Thirty nine text messages, seven tweets, and one lunch hour phone call gave me a lot more informations but few answers. Breann contacted Lena Cosburn and Clare Bunson. Lena's Texas housewife blogging habits had put her in a friendship with Clare. Clare was living in Sedona, Arizona where she was yoga instructor and substitute middle school teacher. Lena and Clare had met in person twice, and become close. Clare was reluctant to talk to Breann, but Lena had middle managed enough communication to find out Clare suffered from respiratory problems, shortness of breath, and manic depression. Clare appeared to be quite versed in New Age philosophy, homepathic medicine, and fitness. Despite all that, Clare and Lena were often afflicted with bouts of bad health. "We'll meet around 7:30pm at your hotel" was Breann's last text.
I left the office around 5:30pm and headed to the hotel to change into jeans and a t-shirt. I threw on a New York Jets cap and took a cab back to Lenox Hill Hospital. On a hunch worthy of a thumbs up from Thomas Magnum, I decided to make a trip to the records room in the hospital basement.
The records room was crowded. The shift change hadn't happened, so the hospital staff was looking at the clock and not at an unassuming man sifting through 1970 birth documents. After a few minutes I found the files. I went over the same information as before; dates and times of births. I realized I never known when I was born, exactly. I cam,e into the world, September 9th at 3:23am. My parents, Dean and Carolyn Runsen, signed everything and it seemed I had been healthy. There was no mention of being stillborn, no listing of care administered, doctor's name, nurses' dutied. One set of vital signs were taken. It was all too insignificant.
I dug deeper into the information for Breann, Lena, Clare, Lucas, and another baby, born before any of us, on September 1, 1970, at 9lb 1oz, named Bruce Nolans. His parents were from Paterson, New Jersey originally, but there was a family physician listed in Missoula, Montana. It was if all six of us were oddballs born in the first 11 days of September. I checked the records of babies born six months nefore, and six months prior. None of these files looked like ours. As I left the records room about an hour later, my cell phone started vibrating. Three voicemails appeared, along with seven texts. All of the contact was from the usual suspects, including Breann, but the third voicemail was the nurse from the day before. "You need to find me in examination room 3 on the third floor. It's important to your health. Have you found Connor Bulas or Anson Cluber? You have to. If I don't see you in 30 minutes, you're on your own." That low, gruff tone, and bad attitude were unpleasant yet unforgettable. It had been 19 minutes since her voicemail.
*blogger's note* - This is another entry of a story I am writing. The other episodes are here:
Today's song is from one of the more underrated bands of 1990s, The Gin Blossoms. Their first album, New Miserable Experience is outstanding., Their second record, Congratulations, Im Sorry is straight pop and nearly as good, but the last song is Til I Hear It From You. I dig it. It fits this story entry as Caleb finds out more information and gets set up for shocking revelations.
A Closer Look at the Case that Normalized Stop-and-Frisk
44 minutes ago