The doctor said that they would be watching her closely through the night to be sure that she continued breathing without assistance, but there was no reason to think that her independent respiration would stop again. With every passing moment, her condition was more stable. There had been no sign of life or movement from the still form in the bed, but they could all see her chest rising and falling gently with each breath. If nothing else, there was still hope.
They all stood around her bed afterward for over an hour, enjoying the victory they'd shared that night. And then Jason finally suggested they go back to the hotel. They had all had enough stress for one day, and he could see that his children needed to rest. Watching the respirator being turned off had been traumatic for each of them. They walked out quietly, and Stevie was the last to leave the room. She stopped for a moment next to the bed and touched Carole's fingers. She was still deep in her coma, and her fingers were cold. Her face looked more familiar now without the breathing tube in her mouth and the tape on her nose. It was the face Stevie had seen so often, and that all her fans knew and loved. But it was more than that to Stevie, it was that of the woman she admired so much, and had been loyal to for so many years.
“That was good, Carole,” Stevie said softly, as she bent to kiss her cheek. “Now be nice, make just a little more effort, and try to wake up. We miss you,” she said, as tears of relief rolled down her cheeks, and she left the room to join the others. All things considered, it had been a very good night, although a hard one.
Chapter 5
The inevitable happened two days after they had all gathered in Paris. Someone, either at the hotel or the hospital, tipped off the press. Within hours there were dozens of photographers outside the hospital, and half a dozen of the most enterprising ones sneaked upstairs and were stopped at the door to her room. Stevie stepped into the hallway from Carole's room, and in language worthy of a sailor, she stopped them cold, and had them thrown out. But from then on, all hell broke loose.
The hospital moved Carole to another room, and posted a security guard outside. But it complicated things for all of them, and made things even harder for the family. Photographers lay in wait for them at the hotel, and stood outside the hospital. There were TV cameras in both places, and flashes in their faces whenever they went in or out. It was a familiar scene for all of them. Carole had always shielded her children from the public, but Carole Barber in a coma, as the victim of a terrorist attack, was world news. There was no hiding from the press this time. They just had to live with it, and make the best of it. The best news of all was that Carole was breathing on her own. She was still unconscious, but they had taken her off sedation, and the doctors were hoping she would show some sign of life soon. If not, it had long-term implications that none of them wanted to face yet. In the meantime, they were constantly hassled by the press. Carole was on the front page of newspapers all over the world, including Le Monde, Le Figaro, and the Herald Tribune in Paris.
“I always loved that picture of her,” Stevie said, trying to make light of it, as they all read the papers over breakfast the next day. They had been in Paris for three days.
“Yeah, me too,” Anthony said, eating his second pain au chocolat. His appetite had improved. They were getting used to going to the hospital together every day, talking to the doctors, and sitting with Carole for as long as they could. Afterward they came back to the hotel, and sat in the living room of their suite, waiting for news. Night visits were discouraged, and she was still in a deep sleep. And all the while, people around the world were reading about her, and praying for her. Fans had started gathering at the hospital, and holding up signs when the family arrived. It was touching to see.
As they left for the hospital that morning, a man in a Paris apartment on the rue du Bac poured his café au lait, put jam on a slice of toast, and sat down to read his morning newspaper as he did every day. He opened it as he always did, smoothed out the creases, and glanced at the front page. His hands shook as he stared at the photograph. It was a picture taken of Carole while she'd been making a movie in France years before. The man staring at it knew it instantly, he'd been with her on that day, watching the shoot. Tears sprang to his eyes as he read the article, and as soon as he finished reading, he got up and called the Pitié Salpêtrière. He was connected to the réanimation unit, and asked for news of her. They said her condition was stable, but that they were not authorized to give out detailed reports over the phone. He thought of calling the head of the hospital, and then decided to go to the Pitié himself.
He was a tall, distinguished-looking man. He had white hair, and the eyes behind his glasses were a brilliant blue. Although no longer young, it was easy to see that he had once been a handsome man, and still was. And he moved and spoke like someone who was accustomed to command. There was an aura of authority about him. His name was Matthieu de Billancourt, and he had once been the Minister of the Interior of France.
He had his overcoat on, and was out the door and in his car within twenty minutes of reading the article in the paper. He was shaken to the core by what he'd read. His memories of Carole were still crystal clear, as though he'd seen her yesterday, when in fact it had been fifteen years since he had last seen her, when she left Paris, and fourteen years since he had spoken to her. He had had no news of her since, except what he read of her in the press. He knew she had married again, to a Hollywood producer, and he had felt a pang even then, although he was happy for her. Eighteen years before, Carole Barber had been the love of his life.
Matthieu de Billancourt arrived at the hospital, and parked his car on the street. He strode into the lobby, and asked the woman at the desk for Carole's room. He was stopped instantly and told that no bulletins could be issued about her, and there were no visitors allowed to her room. He asked to see the head of the hospital, and handed the woman at the desk his card. She glanced at it, saw his name, and immediately disappeared.
Within three minutes the head of the hospital appeared. He stared at Matthieu as though to verify that the name on the business card was real. It was the card from Matthieu's family law firm, where he had been now for the last ten years, since he retired from government. He was sixty-eight years old, but had the look and step of a younger man.
“Monsieur le ministre?” the head of the hospital asked nervously, wringing his hands. He had no idea what had brought him here, but Matthieu's name and reputation had been legendary when he was Minister of the Interior, and one still saw his name in the press from time to time. He was frequently consulted, often quoted. He had been a man of power for thirty years. He had a look of unquestionable command. “What may I do to help you, sir?” There was something almost frightening about the look in Matthieu's eyes. He looked worried and deeply disturbed.
“I am here to see an old friend,” he said in a somber voice. “She was a friend of my wife's.” He didn't want to draw attention to his visit, although asking for the head of the hospital would inevitably attract some notice to him, but he could only hope the man would be discreet. Matthieu didn't want to wind up in the press, but at that point he would have risked almost anything to see her again. He knew it might be his last chance. The reports in the paper said she was still critically ill, and in danger of losing her life after the terrorist attack. “I was told she can't have visitors,” Matthieu explained, and the director of La Pitié Salpêtrière guessed instantly who the patient was. “Our families were very close.” Matthieu looked desperate and grim, which didn't go unnoticed by the short, officious-looking man.