"Oh, poor child! I'm very sorry."
"Sam is good with him. I thought maybe he could drop by, tonight or tomorrow."
I have the number where he can be reached-it's somewhere here-give me a moment to put my hands on it. Practice should be over now. Afterward, Sam was going to study at Sara's house."
Sara, the girl who had called to him in the hall; I got a hollow feeling in my stomach. "Never mind. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Wait. Here it is." She read the number to me. "Did you get it?"
"Yes, thanks."
"Be sure to call him, Kate," Mrs. Koscinski added. "Sara's parents won't mind. They're very nice."
"Right. Bye."
He must go there often, I thought, if Mrs. Koscinski knows the parents don't mind being called. Well, even Sam couldn't make Patrick's pain go away tonight. I'd try to reach him tomorrow-perhaps take Patrick to the ice rink so he could talk to him after practice.
When I returned to the playroom, I saw that Patrick had taken a bite from the pie.
"It smells delicious," I said encouragingly. "How does it taste?"
"Good. I think it's raspberry."
"Have some more."
He ate another spoonful.
"Eat all you want. Raspberries are good for you."
He took one more spoonful, then pushed the pie away. I sat next to him again and watched the cartoon. Just when the hero was about to storm the castle belonging to the evil wizard, Patrick announced, "I want to go to my room."
"Don't you want to see what happens?"
No.
I looked at my watch. "Patrick, it's not even seven o'clock. Let's try another channel."
"I want to go to bed."
"How about this-we'll put on your pajamas and read a while."
"I want to sleep."
He was probably exhausted from the accumulation of things that had been happening. But what if he planned to slip out and see Ashley as soon as his bedroom door was shut? Perhaps he imagined that she alone could understand how he felt about November. Adrian had promised to turn on the alarm system before retiring, but I wasn't taking chances; I planned to spend the night in Patrick's room.
We took the main stairway down, Patrick walking ahead of me. I carried the piece of pie, hoping I could coax him to eat a little more. As we crossed the second-floor hall to his room, Patrick suddenly stopped. He looked back at me, then quickly turned away.
"What's wrong?"
His body shuddered violently, then he bent over and threw up. I quickly set the pie on a side table and put my arm around his waist, supporting him. He heaved and heaved, but nothing more came out after that first sickening puddle of reddish purple.
"My tummy hurts, Kate. It hurts bad."
Even in the warm light of the hall lamps, his face was pale as milk. He clutched his stomach, his fingers digging into his clothes. I laid my hand over his, then rubbed his tummy gently, trying to soothe him.
"Do you think you can make it as far as your bathroom?" I asked. It was the next door down the hall, just before his bedroom. "We'll rinse your mouth and wipe your face, then get you in bed."
We had taken only five more steps, when he began to shudder again. I dropped down next to him. He strained forward in my arms and wretched a second time.
"I can't help it. I can't stop it."
"Oh, Patrick, I know that. You're ill."
"Mrs. Hopewell is going to be mad."
"I'll clean it up before she sees it. It's hardly anything," I said, glancing at the second puddle, less red this time, with a lot of clear liquid.
He has nothing in him to vomit, I thought, probably less than the cat had, just crackers and three bites of raspberry pie. Then a chill went through me. The crackers were plain soda wafers, packaged in cellophane. I doubted they had caused the problem. But the raspberry pie had come from downstairs. Had someone dared to taint his food? I was ready to believe it. If Patrick hadn't been so miserable, I would have rushed down the steps, screaming at the lot of them.
"I guess I shouldn't have eaten your pie," Patrick said.
My pie. I was so focused on protecting him, I had forgotten-the piece was intended for me.
"Come on, Patrick, a few steps more. Let's get you cleaned up."
From the bathroom I buzzed the intercom for assistance.
"Henry is coming," Mrs. Hopewell responded, then clicked off before I could tell her what I wanted.
I buzzed again. "Mrs. Hopewell, please send up Emily and Adrian. Patrick is ill."
"I will tell them after dinner is over." Click.
I pushed the button a third time.
"You will tell them now. The pie may have been tainted," I said, avoiding the word "poisoned" for Patrick's sake.
A long silence followed. "I don't understand," Mrs. Hopewell replied at last. "What exactly is the problem?"
"He ate a few bites of the pie. He has thrown up twice."
"That wasn't his dessert!"
Was she irate because a plan to poison me had gone awry or because her rule about dinner before dessert had been ignored? It was difficult to tell with her.
"Mrs. Hopewell, send Adrian up before I make my own decision to phone for medical assistance." I clicked off.