Charles gave a short laugh as if he appreciated the humor and paid with a hundred-dollar bill.
Removing a parking ticket from beneath his windshield wiper, he got into the Pinto and eased into the traffic. He recrossed the Charles River, turning west on Memorial Drive. Passing the Weinburger, he continued to Harvard Square, parked in a lot—being careful to leave his car in view of the attendant—and hurried over to 13 Brattle Street. He took the stairs at a run and knocked on Wayne Thomas’s door.
The young attorney’s eyes lit up when Charles handed over five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Man, you’re going to get the best service money can buy,” said Wayne.
He then told Charles that he’d managed to get an emergency hearing scheduled the next day for his restraining order on Recycle, Ltd.
Charles left the lawyer’s office and walked a block south to a Hertz rent-a-car bureau. He rented the largest van they had available. They brought the vehicle around and Charles climbed in. He drove slowly through Harvard Square, back to the parking lot where he’d left the Pinto. After transferring the shotgun shells and the carton of medical supplies, Charles got back in the van and drove to the Weinburger. He checked his watch: 4:30 P.M. He wondered how long he’d have to wait. He knew it would be dark soon.
Twelve
Cathryn stood up stiffly and stretched. Silently she moved over to where she could see herself in the mirror through the open door of Michelle’s hospital bathroom. Even the failing afternoon light couldn’t hide how awful she looked. The black eye she’d received from Charles’s accidental blow had gravitated from the upper to the lower lid.
Getting a comb from her purse as well as some blush and a little lipstick, Cathryn stepped into the bathroom and slowly closed the door. She thought that a little effort might make her feel better. Flipping on the fluorescent light, she looked into the mirror once again. What she saw startled her. Under the raw artificial light she looked frightfully pale, which only emphasized her black eye. But worse than her lack of color was her drawn, anxious look. At the corner of her mouth there were lines she’d never seen before.
After running the comb through her hair a few times, Cathryn switched off the light. For a moment she stood in the darkness. She couldn’t bear to look at herself a moment longer. It was too unsettling, and rather than making her feel better, the makeup idea made her feel worse.
Fleeing to her mother’s apartment in Boston’s North End had only eliminated the fear of Charles’s violence; it had done nothing to relieve her agonizing uncertainty that perhaps she’d made the wrong decision about the guardianship. Cathryn was terrified that her action would preclude his love for her after the nightmarish affair was over.
As silently as possible, Cathryn reopened the bathroom door and glanced over at the bed. Michelle had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, and even from where Cathryn was standing, she could see the child’s face twitch and tremble. Michelle had had a terrible day from the moment Cathryn had arrived that morning. She’d become weaker and weaker by the hour to the point that raising her arms and head were an effort. The small ulcers on her lips had coalesced, creating a large raw surface that pained her whenever she moved them. Her hair was coming out in thick clumps, leaving pale bald spots. But the worst part was her high fever and the fact that her lucid periods were rapidly diminishing.
Cathryn went back to her seat by Michelle’s bed. “Why hasn’t Charles called?” she asked herself forlornly. Several times she had decided to call him at the institute, but each time, after picking up the phone, she changed her mind.
Gina had not been much help at all. Rather than being supportive and understanding, she’d taken the crisis as an opportunity to lecture Cathryn repeatedly on the evil of marrying someone thirteen years her senior with three children. She told Cathryn that she should have expected this kind of problem because even though Cathryn had graciously adopted the children, Charles obviously thought of them as his alone.
Michelle’s eyes suddenly opened and her face twisted in pain.
“What’s wrong?” asked Cathryn, anxiously leaning forward on her seat.
Michelle didn’t answer. Her head flopped to the other side and her slender body writhed in pain.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Cathryn was out the door, calling for a nurse. The woman took one look at Michelle’s squirming body and put in a call to Dr. Keitzman.
Cathryn stood by the bed, wringing her hands, wishing there was something she could do. Standing there over the suffering child was a torture. Without any clear idea why she was doing it, Cathryn rushed into the bathroom and wet the end of a towel. Returning to Michelle’s bedside, she began to blot the child’s forehead with the cool cloth. Whether it did anything for Michelle, Cathryn had no idea, but at least it gave her the satisfaction of doing something.
Dr. Keitzman must have been in the area because he arrived within minutes. Skillfully he examined the child. From the regular beep on the cardiac monitor, he knew that her heart rate had not changed. Her breathing was nonencumbered; her chest was clear. Putting the bell of the stethoscope on Michelle’s abdomen, Dr. Keitzman listened. He heard a fanfare of squeaks, squawks, and tinkles. Removing the stethoscope, he put his hand on the child’s abdomen, gently palpating. When he straightened up he whispered something to the nurse who then quickly disappeared.
“Functional intestinal cramping,” explained Dr. Keitzman to Cathryn, with relief. “Must be a lot of gas. I’ve ordered a shot that will give her instantaneous relief.”
Heavily breathing through her mouth, Cathryn nodded. She sagged back into the seat.
Dr. Keitzman could see the woman’s tormented appearance and her harried expression. He put a hand on her shoulder. “Cathryn, come outside with me for a moment.”
Looking at Michelle, who’d miraculously fallen back to sleep after Dr. Keitzman’s examination, Cathryn silently followed the oncologist out of the room. He led her back to the now familiar chart room.
“Cathryn, I’m concerned about you. You’re under a lot of stress, too.”
Cathryn nodded. She was afraid to talk, thinking her emotions might all surface and overflow.
“Has Charles called?”
Cathryn shook her head. She straightened up and took a deep breath.
“I’m sorry that this has happened the way it has, but you’ve done the right thing.”
Cathryn wondered but kept still.
“Unfortunately it’s not over. I don’t have to tell you because it’s painfully obvious that Michelle is doing very poorly. So far the medicines that we’ve given her have not touched her leukemic cells, and there is no hint of a remission. She has the most aggressive case of myeloblastic leukemia I’ve ever seen, but we will not give up. In fact, we’ll be adding another drug today that I and a few other oncologists have been cleared to use on an experimental basis. It’s had promising results. Meanwhile I want to ask you if Michelle’s two brothers can come in tomorrow for typing to see if either one matches Michelle’s. I think we’re going to be forced to irradiate Michelle and give her a marrow transplant.”
“I think so,” managed Cathryn. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” said Dr. Keitzman, examining Cathryn’s face. She felt his stare and looked away.
“That is quite a shiner you’ve got,” said Dr. Keitzman sympathetically.
“Charles didn’t mean it. It was an accident,” said Cathryn quickly.
“Charles called me last night,” said Dr. Keitzman.
“He did? From where?”
“Right here in the hospital.”
“What did he say?”