Poppies. She wore poppies.
"Olivia?"
I struggled to snap out of it, but the halls seemed to sway, everything slightly gauzy, every sound garbled.
I forced my mind back to what I'd been thinking before I saw the old woman and the poppies. Hospitals and Pamela Larsen.
I said I'd never stayed in a hospital, but there were two years of my life I knew nothing about. I must have spent time in a hospital.
I should have felt relieved. All those times I'd chastised myself for such a groundless fear, and it might not be groundless at all. But I didn't feel relieved. I felt angry. Angry with my mother and my dad, who'd known damned well that I must have had an early bad experience before I came to them, but they hadn't told me, fearing it could spark memories of the life they wanted me to forget.
"Olivia?" Gabriel said.
"Sorry," I said. "Are we ready to go in?"
He peered at me, then waved me to one side. "Take a moment."
I stepped away from the guard and motioned for Gabriel to follow. When he did, I lowered my voice and said, "Do me a favor? Erase those words from your vocabulary. At least with me."
A frown. "Which words?"
"Take a moment."
The frown deepened. "I was giving you--"
"--a moment to collect myself. I'm sure you need to do that with your clients. They get angry, emotional, distraught ... But remember yesterday when I advised you not to make physical contact? Same principle here. You can't pull it off."
"Pull what off?"
"Expressing genuine concern. I'm upset, and you see that as weakness, which you make very clear, however inadvertently. You say, 'Take a moment,' but what I hear is, 'Good God, not this again.'" I turned to the hospital room door. "Now let's get this over with."
Chapter Thirty-four
Pamela Larsen lay flat on her back, her skin so pale she was lost against the white sheets. Even her lips looked white. The only signs of color were a yellowing bruise on her cheek and purple half-moons under her eyes.
She's dying.
That's why I'm seeing poppies.
My mother is dying.
I started to turn to Gabriel for reassurance, then stopped myself and looked over at the doctor by the foot of the bed, jotting notes on her chart.
"How is she?" I whispered.
The woman's gaze lifted to mine. I saw nothing in it. No reaction. No clues.
"Eden..." Pamela whispered.
I turned. She lay there, eyes still closed, lips barely parted. One hand clutched the sheets, grip tightening.
"Eden..."
I walked over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes fluttered open. Then she blinked, lips forming an "oh" of surprise.
"Eden?"
I bit back the urge to correct her and nodded.