LITMIR.BIZ

      7

      Nora held a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She had slept fitfully, alternately waking in a cold panic without knowing why until the terrifying realization washed over her that Rose was really gone, maybe hurt, maybe dead. Interlaced with those terrors were images of her mother, bloody and battered, begging Nora to help her.

      She glanced at the clock, her vision blurred, as if her eyes were filled with sand. Eight o’clock. She sipped the hot coffee gratefully, hoping that it would give her the strength to make it through another day. She looked at Marijke, calmly knitting on the couch.

      The phone rang. Nora went to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

      “Nora? It’s John Bates.”

      Oh, God. The hospital. Her job. “Hi, John.”

      “Nora, how are you? I can’t believe it. Your mother, your daughter—it’s awful.”

      “I know, I know. And I’m sorry, but I just don’t know when I’ll be back. I have five surgeries this week, but—”

      “Don’t worry. I’ve already covered them for you.”

      Relief swept through her. “Thank you, John. I know how shorthanded you are.”

      “I’ve told Personnel you’re on a leave of absence for a while.”

      “I pray I’ll have Rose back soon, but I can’t even think about work now.”

      “It’s a terrible situation.” There was an awkward pause. “You know I’ll give you as much time as I can.”

      “I understand.” Nora closed her eyes. He couldn’t promise to keep her job open. Residencies like the one she had were rare. There were scores of young doctors who would kill to take her place. “John, how long a leave do I have?”

      “I’ve bought you two weeks so far.”

      “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

      “Call me when you hear anything. We’re all thinking about you.”

      “Please thank everyone for me. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

      “Of course.”

      Nora hung up and stared across the room. She had completely forgotten about work. God, was it only a few days ago that she had operated on Rita? Nora’s eyes felt gritty and raw as tears welled up and coursed down her cheeks. She remembered her dismay when she diagnosed the three-year-old with a brain stem tumor. And although she would have preferred a less dangerous course of action, the magnitude of Rita’s tumor forced Nora to perform a surgery that might kill her. She’d had no choice but to go in and pray that she could sufficiently debulk the tumor and give Rita a fighting chance.

      Nora could still feel the nausea that had gripped her when she had opened Rita’s tiny skull. The cancer had spread, its evil tendrils wrapped around the ganglia of the lower hemisphere of her cerebellum and had already crept through the opening to her spine. There was nothing she could do. Then, as Nora began to close, Rita’s frail heart simply stopped beating. In her mind’s eye, she saw the monitor flatline. Her stomach clenched. She would never get used to the dread of that long walk from the O.R. to the waiting area. The mother had rushed toward her, had taken one look at her eyes and wailed—a keening that filled Nora’s ears even now.

      And what about Michael, a seven-year-old whose malignant brain tumor had returned? The brave little boy had made Nora promise that she would do his operation. Then there was Alana, a teenager, terrified by the blindness caused by a tumor pressing on her optic nerve. Nora dreaded letting them down. But if she didn’t have Rose, she didn’t care about her job, about anything.

      Her coffee was now cold and she felt too tired to pour herself another cup.

      Rose, Rose. Each day that passed without a sign or information of her abductor meant that the chance she’d be found decreased dramatically. Thinking that Rose might be one of those kids, sought for years and then lost for all time, made Nora desolate. “We can’t just sit here,” she said through clenched teeth.

      “What else can we do?” Marijke asked. “We have to let the police here and in Holland do their jobs. I know you hate this, Nora, but we have to be patient.”

      “I’m sick of waiting.” Nora stood and paced.

      “Then let’s do something productive.”

      Nora heard the very Dutch, let’s-get-on-with-it tenor in her voice. “What do you suggest?”

      “Have you thought about whether you want to stay in this house when Rose comes back?”

      Nora sank to the floor in her old jeans and T-shirt, surprised by her friend’s question. “I haven’t given it a moment’s thought.”

      “What do you think you will do?”

      “I never want to live here again. I couldn’t bear it.”

      Marijke put down her knitting needles and stood. “So maybe we should just start packing things up? Wouldn’t that be more positive than just sitting here feeling trapped? Besides, I’ll have to go home soon and I don’t want you to have to do this alone.”

      “God, Marijke, I’m so sorry. Of course, you have to go back. Is there more news about your mother? Is she worse?”

      “She’s the same, but there’s also my job.” She poured herself another cup of coffee. “The director has subtly informed me that I must return soon. He knows I’m up for tenure, so I can’t risk disobeying him.”

      “Damn. You told me you couldn’t stay much longer, but I didn’t want to think about it. It’ll be hell for me without you here.”

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