6

EVE

A STEEL DOOR opens and we enter an overlit garage. Two men and a woman, clad in black lab coats like Dr Anderson’s, are waiting for me. I have an entourage.

“She’s stable,” Dr Anderson remarks, “doing well,” and the other three lab coats seem surprised. They mutter medically in ways I can’t decipher.

I am whisked into a long white-tiled tunnel. Solo keeps pace beside me.

We arrive at a large glass elevator. Each member of the group stands before a wall-mounted lens.

“Optical scanner,” Solo explains as a green light clears him.

I’ve only been to my mother’s office a couple of times. (She says mixing home and work is like mixing a single malt with Sprite.) The complex is visually stunning, or at least that’s what Architectural Digest said: “Frank Gehry on steroids.” When you look at satellite photos, you see more security than the Pentagon. Even the security gates have security gates.

It’s the kind of sprawling building you’d expect to find in Silicon Valley, not Marin. But Spiker Biopharm is a different kind of company, my mother likes to say, and I suppose that’s why she decided to locate it in a different kind of place.

“Different” would be her word, but others have had worse things to say. As drug companies go, Spiker’s the bad boy on the Harley your dad doesn’t want you to date. I first realized this in fifth grade, when Ms Zagarenski passed out a form letter soliciting parents to give classroom talks for Career Week. She sent a note home with everybody but me (“Your mother’s so busy, dear”) and I got the clue. Even Danny Rappaport got one, and we all knew his dad ran the largest pot farm in Mendocino.

The elevator shoots to the sixth floor. The doors open to reveal a breathtaking lobby. Marble, glass, steel, tiered fountain. It looks like the Ritz Carlton my dad used to retreat to when the fights dragged on too long.

I’m wondering when the concierge will show up, and suddenly here she is.

“Baby,” says my mother, “welcome to my world.” Burying me in her perfumed embrace, she lowers her voice to a whisper and adds: “Mommy’s going to fix everything.”

She leads the way through swinging doors, and suddenly we are in a hospital.

A really swank hospital.

Dr Anderson has a platoon of assistants: specialists, nurses, techs, but, as far as I can tell, only one patient.

They are shocked at how well I am doing. Everyone wants to have a look at my mangled arm, swollen like an overcooked hot dog. I learn that my spleen, whatever that is, has been ruptured. Also, I’ve lost a rib.

“You’ll never miss it,” Dr Anderson assures me.

The star attraction, however, is my reattached leg with its Frankenstein stitches. My mother is especially interested – my mother, who always made my dad apply Band-Aids because the sight of blood made her woozy.

My gown is an oversized napkin, barely covering the essentials. I’d be massively embarrassed if I weren’t so drugged up. Fortunately, Solo seems to have stayed behind in the hall.

“Miraculous,” breathes a nurse.

It looks horrifying to me, all the blood and goo and gauze, but I have to admit I’m not feeling as awful as I was a few hours ago. The pain has gone from blinding to mere throbbing. And when they finally remove the tube from my throat, the first thing I say is “I’m hungry” in a hoarse whisper, which gives rise to appreciative laughter and applause.

One of the nurses, an older guy with a trim gray beard, introduces me to my room appointments like a bellboy sniffing for a tip. Wi-fi! Flat screen! Italian marble! Heated towel rack!

“Is there anything you need?” my mother asks. “I’m having your pajamas and robe picked up from the house.”

I try to focus. “My laptop. My Titus Andronicus T-shirt, you know, the blue one? Maybe some Clearasil.”

“You won’t be needing your laptop any time soon.”

“Do you know where my phone is?” I croak. “I should call Aislin. I think that guy – Solo? – I think he said somebody turned it in.”

A tight smile. My mother does not like Aislin. She tolerates her the way she tolerated the pet ferret I could never quite housebreak. I believe this is because Aislin shorted out our seven-thousand-dollar, full-body Swedish massage chair with a puked-up Mojito, but Aislin is convinced the tide turned when she suggested a cure for my mother’s chronic headaches. I gather that the phrase “get some” may have been employed.

“Derek, see if Solo has my daughter’s phone.” A tech scurries away, and moments later Solo appears, carrying a plastic bag.

“Someone turned in your cell,” he says. “Also your sketchbook. It’s a little muddy. Nothing too major, though.”

“Thanks,” I say in a dry croak. I sound like my great-grandmother after her nightly Marlboro menthol.

“I’ll take that,” my mother says, but for some reason, Solo refuses to let go of my sketchbook. She yanks and it falls to the floor.

When Solo retrieves the pad, it’s open to a sketch I’ve been working on for several weeks for Life Drawing. We’re supposed to draw a person, either from memory or from our imagination, without referring to a model or a photo.

Easy, I thought.

Turns out: not so easy.

Solo stares at the drawing. It started out as a guy’s face in profile. Not a memory, just something that came to me. Mostly it’s just lines, angles, planes. A preschool Picasso.

It’s deeply lame.

Solo takes it in, meets my eyes.

“Interesting,” my mother says without looking. She plucks the sketchbook away from Solo, snaps it shut and hands it to an assistant.

My mother doesn’t like art, mine or anybody else’s, probably because my dad was an artist. “Austin was a failed sculptor,” she’s fond of saying – she always pauses a beat here, raising a professionally waxed brow – “but he was an accomplished failure.”

“So you’re an artist,” Solo says.

“She’s a patient,” my mother answers, “and she needs to rest.”

“Right.” Solo starts to hand her my phone.

“No,” I say quickly. “Would you check for messages first? The password’s 0123.”

“Impenetrable.” Solo scans my mail. “Aislin wants to know WTF are you dead or what OMG please please please call.”

“Didn’t you call her?” I ask my mother. “She must be so –”

“I’ve been a little busy, dear,” my mother says crisply. “I’ll have someone give her a call, let her know you’re all right.”

I can tell she’s planning to forget to remember. “Would you do it?” I ask Solo. I don’t know why him exactly, except that he’s still holding my phone.

“Sure. No problem.”

He taps the screen. “Got it. Don’t worry. I have a photographic memory.”

“Really?” I ask vaguely. Suddenly I am incredibly weary.

“Just for things that matter,” Solo replies.

His gaze lingers on my leg, then moves on to my middle. I am not sure if he’s staring at my flattened arm or my boobs (also pretty flat), but either way, I’m not dressed for company.

He meets my eyes for just a moment. Then he hands my mother my cell and makes his way past my bedside fan club.