Page 76 of Good Half Gone

Bouncer frowns. “No. I can do it.”

“It’s no problem. I’m on my way there.”

After struggling with the cart for a few more seconds, she rolls her eyes but steps away. “Fine. Whatever.”

I watch her take off down A without so much as a thanks. Not that I care, I have what I want. I push the cart, and it rattles forward on a wonky wheel.

“Real drama queen, that one,” Janiss comments from where she’s sitting behind the care station. I hadn’t seen her there. She’s doing something on the computer, the glare of the screen reflecting on her glasses. I’m pushing the cart forward when I realize she isn’t done.

“She thinks she’s all that, but honestly, that’s not even her face.”

Janiss needs to gossip. I’ve learned that she will follow a person to finish her story. I grit my teeth, hoping to get this done with so I can be alone with the cart.

“Not her face?”

“That woman has so much filler you wouldn’t recognize her without it.” I make myself smile even though she’s not looking at me. She leans in conspiratorially. “I’ll text you photos of what she used to look like after work.”

I shrug, bored, which is the wrong thing to do—she looks immediately offended.

“She injects it too. Has these fancy parties at her house for her friends…”

“Ohhh,” I say mechanically. I force my eyes as large as they can go. That makes her happy.

“I know. Crazy what people do with their money.”

I look at her inch-long blue nails and agree.

I have matters to take care of, and Janiss is stressing about someone’s Botox. She releases me a few minutes later. I’m lucky a maintenance person hasn’t come by and taken the cart from me. Pushing it forward, I turn down hall B, toward the cafeteria. Looking over my shoulder, I spot Alma and a couple of older female patients lingering in the hallway. They’re not going anywhere.

My back to them, I take a straw from one tray and slip it into my pocket. From the second tray I take a soup spoon, which goes into the other pocket in my scrub pants. I start walking again, slowly, while I look for items to take from the last two trays. As I reach the doors to the cafeteria, someone calls my name. Ignoring it, I stop the cart and rattle the handle like there is something wrong. Then, walking to the front, I bend down, pretending to examine a wheel. A spork sits in reach, teetering on the edge of a tray. I snatch it up, placing it in the pocket of my hoodie as I hear feet approaching.

It’s Marshal Day Monterey.

“Something wrong?”

I shake my head trying to hide my distress. “The wheel was wobbling, thought something was caught in it.”

He considers me, then takes hold of the cart, pulling it backwards toward himself. It moves without a problem. I smile at Marshal, straightening up.

“Seems fine to me… I’ll take it through to the kitchen for you,” he offers, starting to push it away.

“Thanks, Marshal,” I call after him. Looking back at me, his mouth curves into a smile. That’s not a man who is incompetent to stand trial,I think, and then he’s gone—having disappeared through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

My three-day ends on a higher note than it started. Leo is not on the water taxi that night, and I can’t decide if I’m glad or disappointed. When I get to my car, I toss my backpack on the passenger seat and blast the heat for five minutes before warming up enough to use my hands. I call Poley on my drive home. Her phone rings twice before she picks up.

“I need a favor,” I say.

“Iris?”

She knows it’s me; she can see on her caller ID, but she does this every time anyway.

“Yes, it’s me, Amanda. Iris.”

I hear a baby crying in the background, and I feel momentarily bad for bombarding her on a Friday night. Then I remember my sister has never been found because of her. Because of what Poley and Audrain didn’t do. I am still making her pay nine years later.

“What can I do for you?” The background noises disappear abruptly. I imagine she’s gone into her bedroom and closed the door. Her husband—a nerdy fellow who works as a programmer for Microsoft—is probably playing with their toddler boys on the Dr. Seuss rug in the living room. I’d been to her condo three Christmas ago when she invited Gran, Cal, and me to a party. I don’t know why she invited us or why we went, but we were dressed in festive outfits bought from Target. I had a panic attack standing over the gherkin tray, and she took me into her bedroom to calm me down. I hate to say we had a bonding moment, because… Poley. But we did. Or sort of. She gave me a Xanax and sat holding both of my hands until I was breathing normally again.

“What’s up?” she says, not missing a beat.

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