The End of the Runway: Chapter 7

THE REST OF Irene's visit was pleasant enough, but Stacy couldn't stop thinking about what was on her chart. Ipecac? What was that? Stacy chewed it over in her mind, bubbling with apprehension. Did the curly haired model put it in there on purpose? At least the news had put her in better spirits and some aspirin from a paper cup had put her in less pain.

Stacy was genuinely excited when the doctor arrived, a stout older man who squinted at her chart even through his thick glasses. "We're just keeping you a few hours longer to observation," he told her. French speakers always had problems with English prepositions, Stacy noticed.



"What was wrong with me?" she asked.

"We ran some tests while you were asleep and it seems you swallowed a foreign agent that reacted badly with alcohol," the doctor said. "It's lucky it wasn't much and that you drank so much so quickly, actually. If you hadn't, you might not have pushed it all up in your vomit. It could have been much more serious."

"So I probably just ingested something I shouldn't have on accident?" Stacy asked.

"That's one explanation," the doctor said. Stacy couldn't face up to the other likely answer right now, so she scrubbed it from her thoughts.

"I—I think it was an accident," Stacy said. "I wasn't trying to die or throw up or anything." Stacy cringed at the thought of this tidbit hitting the papers, the day after Anya's death. "I'm certain it was an accident."

"It probably wouldn't have killed you," the doctor said giving her a sideways glance. He shrugged, and finished his visit by checking her vitals. "You seem fine now, but I'd be careful about what you ingest from now on. Ipecac can be very dangerous. Why don't you get a little rest and you can get a good night's sleep at home." He probably thought she really was a bulimic model. In any event, it didn't sound like figuring out whether or not Stacy had an eating disorder was high on his list of priorities.



Two hours later Stacy sat in a wheelchair wedged between the floor's nurse call station and the elevators, frowning. She was being released into Unla's care. After she was checked out she was to head back to her room to change. In a bag behind her were the only clothes she had—the same black dress she had worn when she arrived at Cadiz.