Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

Mom’s voice drops, as if she’s talking to herself. “He didn’t say what hospital, and I didn’t think to ask him. Oh, well, it’s only Wednesday. He’ll be in touch with us before Sunday.” She picks up speed again and adds, “I took a package of ground beef out of the freezer and put it into the refrigerator. Be sure you defrost it completely in the microwave. You’ll find a package of mushrooms in the refrigerator. They’re getting a little too soft to be used in salad, so make a meat loaf for dinner, along with sautéed mushrooms and whatever else you want. Thanks, honey, for being such a big help. We’ll be home between seven-thirty and eight.”
    The recording clicks off, and I lean against the counter with a sigh. Sunday? We can’t see Douglas Merson until Sunday?
    Maybe Mom and Dad can wait that long, but I can’t. I’m going to visit Mr. Merson right now.
    It takes only a little over fifteen minutes to driveto Riverview Hospital, find a parking place shaded by tall pine trees, and ask at the reception desk the number of Mr. Merson’s room. The white-haired volunteer in the pink hospital uniform has such a friendly smile, she reminds me of Grandma, and I feel a sudden pang of longing for my grandmother. I wish she lived nearby and I could see her more than two or three times a year. Grandma would agree that I should study to become an artist. If there are sides to be taken, Grandma’s always on mine.
    “Sixth floor,” the volunteer says. “Room six fifty-five. You can get further directions from a floor nurse at the central desk on the sixth floor. The elevators are to your right.”
    “Thank you,” I say, and take the nearest elevator, which dings and slides its doors open as I approach.
    On the sixth floor there’s a sign with room numbers and arrows on it, so I don’t have any trouble finding Mr. Merson’s room. Six fifty-five is at the end of the hallway to my right, next to the last door, which is labeled EXIT — STAIRS .
    Mr. Merson’s door stands ajar, so I peek inside. The room is flooded with late afternoon’s intense light, which pours through the open Venetian blinds. This is a large room, with plenty of space for the two upholstered armchairs, the usual hospital bed, and bedside tables.
    Mr. Merson, still bandaged and connected to tubes and machines, is lying there quietly, his eyes closed. He seems to be peacefully asleep.
    I back away from the door and walk past the exit to a small alcove at the end of the hallway, where Ilean against the wall and think about what to do next. Mr. Merson has been badly hurt. He’s in pain. He needs to sleep … to heal. How could I possibly wake him? The detectives will be mad. My parents will be shocked that I came here—but I realize I’ve been doing lots of things my parents would find shocking. I haven’t felt ashamed, though.
    My need to know who he is and why he’s had this sixteen-year interest in me is not selfish. I could leave him undisturbed. I could come back Sunday, when I’m with Mom and Dad and Detective Balker. But what really is fair?
    I straighten just as the door to the stairs begins to open. It moves only a few inches, then stops. I don’t hear a sound from the other side of the door, so I realize that it’s not someone struggling to carry something through the door. It’s someone who seems to be waiting quietly, holding the door open just wide enough to look through. Since I’m standing on the hinged side of the door, I can’t see who’s there.
    I hear two women’s voices as they come down the hall toward us. Their chatter rises to a squeal. “Annabelle! You’re looking wonderful!” A door closes behind them as they enter Annabelle’s room, and the hall is empty again.
    Now the stair door opens wide, and someone comes through. As it closes, I get a quick glimpse of a doctor in a loose green cotton top and pants, cotton cap completely covering his hair, and even a surgical mask tied across his face. He