My heart breaks just watching her suffer like this. I'd love to sit next to her, maybe place my arm around her, and talk about things. If she's married, then where the hell is her husband? She glances my way, but I don't think she sees me.
Her escort in the pink jacket arrives promptly at ten-thirty, and she quickly tries to compose herself. He pats her gently on the head, offers soothing words I cannot hear, wheels her around with tenderness. As she's leaving, she very deliberately looks at me. And she gives me a long, teary smile.
I'm tempted to follow at a distance, to find her room, but I control myself. Later, I think about finding her man in pink and pressing him for details. But I don't. I try to forget about her. She's just a kid.
THE NEXT NIGHT I arrive at the grill and assume the same table. I listen to the same busy chatter from the same hurried people. I visit the Van Landels and deflect their endless questions. I watch for other sharks feeding in these murky waters, and I ignore a few obvious clients just waiting to be hustled. I study for hours. My concen-
tration is keen and my motivation has never been more intense.
And I watch the clock. As ten approaches, I lose my edge and start gazing about. I try to remain calm and studious, but I find myself jumping whenever a new customer enters the grill. Two nurses are eating at one table, a lone technician reads a book at another.
She rolls in five minutes after the hour, the same elderly gent pushing her carefully to the spot she wants. She picks the same table as last night, and smiles at me as he maneuvers her chair. "Orange juice," she says. Her hair is still pulled back, but, if I'm not mistaken, she is wearing a trace of mascara and a bit of eyeliner. She's also wearing a pale red lipstick, and the effect is dramatic. I was not aware last night that her face was completely clean. Tonight, with just a little makeup, she is exceptionally beautiful. Her eyes are clear, radiant, free of sadness.
He places her orange juice before her, and says the identical words he said last night. "There you are, Kelly. Thirty minutes, you say?"
"Make it forty-five," she says.
"As you wish," he says, then ambles away.
She sips the juice and looks vacantly at the top of the table. I've spent a lot of time today thinking about Kelly, and I've long since decided my course of action. I wait a few minutes, pretend she's not there while making a fuss over the Elton Ear Review, then slowly rise as if it's time for a coffee break.
I stop at her table, and say, "You're doing much better tonight."
She was waiting for me to say something like this. "I feel much better," she says, showing that smile and perfect teeth. A gorgeous face, even with that hideous bruise.
"Can I get you something?"
"I'd like a Coke. This juice is bitter."
"Sure," I say, and walk away, thrilled beyond words. At the self-serve machine I prepare two large soft drinks, pay for them and set them on her table. I look at the empty chair across from her as if I'm thoroughly confused.
"Please sit down," she says.
"Are you sure?"
"Please. I'm tired of talking to nurses."
I take my seat and lean on my elbows. "My name's Rudy Baylor," I say. "And you're Kelly somebody."
"Kelly Riker. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you." She is pleasant enough to look at from twenty feet, but now that I can stare at her without embarrassment from four feet away it's impossible not to gape. Her eyes are a soft brown with a mischievous twinkle. She is exquisite.
"Sorry if I bothered you last night," I say, anxious to get the conversation going. There are many things I want to know.
"You didn't bother me. I'm sorry I made such a spectacle out of myself."
"Why do you come here?" I ask, as if she's the stranger and I belong here.
"Gets me out of the room. What about you?"
"I'm studying for the bar exam, and this is a quiet place."
"So you're gonna be a lawyer?"
"Sure. I finished law school a few weeks ago, got a job with a firm. As soon as I pass the bar exam I'll be ready to go-"
She drinks from the straw and grimaces slightly as she shifts her weight. "Pretty bad break, huh?" I ask, nodding at her leg.
"It's my ankle. They put a pin in it."
"How'd it happen?" This is the obvious next question, and I assumed the answer would be perfectly easy for her.
It's not. She hesitates, and the eyes instantly water. "A domestic accident," she says as if she's rehearsed this vague explanation.
What the hell does that mean? A domestic accident? Did she fall down the stairs?
"Oh," I say as if everything's perfectly clear. I'm worried about the wrists because they're both bandaged, not plastered. They do not appear to be broken or sprained. Lacerated, perhaps.
"It's a long story," she mumbles between sips, and looks away.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"A couple of days. They're waiting to see if the pin is straight. If not, they'll have to do it again." She pauses and plays with the straw. "Isn't this an odd place to study?" she asks.
"Not really. It's quiet. There's plenty of coffee. Open all night. You're wearing a wedding band." This fact has bothered me more than anything else.
She looks at it as if she's not sure it's still on her finger. "Yeah," she says, then stares at her straw. The band is by itself, no diamond to accompany it.
"So where's your husband?"
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm a lawyer, or almost one. It's the way we're trained."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because it's odd that you're here alone in the hospital, obviously injured in some way, and he's not around."
"He was here earlier."
"Now he's home with the kids?"
"We don't have kids. Do you?"
"No. No wife, no children."
"How old are you?"
"You ask a lot of questions," I say with a smile. Her eyes are sparkling. "Twenty-five. How old are you?"
She thinks about this for a second. "Nineteen."
"That's awfully young to be married."
"It wasn't by choice."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's not your fault. I got pregnant when I was barely eighteen, got married shortly thereafter, miscarried a week after I got married, and life's been downhill since. There, does that satisfy your curiosity?"
"No. Yes. I'm sorry. What do you want to talk about?"
"College. Where did you go to college?"
"Austin Peay. Law school at Memphis State."
"I always wanted to go to college, but it didn't work out. Are you from Memphis?"
"I was born here, but I grew up in Knoxville. What about you?"
"A small town an hour from here. We left there when I got pregnant. My family was humiliated. His family is trash. It was time to leave."
There's some heavy family stuff prowling just beneath the surface here, and I'd like to stay away from it. She's brought up her pregnancy twice, and both times it could've been avoided. But she's lonely, and she wants to talk.
"So you moved to Memphis?"
"We ran to Memphis, got married by a justice of the peace, a real classy ceremony, then I lost the baby."
"What does your husband do?"
"Drives a forklift. Drinks a lot. He's a washed-up jock who still dreams of playing major league baseball."