Dating Dead Men Read Online Free Page B

calico skirt from earlier in the day, heavy wool socks over my tights, red high-top Converse All Stars, gray hooded sweatshirt, jean jacket. Nothing matched and it didn't matter. It's hard to dress wrong for the hospital. On the seat next to me were seventy-five square feet of Reynolds Wrap quality aluminum foil. In my jacket pocket was a Regency romance,
Sylvester, or The Wicked Uncle
. A useful thing to know about mental illness, which you won't find in pamphlets or medical textbooks like the
DSM-IV,
is how much time is spent, by everyone involved, waiting at hospitals, pharmacies, police stations, or on hold, which is why it's important to carry reading material at all times, or a portable hobby, like needlepoint or whittling.
    After forty minutes the terrain changed dramatically. Flat, complaisant communities gave way to a sweeping vista as the freeway snaked around canyon curves high above the valley floor. I took the Pleasant Valley exit.
    Entering the little town at midnight was disorienting, like spotting the cleaning lady at an after-hours club. But I made the drive to the hospital most Thursdays at noon, so it didn't take long for my internal compass to kick in. My Rabbit bounced along past the corn and onion fields till the Deer Crossing sign reminded me to slow down.
    And so, when the shape loomed in the road ahead, there was plenty of time to imagine what else it might be, must be, other than the thing it was, until I'd come to a gradual, disbelieving stop.
    I kept the motor running and covered my wide-open eyes with my hands like that would make it go away. I reached over to lock the doors in the Rabbit, even though they were already locked. And I told myself that the thing in front of the car wasn't what it appeared to be. Finally, reason rolled in like the tide. With all the things that existed only in my brother's head, this one also existed in the real world.
    Dead body. Cadaver. Corpse.

chapter three
    P
.B.,
I thought, and stopped breathing.
    My eyes focused. My headlights showed a head of dark hair on the body in the road. P.B. is as blond as I am. Relief hit, then fear—I could not leave my car to make sure that body was dead, or save its life if it wasn't. I'm not a brave person.
    â€œBrave shmave,” said a voice inside me. Ruta's. “How do you know that's a corpse? What if it's a person trying to get to a hospital, taking a rest along the way, maybe having a small coma? You find out. You, who used to be a Girl Scout.”
    A conscience is a dreadful thing. I tried to recall ways to tell if people are dead, short of feeling around for a pulse, something I find tricky even on myself. There was the sticking-someone-with-a-pin method. I looked around. On the sun visor was a No on Proposition 29 button, but it seemed like adding insult to injury, stabbing someone who was already clearly unwell, and with an old political button. And if a person was unconscious, would he respond to jabs? Oh! Mirrors. You held a mirror to someone's lips, right?—or nose—and if it fogged, he was breathing. Of course, that would mean looking at a face, which might be okay if the face was alive, but not okay if it was dead.
    â€œEnough wasting time. Go save a life maybe,” Ruta's voice said.
    Armed with a cigar-sized flashlight and a Cover Girl mirror compact, I made a sign of the cross and got out of the car, leaving the door open and the headlights on.
    He was faceup, wasn't moving, and didn't look comfortable. Ten feet separated us, and I focused on his clothes as I advanced. Dark shoes, gray sweatpants, an ancient-looking sweatshirt the color of, well, blood. With letters on it. MIT.
    â€œBuddy,” I said, to get his attention, but it came out a whisper. I couldn't look at his face. I sniffed the air; I'm not sure what I was sniffing for, but there was a courtroom set up in my head, and I was rehearsing the possibility of “Your honor, he smelled dead, I didn't need to go any