The Lucky One

Chapter Two: The Locket and the Phone Call

 I never did repent for doing good,

Nor shall not now: for in companions

That do converse and waste the time together,

Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love,

There must be needs a like proportion

Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirits

     ~ Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Chapter Two:

The Locket and the Phone Call

At least the weather got a little healthier that evening. Fuzzy drizzle, like snow powders, swirled over the town and lesser through the road in front of St. Mayleboune Hospital. A white cab dropped Clarisse in a hurry, who had rushed wearing her jeans and shirt; cold wind was slapping her face as she came across the automated glass doors.

The reception was wide: The long counter facing the entrance was full of nurses writing on thick record books, some were merely nodding at each other. And when Clarisse approached in front, the lad stopped writing and glanced at her, then returning his head in a whip as Clarisse smiled.

“Could you please tell me the room number of Cormark James Lafertroy?” she requested in an utterly convincing tone.

The nurse’s face was blank for a few seconds, as though congealed to the goddess Aphrodite. He quavered back to normality after a short moment, stammered and said, “A moment, darling, if you would consider me to check the list.” Then he stretched himself to the right, scanning the other nurses’ clipboards.

Clarisse shared her eyes around the reception area into the bench full of waiting people with sleepy and bleary eyes. She couldn’t help herself digest the thought that Mark was lying flat somewhere inside the hospital building; patience kept losing her as she waited for a few more seconds.

She looked back to the desk just as the male nurse returned to face her once again.

“C.J. . . . Lafertroy – there you go, got it!” he said happily, reading a small note card on which he had copied the information. “He’s in Room 313, as you’ve asked. It’s on the third floor, turn right to a corridor, you’ll find his room there.”

“Thank you,” said Clarisse shortly, walking briskly away at once. The male nurse bit his lower thin lip as he watched her.

“Ronan – what was that for?” said a chubby nurse sitting beside him. She had caught him.

“Nothing,” Ronan answered, rowing his head down and was then pretending to be writing.

Clarisse took the stairs two at a time in extreme rush, and when she finally reached the last landing, she trod to the right. It was a broad, long-run corridor, deserted except for an old man mopping the floor. She walked past him and found the door marked ROOM 313.

She paused, fixed her hairs, and turned the handle. She stuck her head inside and peaked.

“Calm down,” Flynt was saying, standing on the right side of the bed; Mark lay still, frowning as he looked away from his father. “Rest, that’s what you need. Do not stress yourself for most.”

“But –” Mark tried to say.

“It’s a minor sprain, I know,” Flynt snapped, nodding softly. “I just want you to rest, Mark. As much as possible, you should get well the day after tomorrow. I will be surprising you by then, do you understand?”