The remains

Chapter 38

Michael stood by my side while I speed-dialed Robyn’s number and waited for a pick up. For the third time in a row I was greeted by her answering service.

My pulse picked up. This was so not like Robyn.

The fact that Franny and his mother made the effort to deliver the fourth painting directly to my door told me that Robyn had not showed up to open the art center that morning. Otherwise Franny would have simply left the fourth painting there for me.

There was only one thing left to do. I dialed the number for the center. I waited for a pickup but instead got the answering machine and my own digitally recorded voice.

“ You’ve reached the Albany Art Center. No one is available…”

My call waiting kicked in.

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I took a look at the number displayed on the readout. The number did not immediately catch my attention. But the caller ID did

Albany Medical Center.

With trembling fingers, I clicked over to receive the call.

She spoke to me in a hesitant whisper, almost like she was being held hostage. The whisper and the hesitancy were both punctuated with sobs.

Robyn’s mother, June.

“Rebecca,” she cried, “I… have… some…”

She let the sentence hang, as though to complete it was simply too painful.

Michael was staring at me. His shadowy face had gone pale. He opened his mouth as if to say something. But I quickly raised my open hand and pulled my eyes away from his, stopping him cold.

“June,” I begged. “What’s happened?”

I tried to keep my voice steady, even. I’d known Robyn’s mother almost as long as I’d known Robyn. I’d never heard her so upset, so devastated.

“Albany Medical Center,” she exclaimed. “ICU. Please come.”

I dry swallowed.

“Is she alive, June? Is… Robyn…alive?”

“She’s alive,” June whispered.

Then she hung up.

Wide eyed, Michael gazed expectantly into my face.

“Something bad has happened to Robyn,” I explained. “I have to go.”

“You get your stuff together,” Michael said. “I’ll wait for you out in the truck.”

He took me by surprise. There had been a time in our lives when no emergency, big or small, would have kept him from his daily word quota. As he gathered his jacket and beret and headed out the front door to his pickup, I had to ask myself, who is this man?

Acting on instinct, I picked up Franny’s ‘Smell’ painting from up off the floor, tucked it under my arm, and exited the apartment by way of the back door.