Tough Cookie

The woman at the information desk informed us that Eileen Druckman was in critical but stable condition in Intensive Care. Internal injuries, head injuries, what? I pressed. The woman replied that she did not know. Starting soon, Eileen could have family-member visits, two people at a time, for ten minutes per hour. As Marla and I rolled up the elevator to Intensive Care, I again tried to dredge up the memory of precisely what I’d seen on Killdeer Mountain. If you didn’t know much about snowboarding—and I didn’t—interpretation was not possible. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t know how much Marla knew about snowboarding, either.

Plus, what did I really know about any relationship between Barton Reed and Jack Gilkey? When I’d dropped Arch off on Saturday morning, Jack had known about Reed’s sentence. He’d also known that Portman denied Reed parole.

I had never thought to ask how he’d come by his information.

Tom and Arch were standing in the ICU waiting room when we arrived. Todd, though, was nowhere in sight. I was so happy to see Arch I hugged him before he could protest.

“Mom. Please. Stop.”

“I’ve been worried about you.”

“Why? I wasn’t skiing. I

was in school.” I must have looked defeated because he made his tone brighter, more comforting. “It’s okay. A nurse just came out and told us Eileen’s awake, but real weak. She’s got a concussion. Todd’s in there with her. Oh, and Tom says that Todd can stay with us. You know, indefinitely. Until his mom’s better.”

“Of course he can.”

Arch’s smile was joyful. He adored company. Then he hrumphed and raised an eyebrow at me. “Jack’s in there with her, too. Crying, crying, like a big baby. And he’s not even a family member.”

“Well, hon …” I couldn’t think of what to say.

Tom came to my rescue. “I’d love

a hug.” He wrapped me in his arms. The relief of his company was exquisite. “The priest was in a counseling session and couldn’t come. But I promised I’d call the church phone with updates.” I murmured that that was fine. With Eileen conscious and being cared for, I wasn’t quite so panicked.

“Hey, Arch, old buddy,” Marla interjected. I’d almost forgotten she was beside me. “I’ve spent so much time here in Lutheran Hospital I know the location of every place where candy, cookies, and soda pops are sold. What’s more,” she added as she drew her leather change purse from a pocket and jangled it, “I have the means of entry. I do need company, however.”

With little success, Arch again tried to hide a smile. “All right.” To Tom and me he announced, “I’ll bring Todd something, too.”

As soon as they left the waiting room, I ran Marla’s theory about the accident by Tom.

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Did you

think Barton was aiming for Jack?” I mumbled that I did not know enough about the dynamics of snowboarding. Tom drew his cellular out of his pocket and punched buttons. Jail, he mouthed to me. While he was on hold, a large Hispanic family entered the waiting room. All looked desperately nervous and worried. I counted the number of kids and adults and matched it to the available seats—an old caterer’s habit—and realized not all of them would be able to sit down while awaiting the fate of their loved one, because Todd and Arch had left their books, schoolbags, coats, and other paraphernalia all over the place.

Since Tom was still on the phone, I moved the boys’ stuff. Whether the two of them would do any school-work while we were here was extremely doubtful. When I tried to lug the huge load over to our couch, the cursed quantum mechanics spattered-cookie-sheet experiment crashed from a bag, spewing thousands of bits of dried frosting all over the waiting-room carpet. A stray chunk pelted the eye of a twentyish male member of the Spanish-speaking family, and he cried out. I snagged some tissues and hurried over to his side, mumbling one of the few Spanish phrases I knew: “Lo siento, lo siento.” I’m sorry. He grinned and wiped his eye. My Spanish was very rusty, but it seemed the rest of his family was reprimanding him for overreacting, clucking to each other that Diego was such a crybaby. I told him again that I was sorry, and Diego announced in perfect English: “No problem. I was just surprised.”

Oh-kay. I returned to where the cookie sheet was perched beneath a mountain of school equipment. When I tried to extract it, Arch’s Spenser book toppled from his bag, pulverizing several hundred of the hardened icing pieces. I stomped to Tom’s side and savagely threw the remaining books and bags onto the couch. Except for Diego, the Hispanic family watched open-mouthed, certain, I was sure, that I had a relative in emergency psychiatric care.