The Girl in the Face of the Clock by Charles Mathes Page B

uniforms pursued various life-and-death missions.
    As instructed by one of the three crisply efficient receptionists at the front desk, Jane followed a yellow line on the floor through a maze of corridors and double doors until she came to a well-lighted wing somewhere at the north end of the sprawling hospital complex. A wall plaque proclaimed this to be the head trauma unit. Here, a nurse at a central station directed Jane to a semi-private room down at the end of the hall, explaining that her father’s tests would start in the morning.
    It was a small room, painted a cheerful apricot, with a pair of windows looking out over the East River. Curtains attached to tracks in the ceiling could be pulled around each of the two beds to give the occupants an illusion of privacy. A television set was mounted on a large extendable metal arm at one side of the room, though the room’s occupants weren’t watching anything, both of them being unconscious and hooked up to banks of electronic monitoring equipment. One was a heavy set African American man whose head was turbaned in bandages and who was breathing laboriously. The other was Aaron Sailor.
    There was an armchair in the corner of the room, next to a tiny desk—in case a patient made a miraculous recovery and wanted to alert the family by letter, perhaps. Jane sat down and stared at her father’s still form. The electronic lines on the monitor attached to various parts of his anatomy moved in lazy patterns that she couldn’t interpret. A few new inscriptions now graced the cast on his arm. One read: “Hearty good wishes for a speedy recovery. Cordially, Benton Contino.” Another said: “So very sorry for your suffering, Reema.”
    Her father’s roommate suddenly started to wheeze a little louder. The lines on his monitor began to do a tango. This man’s injury apparently had been a recent one. Perhaps there was still a chance he could wake up and return to his life and loved ones with nothing more than a big headache and a raise in his health insurance premiums. Jane wondered whether she should call a nurse or something, but the electronic activity soon quieted down.
    Jane sat for a few more minutes, wanting desperately to feel something. Love. Pity. Hope. Nothing came except depression and a vague sense of guilt. Her thoughts drifted to tomorrow night’s dinner with Elinore and her husband. At least she’d get fed, Jane told herself. She could have a couple glasses of wine and beg off early with a headache. And Elinore might even be able to tell her something about the nude in Perry’s painting, the one he had acted so mysterious about. Then, next week, Jane would be on the West Coast with Perry.
    Jane had worked in several different cities in California but never anywhere in the Pacific Northwest. She’d once been up for a job choreographing a season of fights at the Oregon Rep, but they’d gone with somebody else. Seattle was supposed to be a beautiful area and one she’d always wanted to see.
    A trip with Perry might even be fun. Jane never got the chance to fly first class and they were bound to be staying in a nice hotel. She’d be collecting a salary all the while, besides. What was so terrible about that? And what was wrong with Perry Mannerback paying for some of the best doctors in the country to see what they could do for her father?
    As if on cue, a deadened voice from the still figure on the bed interrupted her thoughts.
    â€œDon’t do it, Perry,” said Aaron Sailor. “No, Perry, no.”

    â€œJanie, darling” screeched Elinore King, throwing her beefy arms around Jane and kissing the air. “I’m so happy! Here you are! Here we are! Isn’t it wonderful?”
    Jane tried not to look shocked. Though she had spoken to Elinore a few times since the Fyfe Museum had become interested in Aaron Sailor’s work, Jane hadn’t seen her in person for nearly eight