W Is for Wasted

funereal for my meeting with Dr. Reed. I’d jogged my three miles, of course, hoping to quash my anxieties. I had no reason to be afraid of him except that Dace had been afraid. Given our close family relationship, that was good enough for me.
    Armed with my shoulder bag and car keys, I was just going out the door when the telephone rang. I didn’t want to stop and chat with anyone, but I did pause long enough to hear Ruth Wolinsky say: “Kinsey, this is Ruthie. I wonder if you could stop by today at your convenience. Nothing critical, but there’s something I’d like to discuss. No need to call in advance. I’m off work and I’ll be here.”
    I locked up, already planning to swing by her house when I left the university. Ruthie’s tone was new to me; a touch on edge. She didn’t sound alarmed so much as puzzled. In the meantime, Henry and I hadn’t had a chance to strategize about my upcoming meeting with Dr. Reed, so I was running conversational loops in my head as I drove north on the 101 and took the exit road that led to the UCST campus.
    At the information booth, I told the guard where I was going. He handed me a campus map and used his pen to circle the Health Sciences Building.
    “What about parking?”
    “The lot’s this gray area,” he said. “Have your ticket validated and you won’t have to pay the parking fee.”
    I thanked him and drove on. I hadn’t been to the university for years and I was disconcerted by all the new buildings that had sprung up. Vacant lots were gone. A two-tiered parking structure had been razed and a five-story garage had gone up in its place; new dorms; a new student union building. I had my sheet map on the steering wheel, trying to get my bearings. I finally found the lot and pulled in, waiting while the dispenser buzzed and pushed a ticket through the slot. I took it and the gate arm swung up.
    I grabbed the first place I spotted, then paused to check my teeth, hair, and makeup before I got out of the car. By makeup, I’m referring to the four passes with a mascara wand that had left a small black clot on one lash. I’d also applied lipstick, but that was already gone. Really, I don’t get the point.
    The doors to the Health Sciences Building were open. Students strolled in and out, most of them in scanty clothing—tank tops and short shorts; lots of boobs, bare arms, and flat abdomens. Footwear seemed equally divided between flip-flops and thick-soled army boots. At least a hundred bicycles had been chained to a corral of fencing outside.
    Once in the building, I rounded the corner to the elevators and checked a directory posted on the wall. The only clinic was on the ground floor. As I passed the entrance, I glanced in. Several students were seated in the waiting room. I walked on, keeping track of room numbers. Several clinic doctors had offices in the same wing, strung out on either side of the corridor. I found the administrative offices, where two secretaries and three clerk-typists were hard at work.
    Linton Reed’s secretary, Greta, was away from her desk. I’d expected to announce myself, reminding her of my name and the time of my appointment, but her chair was empty and all the other women were intent on their computers. Her appointment book was open in plain sight, but today’s schedule was blank. I’d seen Dr. Reed’s name on a white laminated tag mounted on the wall as I’d come down the hall. I retraced my steps.
    Dr. Reed’s door was open and I stepped into the anteroom. In the larger office beyond, he was seated at his desk, focused on a medical chart on which he was scribbling notes. He was left-handed, always of interest to me. I knocked on the door frame. “Dr. Reed?”
    He looked up. “Yes?”
    “Kinsey Millhone.”
    When that didn’t spark a response, I said, “I’m your nine o’clock appointment.”
    He seemed stumped by the news. He flipped a page or two on his desk calendar and then rose to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had anyone coming in. The secretary’s usually good about telling me.”
    “Is this a bad time?”
    “It’s fine. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your name again.”
    I said, “Kinsey. The last name is Millhone.”
    We shook hands across the desk and then he gestured me into a chair. His grip was warm, quick, and firm. Nothing to complain about there. I’d taken an instant mental picture of him. Early thirties, with a full, open countenance, blue eyes, something close to a pug nose.