I gaped at the bowl. A patch of green rubber stuck out, and I fished that balloon out, too. Then a yellow balloon and another pink, a red, and a bright blue, until they were scattered across the desk like so much lethal confetti. I stood shocked in the quiet of my friend’s office. Trying to fathom how Sam could be connected to Bill’s death. It didn’t seem possible, but I was holding the link in my hand.

I thrust the pink balloon in my jacket pocket, replaced the others, then slipped out and broke for the Coast.

I grabbed a late-night shower in the firm’s locker room after my discovery. The pink balloon was uppermost in my mind, but I couldn’t complete the connection between Bill and Sam, if there was one. My brain was too tired. The hot water made it worse, enervating me.

How much had I slept in the past few days? I gave up trying to count as I toweled off and dressed, then lay down on the single bed in the room’s so-called rest area. I set my runner’s watch for 5:00A.M., but despite my fatigue I was barely dozing when the beep sounded. I was seeing pink balloons in a nightmare birthday party.

I let myself into the firm’s kitchen for muddy coffee and an early morning bagel. Sam’s connection to Bill’s death nagged at me, though I had a more mundane problem. I had nothing to wear. I’d worn the yellow linen suit two days in a row and it was starting to look like an accordion, and smell worse. By Monday, even the losers would begin to wonder.

So at nine o’clock, coffee and half-eaten bagel before me, I was back in my conference room, on the phone to a personal shopper at a local department store, masquerading as busy lawyer Linda Frost. I ordered clothes and shoes to be delivered ASAP to Grun amp; Chase and even gave the shopper my proxy to pick what she called some “happening” suits.

After I hung up, I typed a memo to Accounting, instructing that a check be drafted payable to the store, the amount to be billed toRMC v. Consolidated Computers for “assorted business gifts.” The clothes would be paid for as soon as they arrived, and I’d be happening. Then I grabbed Jamie 17 and left.

I was safe on the Loser Floor, since no losers worked on Saturdays, but once I left the floor it would be duck season. I stuffed Jamie 17 in my purse, scooted under the security gate that came down on the weekends, and punched the button for the elevator. I hopped in as soon as it opened, feeling nervous and exposed, even inside.

I could be recognized by the security guards downstairs or maybe a new guy on the weekend crew. I could be spotted by someone on the street who’d seen my picture in the paper. And what about the cops? Would any be in the vicinity, in the parking garage?

I was running a risk, but I had to. I fumbled in my purse for my sunglasses and slipped them on.

Nowhere to go but down.

I slunk low in the driver’s seat of the bananamobile, waiting across the street from the city hospital. Gargoyles grimaced from its granite facade, but I gathered they didn’t recognize me in my sunglasses. My mother’s appointment wasn’t for an hour or so, but I wanted to make sure she wasn’t being surveilled.

“Right, Jamie 17?”

The kitten only purred in response, fast asleep in my lap. A miracle, considering she’d lapped up half a can of Diet Coke. Poor thing should have been flying on caffeine by now, or her tiny stalagmite-teeth should have dropped out. It was sad, I was turning out to be a bad mother. I stroked her and waited for my own.

They pulled up exactly on time in a Yellow cab. Hattie got out first; a bright spot of orange hair, then turquoise pants with a white scoop-neck shirt. She held out a palm, and my mother moved slowly into the light of day.

She looked up at the sky when she emerged, her mouth agape with wonder and confusion. She was so frail, a wraith in a house-dress and sneakers. Hattie gathered her up in strong arms and practically lifted her up the gray steps into the hospital’s entrance, where they disappeared from view.

I sat in a sort of shock. Hattie had been right. My mother had been dying right before my eyes, but I hadn’t seen it. I fought the urge to follow them and forced myself to watch for the cops. I waited and waited. No squad cars, no unmarked Crown Vic.

Still I waited, stalled in a memory. It’s Thanksgiving dinner at my uncle’s, at a time when the family is still in touch. All of us are seated around the steaming turkey and lasagna, all except my mother. She’s marching in the living room in a tight circle, banging a Kleenex box on her thigh, a madwoman in protest.It’sgetting late, it’s getting late, she says over and over, but they all ignore it. All of them around the table, happily passing the Chianti and the broccoli rabe, a bustling Italian holiday over the heaping plates.

Except one of us is dancing with the Kleenex.

And the people around the table, they keep chattering and passing the food as if nothing is happening. Her voice grows louder,it’s getting late, it’s getting late, it’sgettinglate, but they just talk louder, shouting over the clamor she makes. Meantime, I’m gagging on this wonderful meal, so I put down my fork and go to her, bundle her in her wool muffler and coat, and call us a cab. I want her out of there. I’m not old enough to drive, but I’m old enough to know that these people, the ones pretending everything is fine, are even crazier than she is. They have a choice my mother doesn’t, and they choose insanity.

I shook it off, got out of the bananamobile, and crossed the street to the hospital. Out in public, smack in the middle of the city. For the first time in days I wasn’t worried about myself, I had someone else to worry about. It was a relief, in a funny way. I reached the hospital steps, stuck out my tongue at the gargoyle, and went in.

I found Hattie sitting in a chair in a waiting area which was otherwise empty, and took a seat two chairs over. “You like cats, lady?” I asked her, deepening my voice.

“Yes.”

“You want one?” I opened my purse and showed her Jamie 17.

“Bennie, where’d you get that cat?” she said, eyes wide.

I laughed, even more surprised than she. “How’d you know who I was?”

“I’d know who you were no matter what kinda wig and glasses you got on. Now put that damn cat away. What are you doin’, bringin’ a cat in a hospital?”

“What do you think, I’d leave it in a car?” I took off my sunglasses and stuck them in my purse next to Jamie 17.

“How the hell you been?” Hattie said. She leaned over and gave me a hug redolent of talcum powder and singed hair. “I knew you’d come, you’re so crazy.” She released me, shaking her head.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine. Where’s Mom? Do they have her?” I craned my neck to see down the hall.

“She’s in, the doctor just took her. Not her normal doctor, another one.”

“Why not the normal one?”

“A different one does the treatments on the weekend. I didn’t want to wait ’til Monday, when her doctor could do it.” Hattie checked her watch, a thin, gold-toned Timex that choked her chubby wrist. “They had to give her a physical again, to check her out. It’ll be a while before they start the treatment. The doctor will come out and tell us.”

“Was she scared?”

“What do you think? She’s scared of air.”

I swallowed hard. “Did she fight you?”

“No. Good as gold, after I told her she had to go. That you said it was okay.”

My heart sank. “Did she ask where I was?”

“I told her you were at work. So where you been stayin’?”

“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” I said, but she didn’t laugh.

“That detective, the big one, he’s been over lookin’ for you. Wantin’ to know all about you. When you came, when you went.”

“What’d you tell him?”