The first time he left it was for a day. The second time for an entire night and most of the morning. The third time had been this time-four days perhaps.
And now look what he had done to this cold modern bedroom of white walls and glass windows, and laminated furniture.
Her legs hurt so much. She limped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He had cleaned up the bed; it was draped in rose-colored sheets, and he had surrounded it with flowers. This brought a strange image to her mind, of a woman who had committed suicide in California. She had ordered lots of flowers for herself first, then put them all around the bed, and taken poison. Or was she simply remembering Deirdre’s funeral, with all those flowers and the woman in the coffin like a big doll?
This looked like a place to die. Flowers in big bouquets, and in vases everywhere she looked. And if she died, perhaps he’d blunder. He was so foolish. She had to be calm. She had to think, to live and be clever.
“Such lilies. Such roses. Did you bring them up yourself?” she asked.
He shook his head. “They were all delivered and outside the door before I ever put the key in the lock.”
“You thought you’d find me dead in here, didn’t you?”
“I’m not that sentimental, except when it comes to music,” he said with a bright smile. “The food is in the other room. I’ll bring it to you. What can I do to make you love me? Is there something I can tell you? Is there any news that will bring you to your senses?”
“I hate you totally and completely,” she said. She sat down on the bed, because there were no chairs in the room, and she could not stand any longer. Her ankles ached. Her arms ached. She was starving. “Why do you keep me alive?”
He went out and came back with a large tray full of delicatessen salads, packs of cold meat, portable processed garbage.
She ate it ravenously. Then she shoved the tray away. There was a quart of orange juice there and she drank all of it. She rose and staggered into the bathroom, nearly falling. She remained in that small room for a long time, crouched on the toilet, her head against the wall. She feared she would vomit. Slowly she made an inventory of the room. There was nothing with which to kill herself.
She wasn’t going to try it yet anyway. She had fight in her, plenty of it. If necessary, the two of them would go up in flames. That she could arrange surely. But how?
Wearily, she opened the door. He was there, with arms folded. He picked her up and carried her to the bed. He had littered it with white daisies from one of the bouquets and when she sank down on the stiff stems and fragrant blossoms, she laughed. It felt so good she let herself go, laughing and laughing, until it rippled out of her just like a song.
He bent to kiss her.
“Don’t do it again. If I miscarry again, I’ll die. There are easier, quicker ways to kill me. You can’t have a child by me, don’t you understand? What makes you think you can have a child by anyone?”
“Ah, but you won’t miscarry this time,” he said. He lay beside her. He placed his hand on her belly. He smiled. He uttered a string of rapid syllables in a hum, his mouth grotesque for one moment as he did it-it was a language!
“Yes, my darling, my love, the child’s alive and the child can hear me. The child is female. The child is there.”
She screamed.
She turned her fury on the unborn thing, kill it, kill it, kill it, and then-as she lay back, drenched in sweat, stinking again, the taste of vomit in her mouth-she heard a sound that was like someone crying.
He made that strange humming song.
Then came the crying.
She shut her eyes, trying to break it down into something coherent.
She could not. But she could hear a new voice now and the new voice was inside her and it was speaking to her in a tongue she could understand, without words. It sought her love, her consolation.
I won’t hurt you anymore, she thought. Without words, in gratitude and with love, it answered her.
Good God, it was alive, he was right. It was alive and it could hear her. It was in pain.
“It won’t take very long,” he said. “I’ll care for you with all my heart. You are my Eve, yet you are sinless. And once it’s born, then if you wish, you can die.”
She didn’t answer him. Why should she? For the first time in two months, there was someone else there to talk to. She turned her head away.
Thirteen
ANNE MARIE MAYFAIR sat stiffly on the smooth beige plastic couch in the hospital lobby. Mona saw her as soon as she came in. Anne Marie wore her funeral suit, still, of navy blue, and her usual prim blouse with its score of ruffles. She was reading a magazine, her legs crossed, her black glasses down on her nose, and there was something cute about her as always, with her black hair drawn back in a twist, and her small nose and mouth, and the big glasses made her look both stupid and intelligent.
She looked up as Mona approached. Mona pecked her on the cheek and then flopped down beside her.
“Did Ryan call you?” asked Anne Marie, her voice hushed and private though there were very few other people moving in the brightly lighted lobby. Elevator doors opened and closed in an alcove far away. The reception desk with its high impersonal counter was empty.
“You mean about Mother?” Mona said. She hated this place. It occurred to her that when she was very rich and a huge Mayfair Mogul with mutual funds in every sector of the economy, she would spend some time on interior design, trying to liven up places as sterile and cold as this. Then she thought of Mayfair Medical! Of course that plan had to go forward! She had to help Ryan. They couldn’t shut her out. She’d talk to Pierce about it tomorrow. She’d speak to Michael, soon as he felt a little better.
She looked at Anne Marie. “Ryan said Mother was in here.”
“Yes, well, she is, and according to the nurses she thinks we’re trying to permanently commit her. That’s what she told them this morning when they brought her in. She’s been asleep ever since they stuck a needle in her arm. The nurse is supposed to call me if she wakes up. What I meant was-did Ryan call you about Edith?”
“No, what happened to Edith?” Mona barely knew Edith. Edith was Lauren’s granddaughter, a timid belligerent recluse who lived on Esplanade Avenue and spent all her time with her cats, a predictable and boring woman, never went anywhere ever, not even to funerals apparently. Edith. What did she look like? Mona wasn’t sure.
Anne Marie sat up, slapped the magazine on the table, and pushed her glasses up against her pretty eyes. “Edith died this afternoon. Hemorrhage same as Gifford. Ryan says for none of the women in the family to be alone. It might be something genetic. We’re to be around people all the time. That way if something happens, we can call for help. Edith had been all alone, like Gifford.”
“You’re kidding me. You mean Edith Mayfair is dead? This really actually happened?”
“Yeah, I know. Believe me. Think how Lauren feels. Lauren went over there to scold her for not showing up at Gifford’s funeral. And there was Edith lying on the bathroom floor. Bled to death. And her cats were all around her licking up the blood.”
Mona didn’t say anything for a moment. She had to reflect, not only upon what she knew, but upon how much of it she could tell anybody else, and to what purpose. Partly she was simply shocked.
“You’re saying this was a uterine hemorrhage too.”
“Yeah, possible miscarriage, they said. I would say impossible on that, myself, knowing Edith. Same with Gifford. Neither could have been pregnant. They’re doing an autopsy this time. So at least the family is doing something other than burning candles and saying prayers, and giving each other the evil eye.”