsteen in the shower.”

Which made her think of him in the shower. She looked out the window, watching the closed shops slide by. “You sound more like Leonard Cohen.”

“I’m flattered. Lennie’s one of the best.”

“Right? What’s your favorite? And if you say ‘Hallelujah,’ we can’t be friends.”

“I don’t know, that’s a hell of a song. Just because it’s popular doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with it.”

“So that is your favorite?”

“No. I have more favorite albums. Old Ideas , and the last one, You Want It Darker .” He glanced in the rearview and changed lanes. “Favorite song is hard. ‘Suzanne,’ ‘Show Me the Place.’” He smiled. “‘Hallelujah.’”

Veronica smiled. “Fair. It’s so full of darkness and brokenness.”

“What’s your favorite, then?”

“‘A Thousand Kisses Deep,’” she said quietly, thinking about the lyrics. “It got me through some dark nights after my divorce.”

“Another one about the way life fucks with you.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Now I want to listen to Leonard Cohen. I bet you have some on your phone, don’t you?”

“Probably. But we’re almost back to the hotel.”

“I hate that you’re going to have to drive back.”

He pulled up beside the hotel, put the Range Rover in park. “Are you inviting me up?”

Veronica looked up at him. A bar of light from a streetlight cast half his face in shadow, cut the lines of his mouth into perfect relief. He smelled of earth and forest and sky, and the air around them thickened with recognition. Possibility. “Maybe,” she whispered.

He placed an open hand on the inside of her wrist. His palm was hot.

Mariah moaned from the back seat. They jerked apart.

“I need to get her safely settled.”

He nodded. “It’s probably easier to unload her here rather than looking for space in the garage.”

“Right.” She opened the door, and stepped out, not quite willing to leave that soft cloud of possibility, knowing there was nothing to be done. She cocked her head.

He held her eye. Barely nodded.

Veronica turned toward duty. Her charge, she thought, like an old novel. “Come on, sweetheart,” she said, opening the door to the back.

Mariah stirred, wiping her face. “Jeez, I’m so fucking high.”

“Can you walk?”

“I’m not a baby,” she said, and tumbled from the car, nearly wiping out on the sidewalk. Veronica caught her, grabbed the cane.

Henry hopped out and rounded the car. There was no traffic, and he left the car running as he helped Mariah to the door.

Veronica pulled the girl toward her, letting her lean as they staggered up the steps.

Henry stood close by, his hand at Mariah’s back.

The elevator opened immediately, but he waited a moment.

“You got it? At this time of day, I can park for a few minutes.”

The offer lit a dozen hidden places in her body, small blue lights in her palms, her throat. Other places. She swallowed. “I think I’m okay. Thanks.”

“Okay.” He raised a palm. She kept her gaze on his face, a soft bar of light across his cheekbone and chin, until the door closed completely.

Mariah leaned on both cane and Veronica, and they made it without incident to the room. Veronica poured Mariah onto her bed, pulling off her shoes. “How long since you’ve eaten?”

“I don’t know,” Mariah said, shimmying out of her shirt, then her jeans, climbing into bed in her underwear. “I don’t think I can eat right now. I just want to sleep.”

“Wait. Sit up. Five minutes.” She got her propped up and ran into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, and looked for something to eat that would be fast and easy to chew.

Yogurt. When she rushed back into the room, Mariah had tilted sideways, her hair over her face.

But she wasn’t sleeping. She was crying.

It was the broken cry of a child, a wail.

“Oh, honey.” Veronica put down the milk and yogurt and settled beside her on the bed instead, lifting her up so she could get an arm around her, then tucking her against her shoulder. “Go ahead and cry. I’m here.”

She cried herself to sleep. Veronica’s shirt was soaked and sweaty as she settled the girl in the pillows and covered her up, pulling her hair out of her face.

For a moment, she took in Mariah’s finally sleeping face, and felt something long forgotten, the relief of a sick child finally dropping off.

She was mothering Mariah. Was that appropriate? Unhealthy? Was it even what Mariah needed? She thought of her conversation with Jenna about her rent. She was shoving her own daughter out of the nest to fly, then turning around and pouring mother love on this girl.

Was that wrong?

She turned off the light and closed the door, thinking of her own mother, lying in her hospital bed at the end, all skin and bones and no hair, her bright blue eyes the only light left in her. A forgotten reservoir of grief welled in her throat.

Exhausted but wound up, she put the kettle on and searched through the little packets of tea for something soothing.

Lavender chamomile would do the trick. She sat down with the tea and opened her computer to browse the letters Jill had sent.

Among the other emails was a note from her landlord, basically giving her five days to come up with something. Her gut twisted.

Her phone buzzed. She very nearly didn’t turn it over, expecting some rant from one of her children, but in the end, she glanced at it. The number was new to her, and she’d labeled it simply “Henry.” I’m listening to Leonard Cohen. Wanna dance?

She smiled. Sure. What shall we dance to?

Her phone rang and he said in his deep voice, “‘Dance Me to the End of Love.’”

“Give me a second.” She found the song on her phone and then held up the phone to her ear and imagined she was dancing with him.

She had to reach up a long way to loop her arms around his neck, and his big hands rested on her hips.

Eyes closed, she swayed and hummed along.

He sang softly. The night was dark, but much less lonely.

When it was over, he said, “Good night, Veronica.”

“Good night, Henry.”