Chương 2
The ambulance carried them north through Manhattan with its siren off and its lights turning the windows blue. The absence of the siren frightened Celeste more than its noise would have. She sat near Oliver’s head while one paramedic watched his airway and another spoke by radio to the emergency department.
Oliver’s eyelids did not move.
Celeste placed two fingers against the cuff of his cream jacket. She had chosen it that afternoon because Graham had worn cream at their wedding, though she had not told Oliver that. Oliver disliked stories attached to clothing. At the fitting, he had said the jacket made him look like a waiter at a rich person’s funeral.
She had laughed.
He had smiled only after making sure she understood he had not meant Graham’s funeral.
Now she rubbed the edge of the cuff between her fingers and counted Oliver’s breaths because counting was something she could do without permission.
At the hospital, automatic doors opened on fluorescent light and the smell of disinfectant. Nurses took the stretcher. A doctor asked Celeste to wait behind a painted line. She stepped over it without noticing and was moved back.
A security officer brought her a plastic chair.
She remained standing.
Her phone began to vibrate inside the ivory clutch. She ignored it until the fourth call, then opened the bag to silence it.
A prescription bottle lay beneath her phone.
For a moment she stared without understanding what it was. Amber plastic. White cap. Her name printed on a faded label.
CELESTE MARLOWE.
The date was from nineteen months earlier, six days after Graham’s funeral.
She did not touch it.
A nurse came through the doors. “Mrs. Marlowe?”
Celeste held the clutch open toward her. “This isn’t mine.”
The nurse looked inside.
“My name is on it,” Celeste said. “It was mine. It isn’t now.”
The nurse’s face became professionally still. “Don’t remove anything.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“I’ll get someone.”
“Where is my son?”
“The physician will speak to you as soon as she can.”
The nurse disappeared behind the doors. Celeste lowered herself into the plastic chair because her knees had started to tremble and she did not want anyone to see.
Her phone vibrated again beside the bottle.
BEATRICE.
Celeste declined the call.
Ten minutes later, a hospital social worker named Elena Ruiz sat across from her with a tablet resting on one knee. Elena had gray threaded through her black hair and a way of waiting after questions that made silence feel less like an accusation than an opportunity to stop lying.
“You said the prescription had once belonged to you.”
“Yes.”
“What was it prescribed for?”
“Sleep.”
“When did you last take it?”
“Nineteen months ago. Maybe eighteen. I stopped quickly.”
“Where did you keep the remaining pills?”
“In a bathroom cabinet at our old apartment.”
“Who had access?”
Celeste almost said no one. The old answer. The answer wealthy families gave because access was distributed so widely they stopped seeing it.
“My husband’s mother. House staff. My sister. The building manager if there was an emergency. People from the estate company. I don’t know.”
“Who packed the apartment after your husband died?”
“I did some. Staff did the rest. Beatrice supervised when I couldn’t.”
“And tonight?”
“My clutch was with me.”
“Every moment?”
Celeste saw it on the chair beside her place setting. She saw herself cross the hall when Oliver had waved from the dessert display. She saw a donor stop her near the staircase. She saw three minutes she could not account for because no one could account for every three minutes of an evening.
“No.”
Elena nodded. “Did Oliver drink anything?”
“Sparkling cider. Water.”
“Did you hand him the cider?”
“I don’t remember.”
The answer felt like a betrayal.
Celeste pressed her fingertips together until the edges of her nails hurt. “There were waiters. Elias may have brought it. Or someone at the children’s table.”
“Who is Elias?”
“The event coordinator.”
“Anyone else?”
“His grandmother.”
“Was she near him?”
“I don’t know.”
Elena asked the next question gently. “Has anyone ever suggested you were having difficulty caring for Oliver?”
Celeste laughed once, without humor. “Everyone has suggested it. They use better words.”
“Who is everyone?”
“My husband’s family.”
Before Elena could continue, the emergency physician entered. Dr. Karen Lowe was small, direct, and still wearing protective glasses on top of her head.
“Oliver is breathing on his own,” she said. “His heart rhythm is stable. We’re admitting him for monitoring.”
Celeste stood so quickly the chair scraped backward. “Why won’t he wake up?”
“We believe he ingested a sedating medication. We’re still waiting on confirmation, but his presentation and preliminary screen are consistent with that.”
“How much?”
“We don’t know.”
“Is he going to wake up?”
“We expect him to.”
The word expect seemed to leave a hole around itself.
“When?”
“Probably within several hours. Possibly longer. We need to watch him.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes. There will be questions from the hospital team and likely from law enforcement. That’s standard in a case involving a child and an unexplained substance.”
Celeste looked at the clutch on the empty chair.
Dr. Lowe followed her gaze. “The bottle will be secured.”
“I didn’t give him anything.”
“I’m not making that assumption.”
“But someone will.”
Dr. Lowe paused. “Someone will ask. That is different.”
Oliver lay in a pediatric observation room beneath a blanket printed with green turtles. Someone had removed his jacket and shoes. His blue flower sat in a clear belongings bag beside the bed, crushed where his shoulder had landed on it.
Celeste sat near his left hand. She did not touch him until the nurse said she could.
Beatrice arrived after midnight wearing the same plum gown beneath a dark wool coat. Her silver-blond hair remained smooth, her makeup undisturbed. The onyx ring she wore on her right hand clicked against the metal bed rail.
May you like
“My poor darling,” she whispered.
Oliver did not move.
