Sing

CHAPTER 37.

MONICA

I waited in the cafeteria, alone. I wrote a little, some verses about murder that could probably be used against me in a court of law, with the judge unmoved toward leniency by the fact that they were atrocious, puerile, on-the-nose.

Whatever was going on, it was taking too long. I went up to Jonathan’s floor and found Deirdre staring at a magazine that couldn’t have been of interest to her, and Sheila pacing like she wanted to carve a ditch in the floor. His mother stood, as usual, next to the chair closest to the hall leading to his room, which was by the elevator. So, she caught me first, and I thought of something I hadn’t before. She was my mother in-law. I wasn’t calling her Mom. No way.

“Hi, Eileen.”

She smiled a smile so fake I could have bought it at Nordstrom’s on the sale rack. “Monica. I hear congratulations are in order.” She indicated my left hand with its borrowed engagement ring and jury-rigged wedding band.

“Thanks. How is he?”

Her face darkened. “They’re constantly in there...” Her eyes got wet. The coldness of her expression when I entered had hidden the fact that she was breaking apart. She cleared her throat and straightened her neck. “A heart will come. I know it. I can feel it.”

“I can too.”

Her hand slipped into mine and I squeezed it. All our bullshit fell away for a second. This was her son. We loved the same person. She wouldn’t be easy to deal with, but we were bound by him, whether we liked it or not. Then she smiled a couture smile, and even kind of warmish, as if something happened between us that had meaning to her. I promised myself to never again forget that her goal was to protect him. That was worth something.

I gave her hand a squeeze and sat next to Deirdre.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied. “You got married last night.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded.

“I would have married him anyway, you know.”

“I do.” She flipped through her magazine.

“I think you’re mother’s pissed about it.”

“There wasn’t a pre-nup. Jonathan doesn’t believe in them. Neither do I.”

“Ah, I hadn’t thought about that.”

She shrugged, still mindlessly going through the magazine. “Neither does God.”

I’d never engaged Deirdre for such a non-antagonistic string of sentences, but that was all I was getting from her. She settled on an article and for all intents and purposes, read it. I cupped my tea and gave the television my attention. It was set too low to hear, but the talking head with the perfect hair had a floating box next to him, and in it, Paulie Patalano, mob boss, philanthropist, murderer, drinking wine with his wife in a picture captured in happier days. The ticker described him as brain dead, as if I needed the reminder, and placed him in an unknown location. The picture flipped to three mug shots. I didn’t recognize but one face. The brown eyed man who had come in with Theresa. Even in the mug shot he was handsome, angry, with a knowing grin that frightened me.

My newly-minted mother in-law didn’t see the television, as her gaze stayed in the middle distance. Sheila was on the phone threatening someone, and Deirdre was into her magazine. Declan was either seeing Jonathan, or making arrangements for me to kill someone. I’d need to be ready. It was time for me to see Paulie Patalano in his undisclosed location.

I excused myself and took the elevator to the second floor. I scoped out the stairwell, wondering if I should take it next time, then more complications presented themselves. First being, how would I find him? How would I do it once I got there? How could I be sure Declan’s job was done?

Who did I think I was?

In pacing, and beating the hell out of myself, I rounded a few corners, trying to look for something I’d never defined, only finding ignorance and a lack of expertise in the simple skill of murder. I had a scattered entry plan and a slight hope I’d only get caught when it was too late to do anything but harvest Patalano’s organs. After that, just confess and let Jonathan’s family talk him into annulling my marriage. But he’d be alive. I could deal with the rest if he lived.

The squawk of a police radio made me look up before I crashed into the uniformed cop. He was in his thirties, and seemed to take up more space than humanly possible. A female counterpart stood nearby.

“Staff only,” he said, blocking my way to the narrow hall.

“Uh, okay?” I peered past him. The hall looked like every other one, except for the lack of flitting staff and the presence of three old Italian women in black. This was the hall.

I made note of the location and walked away.

I knew Brad had said he’d be in his Doheny office, but I checked anyway. He was just my neighbor, and he meant nothing to me, but I’d stepped on him in a way guaranteed to offend him. I didn’t want to leave things like that.

He was there, on his way out the door, clipboard in hand. He slowed when he saw me, which I took as a good sign.

“I know you’re busy.” I said. “I just wanted to apologize.”

He kept walking. “I want to explain how serious what you did is, but I have a meeting.”

“I know. I have reasons, but not excuses.”

He pulled me to the side, out of the hall traffic. “I only have a second. I don’t want to make you feel better, because I’m still pissed off. But first of all, the list doesn’t work the way you think. Geography is important. The state of the patient. The gender. It’s not like a line for coffee. But second, you’re not getting away with it. When this is over, you’re sitting with me and I’m explaining to you the ten ways you fucked up.” He was taller than me, and used to being in charge. He had the arrogance of a cardiologist, and the authority of a man not called by his first name. But when he looked at me, I knew he wasn’t half as pissed as his words let on.

“All right.”

“Over dinner.” He must have seen me turn to ice. “Platonic. If you knew me better, this wouldn’t have happened. That’s all I want.”

“I guess I owe you.”

“You do.” He walked away. Had he just asked me out? Yes and no. Jonathan wouldn’t be thrilled, but Brad didn’t expect Jonathan to be around, did he?