Fool's Journey Page 7

  A few more blocks up the hill, she came to a brick high rise. She had taken the hill faster than usual, absurdly anxious to put distance between herself and the man at the bookstore. Stopping for a moment to catch her breath, she automatically counted up six floors and noted the curtains drawn at the fourth window. A sharp pain nagged at her side and she took several controlled breaths as she waited for it to subside.

  From the outside, the building was as anonymous as any upscale apartment house, but when she entered, it was a woman in a crisp white nurse’s uniform who smiled up at her from the elegant reception desk.

  “You’re a little late today, aren’t you?”

  Deirdre’s gaze dropped. “I slept in this morning,” she said briefly.

  The nurse nodded. “Just sign in and you can go right up.”

  Deirdre quickly scribbled her signature on the clipboard, crossed to the elevator and pushed the up button. She stood with her back to the receptionist, watching the numbers light on the floor indicator as the elevator returned to the main floor and the doors swooshed open.

  The smell of antiseptic and hothouse flowers assailed her, creating its own familiar incense. She stepped into the elevator, waited until the doors closed again, then leaned back against the mirrored walls and shut her eyes. She hated these visits, hated the fact that she could not simply accept their necessity, the same way a diabetic accepted the needle. It was how she had decided to live.

  The doors opened on a communal living area furnished in French provincial covered with plastic. She stepped out of the elevator and threaded her way among the wheelchairs and walkers. She didn’t even see the people anymore, merely the stainless steel fixtures that provided a measure of mobility. She passed them with a few murmured greetings, and headed down a hallway lined with potted palms, framed oil paintings and drip I.V. stands. At the end of the corridor, she pushed a door open and stepped into a darkened room.

  The bed had been raised up to a semi-upright position, but the patient’s head drooped to the right. One hand trailed off the edge of the mattress, pale and delicate as an old silk scarf.

  She knelt at the side of the bed and whispered, “It’s me, Mama. It’s Katie.”

  XIV.

  Deirdre took the withered hand between her own. It was as curled and stiff as a whorled seashell. Her mother was no more than fifty, but she looked seventy or more. Her hair had turned pure white years ago, as white as the spun glass wings on the first Christmas angel Deirdre had ever seen.

  “Sweet Mama,” she whispered.

  On the bed, her mother made no motion, did not open her eyes, but there was nothing new in that. Deirdre often thought that her mother was more like a favored old doll put reverently away, than a woman of flesh who had borne both a child and the sorrows life brought her.

  Each day, a physical therapist visited and the body was manipulated and exercised, washed and rubbed with lotion. Hair was shampooed and combed, nails manicured. For twelve years her body had existed in limbo, but her mind ...? No one knew. Nor would they ever, if she could help it. If she had accomplished nothing else, at least she'd kept her mother safe from intrusion.

  "Mama," she whispered. "I have some good news. I think I found a way to be happy. Just a little more time. A few days even." She searched her mother's face although she knew there would be no sign of understanding or awareness. Some things needed to be said aloud though, or they wouldn't come true.

  “And I have a poem for you,” she said softly. “Your favorite.”

  Deirdre didn't turn on the light. She merely closed her eyes and recited:

  Not that it matters, not that my heart’s cry

  Is potent to deflect our common doom,

  Or bind to truce in this ambiguous room

  The planets of the atom as they ply;

  But only to record that you and I,

  Like thieves that scratch the jewels from a tomb . . .

  Deirdre’s voice rode the rhythm of the lines without faltering. It had been a long time since she had cried while reciting the poem. Now her words seemed to become another’s, reciting the lines as her mother had done in the darkness of childhood all those years ago. Edna St. Vincent Millay had been her mother’s favorite poet. Even now, when Deirdre found herself struggling with a line, she’d realize she was trying to emulate the elegant rhythms of that dead poet. She knew she was trying to please her mother.

  This is my testament: she continued, that we are taken;

  Our colors are as clouds before the wind;

  Yet for a moment stood the foe forsaken,

  Eyeing Love’s favor to our helmet pinned;

  Death is our master, – but his seat is shaken;

  He rides victorious, – but his ranks are thinned.

  Deirdre leaned her cheek against her mother’s frail hand. It smelled like baby powder. She wondered for the thousandth time if her presence here meant anything at all. Could her visits be any comfort? Could this husk of a woman laid out on this sterile bed have any inkling whether her daughter came or not? Could she possibly care?

  Deirdre had read that sometimes the comatose were able to hear, and when they revived, even years later, they remembered the words that had been spoken to them. That tendril of hope might be slender, but it was enough to keep her coming back. Besides, even if her mother had not the least glimmer of recognition, duty was duty. Families kept watch over the body before a funeral. This vigil was just a particularly long one.

  Deirdre stood up and as she did so, heard a sound behind her. Startled, she spun around. In the shadows of the room, a woman sat in a chair, watching.

  “That was a real pretty poem, Katie. Almost like a prayer.”

  Deirdre willed the steel into her bones. This was a bolt from the blue. “I didn't know you were coming, Aunt Eunice. What are you doing here?”

  The woman arose and crossed to her, then offered a perfunctory embrace. “I suppose I can’t come to see my own sister-in-law? We were close once, Deirdre. You’ll admit that.”

  A lot of good it did my mother, Deirdre thought. “When did you get into town?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

  The woman ignored the question, crossed to the bed and looked down. “How is she? Have there been any changes?”

  “In three years? Since the last time you were here?” Deirdre laughed grimly. “Not a thing. Only the rest of us change,” she said. “Mama’s beyond that.”

  Silence hung in the air between them. Eunice broke it first. “Your life, is it ... are you all right?”

  Deirdre nodded, but said nothing.

  Her aunt switched on a table lamp and Deirdre blinked against the sudden brightness. Bathed in light, her mother’s hospital bed stood out starkly against the more homelike furnishings the institution prided itself on.

  “This place,” Eunice said, gesturing around her, “this kind of care ... it must cost a fortune.”

  Deirdre shrugged. “Probably.”

  “You don’t know?” Eunice asked. “How can you not know a thing like that?”

  “There’s a trust that takes care of all her expenses. I don’t want to know the details.”

  Eunice sat down in a wing chair, checked her bright red lipstick in a compact mirror, and reapplied another thick coat.

  “Seems like a waste of money,” Eunice went on. “I’ve been sitting here watching all morning. Not a twitch. That poor soul wouldn’t know the difference if you just put her away in her coffin right now.”

  Deirdre said nothing for the moment. If she opened her mouth, she’d end up screaming at the woman and ordering her out of the room. Her mother might never know the difference, but making a scene in this silent place seemed an abomination.

  Eunice checked her teeth in the mirror, tracing the spaces between them with one long crimson nail. “That was a lot of money my brother left. It just molders away in a bank somewhere. Seems a shame nobody enjoys it. Not you. Not me.”

  “Nothing about my father,” Deirdre
said, her voice tight, “not what he had here, not what he left behind, had any joy in it. Or have you forgotten?”

  Eunice looked up and flashed a wide crimson smile. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing, little Katie.”

  Deirdre felt her skin prickle, like a wild animal sensing a snare hidden in the bushes. She held herself very still, glad she’d held her tongue and hadn’t given in to the urge to have her aunt escorted out. She needed to know more. She glanced at the bed. Her mother lay undisturbed as ever.

  “Look, Katie, honey,” Eunice said, her tone cloying. “It’s you I came to visit – you might as well know – but you’re damned hard to find these days. Your name’s not in the telephone book. There’s not a trace of you anywhere and I’m good at this sort of thing. I’m very good. I remember a time I couldn’t pass a grocery store tabloid without seeing your pretty face plastered all over it, and now you’re nowhere. How did you learn to become invisible?”

  Blood runs true, she thought. Her father always liked a game of cat and mouse. Apparently, so did his sister.

  Deirdre folded her arms. “How much do you want?” she asked quietly.

  “How crass you’ve become,” Eunice drawled. “As I recall, you used to have some finesse. But since you ask, ten thousand to start. That way I won’t be forced to come and spend the night with you while I’m in town. Visit the university, maybe meet your friends. Might be cozy, but somehow I don’t think you like my company.”

  Deirdre kept herself from blanching. “I don’t carry the checkbook for that account with me," she said with a forced calm. "Tell me where you’re staying and I’ll send it over.”

  “I’m at the Wyndham, but remember, I said ten thousand to start.”

  “I heard you. I’ll give you what I give you. It will be enough to keep you. If you’re wise, you won’t ask me for another dime.”

  Eunice smiled and cocked her head. “So, Katie thinks she can scare her old aunt, does she? Well, maybe she can and maybe she can’t. Do you want to see what happens if I’m not happy? I don’t think so, Miss Katie. I don’t think so at all.”

  Deirdre stepped between her aunt and her sleeping mother. “Don’t bother us again, Eunice. Don’t call. Don’t visit. And don’t forget: I’ve got a temper.”

  XV.

  An hour later, Deirdre still felt the fire flowing through her veins. Making a threat hadn’t been something she was proud of, here in this sanctuary, but the memory of the way her aunt’s face had paled almost made up for that. Her mother existed on another plane, well beyond grief, pain and the pettiness of human manipulation. Deirdre needed to remember she herself was the only one suffering now – and she was equal to it.

  She had watched at the window, making certain her aunt got into a cab and rode away, then waited to make sure it was more than just a trip around the block. Thankfully it went toward downtown, not in the direction of the university. Eunice's mention of visiting the university had hit her like a punch to the stomach. How quickly everything she'd hoped for could fall apart. What if somehow Eunice knew she stood on the brink of promotion and acclaim? Her stomach lurched at the thought. There were no guarantees, but she prayed that once Eunice’s bank account was warmed, she’d disappear, at least for awhile.

  The bank was only a few blocks further up Queen Anne Hill. She always carried a safe deposit key with her. Despite what she’d told Eunice, there was no trust, just cash in a cold steel drawer. She went through the signing in, comparison of signatures, the escort to the vault, and breathed freely only when she was alone in the cubicle.

  She opened the box. As always, the sight of that much money was unnerving, especially as she considered the source: her father’s patents. They still continued to earn enormous amounts each year, but she used none of it, let it filter into various accounts. The statements came to a post office box. Three times a year she visited it and threw them all away. There were fewer chances for discovery that way. Disassociate yourself from money, and few bothered with you.

  The safe deposit box held only the amount that had been in her parents’ account at the time of her father’s death. This she kept to care for her mother, but that was all she ever touched. She wanted no part of it. She lived on her salary and her writing. Until now, it had been enough.

  Deirdre slid ten one-thousand dollar bills from a packet and put them into her satchel. Paying off her aunt was part of taking care of her mother, she supposed. After a moment’s consideration, though, she took the rest of the packet: forty thousand. An inarticulate sense of anxiety told her she might need it. Then, she slid the box shut, secured it with the manager, and left the bank.

  Running far later than she’d expected, she summoned a cab for herself, and directed it to take her to the Wyndham. There she instructed the cabby to wait while she ran in and left a thick envelope addressed to her aunt with the clerk at the front desk. A minute later, she was on her way again

  She’d done well, she told herself. She’d dealt with a nasty surprise with efficiency and strength. Now it was over and done with.

  As the cab wove through the midday traffic on the way to Dmitri’s Cafe, she turned her mind to her upcoming lunch with Bess Seymour. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least whatever Bess had hinted at would be out on the table, known and therefore disarmed.

  When she arrived, Deirdre scanned the restaurant, hoping she wasn’t so late that Bess had given up on her. A morning gone awry often portended that the rest of the day would follow that ragged path. The place was almost empty, but she didn't see her colleague anywhere.

  “There you are,” came a voice from behind her. “I knew if I went to the ladies room you’d come while I was gone. Our table’s outside.”

  “I’m glad you’re still here,” Deirdre said, relieved. “I’m sorry I’m so late. Something came up.”

  “Not a problem,” Bess smiled. “I started without you.”

  She led Deirdre past a potted palm and a beaded curtain to an outdoor patio where the weather was held at bay by umbrellas and sizzling heat lamps. At the table an open bottle of wine stood beside a plate of kalamata olives and feta cheese.

  “I’m drinking retsina,” Bess said as she seated herself. “You’ll join me, won’t you?”

  Deirdre nodded. “It tastes like poison, but I love it.”

  Bess poured a glass of the pale gold wine and handed it to Deirdre.

  “To good things,” she said.

  Deirdre tapped Bess’s glass lightly. Amen to that. She took a sip and savored the familiar shudder that always accompanied her first sip of retsina. It was like drinking Chardonnay mixed with paint thinner.

  She leaned back in her chair and sighed, content to draw a veil over the morning’s events. If she could put those out of mind, perhaps she could address her other problems. Regardless of what Bess’s revelations entailed, Deirdre needed someone to talk to, someone who could, hopefully, guide her through the upcoming tenure review.

  In the past, she and Bess had attended the odd committee meeting together, but their conversations had been limited to such subjects as admissions standards and proposed course offerings. That, and a few day-to-day pleasantries in the hall comprised their communications. Northwest University was not the sort of collegial place where senior professors looked out for newcomers. There had been several times, however, when Deirdre had accidentally revealed independent thinking during a faculty meeting. Bess had always been there to deflect any ill will at such effrontery from a junior professor.

  “When’s your next class?” Bess asked. She looked tired, more tired than Deirdre had ever seen her. Thin lines around her eyes and mouth betrayed strain and fatigue. Bess must be due for a sabbatical, she thought.

  “I don’t teach on Tuesdays,” Deirdre reminded her.

  “Good.” Bess refilled her own glass and took a sip. Then she looked at Deirdre. “I have a lot to say to you and I don’t want to rush it.”

  Deirdre’s curiosity was mixed with anxiety now. Somethi
ng was coming she didn't want to hear. Her mind flashed immediately to Eunice. What if . . . ?

  “I need to make some things clear," Bess began. "This is very difficult. You might have noticed I don't share very easily." She took another sip of wine. "What I'm about to tell you will change the way you think of me. You’ll lose respect for me.”

  Deirdre shook her head. "Don’t be absurd–"

  “Hush!” Bess interrupted. “Just listen to me, Deirdre. I’m going to tell you a story that will make you sick.” She looked into her wineglass for a moment before meeting Deirdre’s eyes. “I’m only telling you this because I'm going to die soon."

  Deirdre felt her eyes widen. Simultaneously, Bess Seymour gave her a crooked smile.

  "I see I have your attention." Bess said it lightly, but her voice was unsteady.

  Shocked, Deirdre reached across the table and grasped Bess's hand. It felt as frail as her mother’s, almost as if it might crumble. Her fears felt so selfish now.

  “Yes, my old enemy is come for me at last. Cancer took my mother and my sister. Now he’s here for me.”

  Deirdre felt as if she'd been punched. Until this moment, she'd had no idea how much she'd come to value the quiet, sensible woman.

  “What about treatment?” she heard herself ask.

  Bess shook her head. “That's not an option.”

  “What do you mean? Have you seen another doctor, gotten a second opinion? There’s got to be something you can do.”

  “I’ve considered my choices, but I’ve made a conscious decision to do nothing—except resume some old vices." She reached into her purse and drew out a pack of cigarettes.

  That was why they were sitting outside. Deirdre watched in horrified fascination as Bess lit the cigarette and drew on it with deep satisfaction. She's helping herself die, she thought.