Storms 01 - Family Storms

around the ward. Some of the others were looking our way and listening. She didn’t smile at anyone. She pulled herself back a little and blew a small breath through her nearly closed lips.
    “Well, this won’t do,” she said. It seemed to be something she was saying more to herself than to me. “It won’t do at all.” She turned and walked out quickly.
    “That your mother?” the woman nearest to me asked.
    “No way,” I said. “My mother is prettier.”
Was prettier,
I thought, and then argued with myself. This woman was beautiful, there was no denying that, but Mama had that exotic look, and she was natural. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was different. In Los Angeles, women like the one who had just been to see me were not unusual. Mama used to say, “It’s the only place where women don’t care that beauty is only skin-deep. Few want to go any deeper.”
    Mrs. March didn’t return for nearly half an hour, and when she did, the ward nurse and a male nurse’s aide accompanied her. The aide pushed a gurney right up to my bed. Mrs. March stood back to watch.
    “We’re moving you,” the nurse said.
    “To where?”
    “A room. A private room,” she added, the corners of her lips dipping.
    She and the aide guided me carefully onto the gurney.
    “Does she have any possessions?” Mrs. March asked the nurse when they turned to roll me out.
    “Possessions? No, nothing,” the nurse said. “What would she have?”
    Mrs. March smirked. “A watch, maybe? Any jewelry? These people carry everything they own on them.”
    “She had nothing I know of, and there’s nothing listed anywhere.”
    “I hope not,” Mrs. March said. “Anyone who would steal from this child should be shot.”
    I looked back at the other patients in the ward. A few watched with curiosity and amazement.
    “Just relax,” the nurse said, and I lowered my head and waited as I was rolled along.
    We went to an elevator. Mrs. March followed us all the way and stood quietly in a corner of the elevator as it rose to a much higher floor. She kept her head high and looked forward, not looking at me at all now. She said nothing to the nurse or the aide.
    The door opened on a quiet corridor with walls that looked freshly painted and a floor that glittered in the sunlight pouring through one of the windows. I saw the nurses’ station, with at least a half dozen of them busy with their duties. The nurse on the far side sat watching monitors. I could see that she was doing some needlepoint. There was none of the frenzy here that I had seen in the emergency room.
    I was rolled down to a doorway and then into the room, which was nicer than any bedroom I had ever had. There was a light maple armoire on the left, a closet on the right,small tables beside the bed, and a television on a metal shelf across from the bed. The room had two large windows that looked toward the Hollywood Hills. The bed was wider than the one down in the ward, and the blanket and pillows looked brand-new. The nurse and the aide gently transferred me. The aide started out with the gurney, and the nurse turned to Mrs. March.
    “I’ll get her paperwork to the desk,” she said.
    “Thank you,” Mrs. March said.
    The nurse left, and Mrs. March stepped up beside the bed and looked at me. “Now, this is better, isn’t it?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “I have a private-duty nurse arriving within the hour. Her name is Jackie Knee.” She leaned toward me to whisper. “She’s younger than most of the nurses here, more tuned in to girls your age. She actually worked at a plastic surgeon’s clinic in Brentwood but now freelances on private-duty assignments. I think she makes more money.”
    She straightened up and just stared at me for a few moments.
    “I’ve arranged for a well-known orthopedist, Dr. Milan, to examine you.”
    “Dr. Milan?”
    “You know who he is?” she asked with a slight smile.
    “He was supposed to fix my leg last night but didn’t come because I have no medical insurance, so Dr. Decker did it.”
    “Really? Is that what happened? Well, he’s coming today,” she said firmly. “You can be sure of that.”
    “Who’s paying for all this?” I asked.
    “I am. Well, I should say my husband and I are.”
    “Why?” I asked, expecting her to tell me they were in charge of some charity.
    She looked as if she wasn’t going to answer. She turned away, looked out the window a moment, and then turned back to me.
    “It was my daughter, Kiera, who