Tag Archives: St. Luke’s

Plaster of Paris; chapter seven, part one

I turn to the computer where there is an email from my sister.  More blathering about her wedding and what I must and must not do.  Suddenly, it doesn’t seem so important, and I delete it.  There’s also a nice email from Vashti just saying she’s thinking of me and to call her when I have a minute.  That one I save.  I frown at the next email because it has an unfamiliar address:  ursine@hotmail.com.  I click it open, expecting it to be spam though we have a good filter system.  It’s from Ursula.  She wants to know if I’ve figured anything out yet.  I lift an eyebrow.  It was only yesterday afternoon that I saw her, so I’m not sure what she thinks I might have accomplished since then.  I don’t have the same  antipathy towards her as does Lyle—I actually enjoyed her—but I’m wary of her strident interest.  Granted, Paris is her biological son, and she did just discover him two days ago, but the concerned mother bit is a bit heavy-handed given that she hasn’t laid eyes on the boy for twenty-eight years.

The day has a surreal feel to it as my coworkers avoid me as much as possible.  If they have work they want me to do, they either quickly drop it on my desk and scurry away, or they email me their needs.  Nobody actually talks to me unless they are forced to explain what they need.  Even Quinn avoids me, which is highly unusual.  I don’t miss the constant interruption, but I’m still rather hurt by the snub.  My colleagues are acting as if it’ll rub off on them—the murder bug.  At least, Derek, a coworker tangentially involved with the last murder case is no longer working here; that would make a bad day even worse.  Only the kids treat me the same because in their world, death—even murder—is no big deal.  I would bet that at least ninety-percent of the kids have had someone close to them die—many of them, more than one person.  So for me to be close to three murders is not unusual to them—in fact, it gives me street cred in their eyes; I have the same as experiences as they, to some extent.  Too bad I’m not getting paid to be a counselor rather than an admin assistant.

People ask me how I can work in a place like A Brighter Day with juvenile delinquents.  Aren’t you scared, they ask?  They are the ignorant ones.  The people who bother me, however, are the ones who can’t put themselves in the kids’ shoes, who consider themselves superior.  The people who can’t understand how any kid can turn to crime or live ‘the way they do’.  One particularly obnoxious person wanted to round up all the kids like the ones at my agency and put them on an island somewhere..  I finally let him have it after he pontificated for a good half hour.  I’ve seen some of the case files—I have to organize them periodically—and I’m surprised the kids aren’t more screwed up then they already are.  One has a mother who locked him in the closet every night so she could service men without him bothering her.  One’s stepfather visited her bed frequently and promised to kill her younger sister if she told.  One male was gang- raped with a broken bottle by a bunch of older girls who were high on crack..  The guy I told this to wasn’t quite so ebullient in his criticisms after I shared a few cases with him..

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Plaster of Paris; chapter six, part three

“It’s your turn to go in, Rayne,” Mrs. Jenson says softly.

I struggle to my feet and stagger into Paris’s room.  He hasn’t changed from the last time I saw him.  The officer guarding him must be getting used to the sight of me because he doesn’t bother to poke his head in, just angles his chair so he can see me if he needs to.  I sit in the chair by Paris’s bed and don’t say anything; I just watch him as his chest rises and falls.  Periodically, I touch him gently to let him know I’m there.  There are so many things I want to say, but can’t.  It all sounds so trite compared to what is happening to him.  Thanks for being my best friend, Paris.  Thanks for always being there.  Thanks for being there for me when my father died and for countless other times since when I would have been in deep trouble without you.  Thanks for helping me through the difficult last two months, and I’d do the same for you.  Thanks for the unconditional love.  How can I say any of that without sounding stupid?

I shift in my seat, trying not to notice how pale and terribly still Paris is.  I wish he would wake up so we could get him out of this room; I hate the thought of him being alone.  Paris is such a people person.  He detests being by himself except for the rare occasion when he needs to recharge his batteries.  It happens about once a month.  If I’m home, he’ll put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on his door that he stole from a hotel, then lock himself in.  He’s always more centered and at peace when he emerges hours later, so I let him be.  He never talks about what he does when he’s in self-imposed solitude, but I assume it is some kind of mediation.  Even though Paris is not religious like his mother, he is highly spiritual.  I draw strength from him, and I am at a loss how to be the strong one now that he needs me.

“Paris, you have to wake up,” I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.  “You can’t leave me.  I don’t want to wake up to a world without you in it.”  I stop, not wanting to lay a guilt trip on Paris, though I want him to know how much he’ll be missed if he dies.  “Remember how devastated I was when my father died?  I can’t go through that again.”  I am clutching the edge of the bed as well as his hand.  “I’m going to find out who did this to you, Paris, but it would sure help if you gave me a sign.”  I wait, but nothing.  Not even an involuntary twitch.  I close my eyes as the tears slip down my face.  I know it doesn’t help to cry, but I can’t stop.  I must be more tired than I think because I fall asleep.

Paris is smiling at me, and he’s whole.  Nothing is bruised, battered or broken.  He’s my beautiful boy as he always was.  Except for the gaping hole where his heart should be.  At first I don’t notice it because I’m drinking in the sight of him radiant.  When my eyes are drawn to the hole, I can’t stop staring.  We are outside, and there is greenery showing through that hole.  Suddenly, a face pops up behind the hole.  I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman, but s/he is grinning at me, though s/he’s missing an eye due to a bullet wound.  S/he waves at me before slowly crumpling to the ground.  To my horror, a gun drops from my hand to the ground as the hole in Paris’s heart shrinks until it’s completely gone.  Once that’s complete, he turns and walks away.  There is nothing behind him.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter six, part one

I am incredulous with his reaction and demand to know why it doesn’t bother him.  He thinks it’s funny, and he thinks she’s jealous of anyone I’m sleeping with.  He’s still chuckling as he reveals that he thinks the good inspector has the hots for me.  That causes me to sputter indignantly for a few minutes while Lyle looks on in amusement.  The prim and proper inspector having a crush on me?  The thought of that is so bizarre, I can’t take it seriously.  I’m nothing more than an irritant to her, forced upon her because of unusual circumstances.  I’m a suspect in an attempted murder case and have been in two past cases.  I don’t even know she’s gay, for god’s sake.  The idea is ludicrous, I inform Lyle.  He brushes aside my objections, firm in his belief that Inspector Robinson wants to get into my pants.

While I’m musing over this hypothesis, he also drops that he’s slept with women before.  After imparting that startling information, he returns to my room, leaving me stunned, but not for long.  I hurry after him, pushing open my door.  I’m not ready to end the conversation quite yet.  I demand to know what he’s talking about as he seems the original poster boy for gay since birth.  I’m also having difficulty accepting that he’s a switch-hitter, too.  Isn’t anybody just gay any more?  Yes, I’m aware of the irony, but I can’t help feeling that way.  Lyle shrugs, his attention on the computer.  He offhandedly mentions that he was a late bloomer, that he and Paris had a good laugh over the idea of Lyle with a woman, then assumes the conversation is over.  It’s not to me, and I’m hurt that this is yet another thing Paris didn’t tell me.  It seems like there are a few things he’s kept from me.  Sure, I’ve been out of it the last few months, but still.  The last thing I want is Paris to cut me out of his life.

Lyle sees that I’m not going to let it drop, so he tells me his coming-out story.  He grew up very sheltered and couldn’t fathom being with a man.  Even after he knew the truth, he tried to convince himself that it was just a phase.  It took many attempts at a relationship with a woman before he finally acknowledged to himself what he should have known all along—he was gay.  He liked women as friends, but he couldn’t love them romantically and he certainly wasn’t sexually-attracted to them.  I ask when he last slept with a woman.  He gives me a dirty look, but answers.  Ten years ago when he was twenty-five.  That’s pretty late for discovering one’s gayness, especially for a man.  He assures me with a mischievous smile that he’s not attracted to me, and for a minute, I’m hurt.  Even though I know he’s not into women, I’m insulted that he could so freely admit that he’s not attracted to me.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter five, part two

Watching Mrs. Jenson, I feel another surge of anger.  Not at the would-be murderer this time, but at her.  She loves Paris, I have no doubt, but she can’t see past her narrow vision to embrace the beautiful, complicated man that he is.  The whole time Paris and I’ve been friends, I’ve never heard Mrs. Jenson say anything positive about or to Paris.  Instead, she stands to the side with her mouth pursed, looking at him with disapproval.  Paris feels her disappointment keenly, but hasn’t gotten bitter over it as many would have.  However, he does have issues with his dead father, which reminds me that I have to tell him the story his mother told me about shutting out Mr. Frantz after adopting Paris.  It might help explain why Mr. Frantz was the way he was.

Thinking about Mr. Frantz and Mrs. Jenson leads me to think about relationship in general.  How we as humans pretty much fuck them up on a regular basis.  I know more bad relationship than good ones, and even strong ones such as my parents’ marriage are marred by details best left unknown—such as each of their affairs.  My strongest adult relationship ended badly when she walked out on me because she ‘couldn’t stand one more day’ of being around me.  She said she’d scream if she had to listen to my idiotic ramblings any longer.  That’s how she phrased it.  I was still in love with her, and needless to say, I was crushed.  Paris, for as good as he is about making people fall in love with him, isn’t so great with relationships himself.  He gets bored easily and dumps with impunity.  He’s had more than one stalker in his time.  Brett, the love of his life who died from AIDS, is the exception, and now Lyle.  Except they had a huge fight which led to Paris running into the street and being hit.  Again, I can’t stop the thought that Lyle might have had something to do with the hit-and-run from creeping into my mind.

I sit up straight as something which had previously slipped my mind comes rushing back.  The blond that Lyle’s friend, Marisol, Melody, or whatever her name is, saw smooching Paris at Muddy Waters.  Tall, good body, pretty.  I don’t remember if Lyle said the last, but I’m sure she’s pretty.  Paris doesn’t hang out with anyone not attractive, even as a friend.  It’s one of his weaknesses; he has an eye for the aesthetics.  He’s had one or two anomalies in his past, but for the most part, he likes attractive people.  I’m not sure the blond means anything, but it’s an oddity in Paris’s life.  From the way Lyle described her, she’s not someone I recognize.  Like a great many big men, Paris prefers small women.  I wonder if there’s any way I can find out who the mystery girl is.  The other reason I doubt she’s a lover of his is because of her age.  Paris won’t date anyone under twenty-one, even though he likes them young—Lyle notwithstanding.  He says if he can’t drink with them, he won’t sleep with them.

There is nothing to do but wait.  I would give anything to trade places with Paris, but that’s simply not an option.  I close my eyes, intending to rest for a minute.  I used to be able to pull all-nighters when I was in college, but not any more.  The effects of the past sixteen hours or so have caught up to me.  I fall into a deep sleep.  I dream of Paris screaming my name from deep beneath the ocean.  I am on the surface, desperately trying to decipher what he’s saying.  I can barely make out his form, and there’s an amorphous blond figure next to him whose hair is twined around Paris’s neck.  His face is slowly turning blue as she chokes off his airway.  Ursula suddenly appears, wresting Paris away from the apparition.  She pulls him up—and away from me.  I call out his name, but he slips further away.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part two

I bring up Paris’s birthmother, something both of us have let slide.  She did call Paris the afternoon he was hit.  Is it merely a coincidence that on the day she calls, Paris is hit?  That’s too much to swallow, although coincidences do occur.  Lyle and I look at each other, thinking the same thing.  Where is Paris’s cell phone?  Lyle had assumed the doctors had it, but he isn’t sure.  We have to get the cell phone to find out if there is a record of Paris’s birthmother’s phone call.  I curse Paris silently for his love of drama.  If he had just told one of us who she was before he was hit, we wouldn’t have to waste time tracking her down.  Lyle and I both start shoveling in the our food as fast as possible, gabbing the whole time.

We are short in the way of suspects, and we start tossing things out into the air.  Lyle mentions that Jenna has been calling Paris on his cell lately, begging Paris to come back to her.  I am disconcerted as I thought she had finally gotten over Paris.  He hadn’t mentioned a thing to me about Jenna calling him, but it’s probably because he knew I’d give him hell for getting involved with her in the first place.  I can’t believe she’s calling him again.  They only dated for a month, and she’s acting as if they’re Romeo and Juliet.  Lyle is more sympathetic than I, however, remembering some of his own pathetic behavior at her age.  My face flushes as I recall a few of my own escapades.

Of course, Lyle can’t let it slide and wants to know why I’m reacting so dramatically.  I try to deflect him by returning to the suspect list, but he’s not having any of that.  With a flare of intuition, he guesses the story has something to do with Paris and crows in delight when I am not quick enough to come up with a plausible lie.  When I realize that he isn’t going to let it drop, I order him to finish his sandwich to give myself time to think.  I don’t like thinking about the incident, and I certainly don’t want to tell Lyle as it involves me, stupid behavior, and Paris.  I have a hunch Lyle won’t be happy to hear it once I’m through, but there’s nothing I can do about that since he insists.  Besides, maybe it’ll take his mind of Paris for a minute or two.

The tale isn’t pretty, nor is it particularly interesting.  When Paris and I were sophomores in college, I was desperately unhappy for many reasons and watching Paris date bimbos of both genders did nothing to cheer me up.  I decided I was in love with him and tried to seduce him.  It didn’t work, and I fled from the apartment, humiliated.  I slipped into a bar and proceeded to drink myself into a coma.  Some snake approached me and persuaded me to go home with him.  We were just about to leave when Paris showed up and prevented the snake from whisking me off.  Oh, I protested, but Paris simply slung me over his shoulder and brought me home.  When we got there, I promptly fell apart—as well as threw up—and Paris held me until I regained my sanity.  After reaffirming his love for me and the fact that we make better friends than lovers, he carried me off to my bed.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter four, part one

I hurry home and take a quick nap before hopping in the shower.  Nothing feels as good as the water running down my body.  The steam soothes the prickliness I feel, but to my horror, I start to cry.  The tears I’ve been repressing all night long storm to the surface and spill over, mingling with the shower water on the way down.  I start to sob loudly, unable to control my response.  I can’t control my shivering, no matter how hot I make the water.  I place my hand on the wall to steady myself, but my knees are trembling and I feel as if I’m going to fall over.  I close my eyes and try not to lose my balance.  My legs aren’t listening to my commands, and down I go.  I land on my ass with a thud—it’s cold on the ground.  I wrap my arms around my knees and just let the water fall onto me.

“Rainbow!  Where are you?”  My mother’s voice shouting for me jolts me out of the trance I have put myself in.  I am still on the floor under the pouring water, but it’s turned cold in the time I’ve been zonked.  My mother bursts into the bathroom and shuts off the tap.  She hauls me to my feet, clucking the whole time.  She’s talking to herself in Taiwanese as she wraps a towel around me.  I catch a phrase here and there, but my mind can’t process what she’s saying.  I idly wonder how fast she had driven as she seems to have made it across the bridge in good time.  Then again, I did take a nap, albeit a short one.  My mother ushers me to my room and sits me on the bed.  She rummages through my closet, pulling out a blue sweatshirt I got from A Brighter Day, the agency where I work, and a pair of blue jeans.  She finds a bra and underwear before presenting the pile to me.  I pull on the clothes without saying a word.  She watches as I dress myself, waiting until I’m finished before speaking.

“Are you all right?”  She asks the question deliberately, peering anxiously into my eyes.  She speaks English to make sure I understand.  Taiwanese may be her first language, but English is mine.  I look at her dully, not comprehending what she wants from me.  Am I all right?  My best friend is in the hospital because someone tried to make road-kill out of him, and she wants to know if I’m all right?  I pick at my fingernails, losing interest in the conversation.  All the nervous energy I was feeling earlier is now spent, leaving me as limp as a dish rag.  She walks over to me and deliberately slaps me across the face.  I rear my head back in surprise.

“What the hell did you do that for?”  I snap, some color returning to my face.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter three, part three

Per agreement, they didn’t try to find the teenager or even speculate about whom she might be.  Mrs. Frantz was too tense to relax, but Mr. Frantz managed to enjoy much of the local flavor, especially the spirits of the land.  He was fond of rum, which was plentiful in supply.  Mrs. Frantz sat in their hotel room and waited, dreaming of her baby boy.  By then, she knew she was getting a son, but she was cautious about investing too much emotion in him until she actually held him in her arms.  She just sat with the lights out, gazing outside her window, not really seeing anything.  Her husband would try to coax her to join him in his revelry, but she rebuffed him firmly.  When the first day melted into the second day, she began to get jittery.  Their lawyer had said the baby was born already, so she didn’t see the problem.  She was afraid to voice the fear niggling the back of her mind—the birthmother had changed her mind.  The second fear—the birthmother wanted more money.  There was none to be had.  The Frantzes had to borrow heavily to come up with the ten thousand, not to mention the trip to Tijuana.

Mrs. Frantz thought she would lose her mind as she waited for something that might never happen.  She rocked slightly back and forth to keep her mind off the tedium.  She watched as kids romped outside her window, happily oblivious to the woman gaping at them from inside her hotel room.  The maid knocked on the door for maid service, but Mrs. Frantz impatiently shouted at her to go away.  Mrs. Frantz didn’t want to be interrupted while she was obsessively worrying about acquiring her baby boy.  What would he look like?  Would he be a total stranger, or would she know him when she saw him?  Would they instantly connect, or would they have to work towards something?  She was afraid that she would look at her son and not feel anything other than panic and remorse.  What if she thought he was ugly?  What if he cried when she held him?  So many questions buzzed through her mind, she was unhappy that her husband wasn’t there to share her angst.

The knock on her door startled her.  She asked who it was and was relieved to hear her lawyer’s voice in reply.  She hurried to open the door, not remembering that she was wearing only a tank top and a pair of shorts.  Her lawyer didn’t seem to care, even though he himself was wearing a lightweight suit in charcoal gray.  He looked professional, but cool at the same time.  In his arms was an infant, cooing and batting his eyelashes as if he had something in his eyes.  Her lawyer was talking, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.  Her mind blocked out everything but the sight of her son smiling at her.  Her week-old son who turned up the wattage when he sensed her eyes on him.  She didn’t touch him, but simply stared—memorizing every feature.  His large green eyes.  The few soft blond curls decorating his head.  The way his chubby fist waved in the air.  The little dimple poking into his right cheek.  He was her son, no doubt about it.

Mrs. Frantz gathered him to her chest, cradling him as if her life depended on it.  Everything else in the world ceased to exist—the lawyer, the bed, the television, the tacky wallpaper, even her husband who had straggled back to the room at some point.  She could only focus on the tiny bundle squirming in her arms, beaming up at her.  She felt a benevolent force smiling down at her as if to say, ‘This is your due; this is why you’ve struggled so hard.  Now, you are rewarded.’  She knew God’s voice when she heard it and renewed her lagging vows to the church.  From now on, she would tithe religiously.  From now on, she would attend every Sunday.  From now on, she would try to bring God into every portion of her life.  She felt it only fair in return for the miracle that was her son.  Her son.  It didn’t matter that she didn’t carry him or give birth to him because he was hers as surely as if he had been taken from her gut.  He even resembled her in coloring, though not in temperament.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter three, part one

Lyle and I move a bit away to an unoccupied couch.  Now that there’s nothing else to do, I can’t help but notice our surroundings.  There are people everywhere, with every kind of wound imaginable.  One woman has an angry gash from her collarbone to her belly.  A knife wound, by the indication of the shredded dress.  She is being talked to by a nurse who quickly hustles her behind a door.  There is a small boy blubbering as he watches blood dripping from his knee which is embedded with slivers of broken glass.  I avert my eyes from the human suffering that is happening around me.  I rather watch the nurses and doctors rushing from one place to the next, intense looks of concentration on their faces.  They don’t even acknowledge each other as they hurry on their way, intent on their next assignment.  The walls are a dingy white, as if tired of offering brightness and comfort.  There is an older man arguing with the intake nurse, the volume of their argument increasing by the word.  I shudder and shut my eyes to block out all the stimuli.  I hate the hospital—as I’m sure most people do.  It’s ironic that the place which is supposed to be for saving lives is loathed by so many.

The hours pass with monotonous regularity.  Sometime during the evening, the inspector returns to question Lyle.  It takes a half hour, which is twice the amount of time she talked to me.  Lyle doesn’t want to talk about it, so we go back to waiting.  We also take turns napping.  First me with my head on his lap.  Then him with his head on my lap.  Neither of us is able to sleep for more than half an hour at a time, which doesn’t make for very restful sleep.  Lyle tosses as he sleeps, moaning softly for Paris.  I stroke his forehead, not wanting to cause him more agitation.  It’s strange how this terrible circumstance has thrown us together.  I like Lyle tremendously, but I haven’t really spent much in-person time with him.  Most of our conversations have taken place over the phone when he and Paris were in Memphis for Paris’s sister’s funeral.  Now, we are going to be spending much of our time together over the next couple weeks whether we like it or not.  Fortunately, I like him because it would be even more hellish to spend this kind of time with him if I didn’t.

The hospital isn’t quiet—not even at four in the morning.  There are patients still streaming in the door.  It’s Saturday night, so many of the wounded are hopped up or drunk as well as injured.  My admiration for hospital personnel increases tenfold as I observe the business they have to do.  I know there is no way I could handle dealing with this kind of large-scale tragedy on a daily basis without flipping my lid.  I lean against the back of the couch and close my eyes, even though it’s my turn to stay awake.  I don’t know why Lyle and I decided that one of us needs to be awake at all times, but it suddenly seems ridiculous.  If the doctors have anything to say to us, they can wake us up.  Why are we keeping this vigil?  What good is it doing Paris?  I’m sending him good vibes, but what he really need is a miracle.  For the first time, I allow myself to think the unthinkable.  I open my eyes, suddenly shivering in fear.

Paris is more necessary to me than any of my appendages.  I’d rather lose all my limbs combined that lose Paris.  He is more important to me than any lover I’ve ever had, except perhaps, Claudette, the girl I partnered with for a year of my life in high school—the longest relationship I’d ever been in.  I was shattered the day she killed herself after tiring of her battle with anorexia, and it was Paris who patiently put me back together.  It’s been Paris holding my hands the last few months when the nightmares visit each night.  It’s Paris who has cooked me tempting dishes every day, hoping it’d coax my capricious appetite to spring to life.  It’s Paris who kept me from drowning after my father was killed by a drunk driver.  It was Paris who showed me what it meant to love someone unconditionally.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter two, part two

“I think that’s our job, Ms. Liang.”  A woman’s voice, husky, informs me.  I sigh heavily.

“Hello, Inspector Robinson.”  I don’t have to look up to know what I will see.  A tall, slender woman with blond hair that falls to her shoulders and light gray eyes.  Cheekbones to die for.  A woman I’m attracted to, but could never date.  I don’t even know if she dates women, but we have too much history to be bed partners.  She holds herself responsible for not preventing both attempts on my life, though there really was nothing she could have done.  When I do look up, I’m struck again by her fragile beauty.  She is much too delicate to be a homicide inspector.  “How are you?”

“I’ve been better,” she says levelly.

“We must stop meeting like this.”  My attempt at jocularity falls singularly flat.  “What are you doing here?  This isn’t a homicide.”

“Attempted, Ms. Liang,” Inspector Robinson says wearily.  “In addition, because of Mr. Frantz’s involvement in previous homicide cases, we are taking every precaution to ensure that this attempt is not linked to the prior ones.”  Sounds like faulty reasoning to me as both the previous murderers are indisposed of, but it’s not my place to say so.

“What can I do for you?”  I am less cautious with Inspector Robinson than I would be with another cop, but I’m still on my guard.

“I would like to have a few words with you in private,” Inspector Robinson says, glancing at Lyle who is paying no attention to us.  He is more interested in staring at the back of his hands.  Inspector Robinson motions with her head, so I stand up and follow her a healthy distance away.  She gestures for me to sit, and I do so reluctantly.  She angles a chair so it’s facing mine, then sits.  She stares at me for a minute before starting her questioning.  I have the uncomfortable feeling that my blouse is buttoned crookedly; the inspector has that effect on me.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vashti walk over to Lyle and sit next to him.  She must have been waiting for an appropriate time to approach us.  What a thoughtful woman.  I’m so intent on watching her, I miss what Inspector Robinson says.

“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”  I wrench my thoughts back to the inspector who doesn’t look pleased with my request.

“Where were you this evening?”  Inspector Robinson asks, her voice brisk.  I stare at her uncomprehendingly.

“You’re asking me for an alibi?”  Unreasonably, I’m wounded.  After the last two cases, I would think I’d be above suspicion, but obviously not.  I take a minute to compose myself before replying.  “I was at Vashti’s apartment.”  I nod at Vashti, and the inspector follows my gaze.  “She made us dinner.”

“Then what?”  Inspector Robinson is scribbling notes, but doesn’t miss the blush that spreads to my cheeks.

“Um, we were getting to know each other better when Lyle called me on my cell.”  I am strangely reluctant to give the inspector the gory details, though they’re fairly tame.  “Vashti drove me over.”

“How have you and Mr. Frantz been getting along?  Things tense lately?”

“You have to be kidding me,” I exclaim.  “I just gave you my alibi!  You still think I might have,” I stop as my eyes flood with tears.  My best friend is in surgery fighting for his life, and I’m being questioned by the cops.  “I love Paris.  I would never hurt him.”

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Plaster of Paris; chapter two, part one

“Hello?”  I have to admit I’m a trifle snippy in my tone.  I do not like coitus interruptus, even if I am still undecided about whether there will be coitus or not.

“Oh my god!  Rayne, is that you?  I can’t believe it!”  It’s Lyle, and he sounds more agitated than I’ve ever heard him sound as he is normally an even-tempered guy.  “You have to come quick.  Paris is in the hospital.  We had a fight, and he left, and now, oh god.  He won’t open his eyes!  Why won’t he open his eyes?”

“Lyle, calm down,” I say, fighting back my own panic.  “Please.  You’re not making sense.”

“I’m at St. Luke’s.  Can you get here?  Now?  I can’t talk over the phone.”  He clicks off before I can get any more information.

It’s a nightmare, it has to be.  I hang up my cell phone, stupidly looking at it in my hand.  Vashti asks me what’s wrong, but I brush her off.  I need her to drive me to St. Luke’s, and I’m praying that she knows the way.  She does.  We are out the door in a flash, and soon, she’s speeding down Caesar Chavez as fast as she dares.  Neither of us speaks on the way over.  Thoughts are rushing through my mind at breakneck speed, and I don’t bother trying to separate them.  I can’t even think about Paris being in the hospital without wanting to either hurt someone badly or bursting into tears, so I push it to the very back of my brain.  I keep my eyes fixed on the window as Vashti pulls up to St. Luke’s.  She drops me off at the front door and goes to park the car.  Information points me to ER, and I race down the hall.

“Lyle!”  I call out as soon as I glimpse him.  He catches me in his arms and crushes me to his chest.

“It’s so horrible, Rayne.  He was deliberately hit.  Who would do that?  Why won’t he open his eyes?”  Lyle is weeping and has been for a while judging by the looks of him.  We sit down, our arms wrapped around each other.

“Can I see him?”  I ask anxiously, wanting to reassure myself that Paris is ok.

“He’s still in surgery,” Lyle moans.  “Why did I let him run out?  Why didn’t I try to stop him?  What was I thinking?”

“Lyle, tell me what happened!”  I shake him slightly to try to calm him down.  I am sympathetic to his pain, but I have to know what is going on.

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