"Not a bad job at all," he confirmed again, shaking his bald head, since they were old friends and she hadn't trusted him enough to make the referral.
"Let's go somewhere. I can't talk in there," she said about the lounge.
"No, no, of course not. I thought we'd have a quick lunch somewhere close by." Today he was wearing a different sports jacket and different aftershave. His cheeks were smooth and moisturized. His color was excellent.
"Lunch?" A warning bell went off.
"Yes, looks like you need some sustenance." Mark Cohen was a study in contrasts. There was nothing handsome about him. In middle age, his flesh was filling in all around him. His face was round. He was shorter than she was. His nose was a blob on his face.
But to Cassie, the well-dressed teddy bear also had the suave and comforting air of a professional. His gentle and sympathetic hand on her arm, his expression of short-term deep concern for her pain combined with absolute acceptance of the inevitability of death. His wry expression, indeed his whole demeanor, seemed to say: "I've seen it all a hundred times. This, too, shall pass." This message of competence and empathy felt like the very last thing left over from the age of Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart.
"How are you holding up?" asked the only man Cassie knew who could understand and help her.
"Oh God. You wouldn't believe what's happening. Mark, I don't even know how to tell you this." She wished she could lower her head onto his chubby chest and rest it there for a year or two and let him take care of everything. His navy blazer was the very best, just like the kind Mitch wore, with gold buttons and a pink shirt under it. The shirt had a dazzling white collar, and cuffs that were held together with gold golf ball cuff links. Mitch happened to have the same ones.
Cassie couldn't help being impressed by the close attention to sartorial detail and personal care that some men took of themselves. In Mark, it reminded her of the kidney infection he'd cured twelve years ago, and the way he'd handled her breast lump scare several years later. Mitch had left town the day of her biopsy, but Mark had remained staunchly by her side.
"Where do you want to go?" Mark patted her hand.
"Oh, that's sweet of you, but I can't go out. My aunt Edith is here with Mitch."
His face registered a moment's disappointment. "Tomorrow, then."
Cassie still had her very dark sunglasses on over the scarf tied around her head. "Oh definitely," she murmured, shaking her head no. They'd never had lunch alone together. She absolutely adored him, but how could she think about going out? She steered the subject to Mitch. "Have you seen Mitch?"
"Yes, of course, early this morning." He sniffed the air around her. "Nice perfume, what is it?"
"Really, Mark, I don't know."
"Sublime, I think. You've been wearing it for a long time, haven't you? I've always liked it."
"Well, I just saw Mitch. Have you seen what his finger is doing?" Cassie didn't want to think about her perfume.
"Of course. I saw all of him. What about it?"
"It was moving around on the sheet. It looked like he was trying to say something. Write something."
"Oh, yes. They do that sometimes. It doesn't mean anything." Mark was studying her intently.
"What's the matter?" She touched her cheek and didn't feel a thing.
He shook his head. "Nothing. Just the change in you. You really look different. I'm not sure I would have recognized you."
"I know I look terrible. Let's not dwell."
"Quite the contrary. You look very good. Really good."
"For God's sake, Mark, I don't care how I look. I want to talk about Mitch. I think he's coming back," Cassie said wildly. "He has motion in his hand. I saw it."
Mark raised a shoulder. "Well, random movements. That doesn't mean anything." He raised the shoulder again. "I don't want to be pessimistic, Cassie. But he's still in a very deep coma-"
"I think he's coming back. I really do," she insisted.
"Does he respond to the things you say? Does he seem to know you?" Mark asked gently.
"No, but-"
"Sweetheart, he's not responding to any outside stimuli. We're not seeing any brain activity on the EEG," he said solemnly. "I have to be straight with you."
"No brain activity?" Cassie asked hopefully.
Mark pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Mitch is a tough nut. He's hanging on, but we'd hoped for more of a rally, some return of awareness." He massaged Cassie's hand and put his other arm around her shoulder and squeezed that, too. "You okay?"
"No brain activity. That's-" she shook her head. Great!
"Look, on the other hand, I've seen patients who've been in a vegetative state for six, seven, eight months, even years, who just wake up one day."
"No!" Cassie didn't want to hear that.
"I know, it's rough. Are you sure you don't want something to eat? Starving yourself won't help him."
"No, no. Thank you, but I couldn't think about food right now."
"This isn't good for you. You look like you've lost about fifteen pounds. You've had a trauma. You're depressed."
More than he guessed. "Mark, I haven't lost an ounce."
"I'm your doctor. I would know." He said this with his wry little doctor smile. Then he patted her bottom, lightly. Just a touch, then he pressed those lips together appreciatively, and nodded. "Ten pounds, at least."
"Mark!" Cassie was shocked by the inappropriate gesture.
"How are you sleeping?"
"Oh, I don't know. All right, I guess." She was irritated by the tone, distracted.
"We don't want you getting depressed."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, let's not beat around the bush about depression."
"Oh?" Mark raised his eyebrows.
"It's not as if Mitch and I were that close. I bet you know the whole story," she said angrily. "Why don't you just come clean."
He changed the subject. "Cassie, I checked some things out with Parker. He knows pretty much everything where Mitch is concerned. Here's the insurance story. You're fine with North Fork, for a while. But there might be a problem down the road." All of a sudden Mark looked uncomfortable.
"Fine, you don't want to be straight with me about his personal life," Cassie said. Parker Higgins was Mitch's lawyer. She'd get the truth out of him.
"Of course I do. We'll have some things to talk about later, but you don't have to worry about them right this minute," he said evenly.
"Well, I want to worry about them right this minute. I have some decisions to make, and I need your help."
"You know you can count on me," he said staunchly.
"Can I, Mark?" She stared at him hard through those dark glasses but couldn't read him.
"Of course. We'll go through it all right now if you want to."