Mary sat in the hospital waiting room, trying to come to terms with what had happened. The paramedics hadn’t let anybody in the ambulance, so the only thing she knew was that Judy had been rushed into the emergency room. The doctors hadn’t come back yet.
Her gaze wandered over the wallpaper, a baby blue print that provided an intentionally soothing backdrop for landscapes in muted pastels. Ancient magazines covered the coffee table, and the TV was mounted in the corner, playing on mute. She couldn’t watch it. Judy could be dying at this very minute.
She felt pure dread, and her parents, anguished and bedraggled, weren’t speaking to each other. Fiorella had gone to the ladies’ room, but her presence lingered like an unwanted ghost.
Her mother looked at the TV with her chin tilted up, blinking behind her bifocals. Her gray hair was wet, exposing her bald spot, and she watched Seinfeld with apparent absorption, though she couldn’t have any idea what was going on since there was no closed captioning. Her father kept his head down, his shoulders sunk into his damp windbreaker and his hammy hands folded in his lap.
Her attention shifted to Bennie, who was sitting next to Grady, talking in low voices with two Philly cops. Her blond hair lay in wet tangles on her shoulders, scratches covered her arms and legs, and an oddly girlie purse hung from her shoulder. She seemed distant and didn’t make eye contact with anybody, even Grady, though she’d called Judy’s parents, who were flying in from San Francisco, and her boyfriend Frank, driving home from his job site.
Mary felt a sadness so deep she could drown. Judy was bleeding. Bennie was bleeding in another way, less obvious. Her parents were bleeding, too. She didn’t know if anybody could be healed. The pieces of her life had been reconfigured, and she didn’t know if they would ever fit together, ever again. Especially if something happened to Judy.
Suddenly Fiorella entered the waiting room, smoothing her wet hair back, though its chic cut was ruined. She had no lipstick on, and her wet raincoat covered her black dress. She walked over to Mary’s mother. “Vita,” she said, coolly. “Good-bye, I’m going home.”
Her mother turned from the TV and eyed Fiorella with a look that could kill. “Bene,” she said simply.
“I must collect my things, from your house. I’ll take a taxi.”
“Certo.” Her mother dug in her purse, produced her house keys, and handed them to Fiorella. “Go. Now. Leave under mat.”
“Thank you, and I should say that-”
“Go! Leave!” Her mother pointed at the exit, her cheeks flushed with sudden emotion. “You are powerful woman, Donna Fiorella! You are not good woman. Not good woman at all!”
Fiorella flinched, took the keys, then turned to Mary and her father. “Good-bye, all. Many thanks for your hospitality.”
Her father said nothing, and neither did Mary.
In the next minute, an ER doctor appeared in the threshold to the waiting room, in blue scrubs and a puffy hat with the Phillies logo.
Fiorella turned, the cops looked over, and Bennie and Grady rose.
Mary stood up, her knees weak. “Is she okay?” she asked, her mouth gone dry.
And the doctor slid off his hat.